Page 63 of Dark Obsession

She frowns, fingers running over the cross around her neck. “Few times a year, I suppose. He was quiet at first, but then it seems he got comfortable. Even put some people in place, men I didn’t recognize.” She looks at me, her eyes hard. “He wants the city back, Grigori. And if he’s here, you can bet he’s not leaving until he’s got it.”

I watch her carefully as I say, “He has designs on Chicago, too. Do you know where he might be staying?”

She nods slightly, glancing around as if someone might hear. “Down by the docks. Old warehouse, same one his father used to work out of back in the day. Place never really left the family.”

I thank her, slipping her a few bills for old times’ sake. She waves them off, but I leave them on the table anyway as I head to thedoor. “Be careful, Grigori. They’re not the same men they were before. This Molina… he’s meaner than his father ever was.”

Stepping outside, I look down the street at the glossy new shops and quiet, tree-lined blocks. Hard to believe that a monster like Molina is lurking in the same city as these families, hiding in plain sight. But that’s always been his way—keeping out of the spotlight, letting the world change around him while he stays in the shadows.

Back in another Uber, I pull up Google Maps, finding the docks. The old warehouse she’s talking about… I know it. If he’s there, he’s close to bringing in his cartel soldiers.

I punch in the location and tell the driver where to go, grateful to Mrs. Lopez for being one of the few who remembers and isn’t scared to talk about it.

I step out of the car once we arrive, pulling my jacket tight as the breeze from the East River cuts through the docks. The sun sinks lower, casting long shadows across the grimy lot. In the distance, Manhattan’s skyscrapers gleam against the dying light. The scene would be picturesque under any other circumstance.

The cars parked up ahead—SUVs with blacked-out windows and sleek, way-too-flashy sports cars—make it clear I’m in the right place.. Anyone watching could guess they owners of said cars are not here for a family reunion. They make a typical cartel show, loud and proud, not bothering to keep it quiet in a place like Brooklyn, where people know when to look the other way.

I step to the side, pulling out my pistol and clicking off the safety. This’ll be up-close, no time for mistakes, not with Molina and his dogs.

A warehouse door creaks open, and two men step out, talking low and glancing around as if expecting trouble. They’re cartel through and through—muscular, arrogant, and without an ounce of subtlety.

I move forward, every nerve on edge. One wrong move, and it’s all over.

I’m about to do something I should’ve finished a long time ago.

Chapter 27

Grigori

Imove toward the two cartel goons, both gripping automatic weapons with nonchalance, their sloppy confidence a possible advantage.

They're watching me, one with a smirk, the other with eyes like a dead fish—detached, too calm for someone in his line of work. Their postures tell me they're here for intimidation, not negotiation, and the odds are clear—I’m outgunned and surrounded.

The door creaks open again, and out strides Claudio Sanchez. Barely five steps in and the guy’s already flashing a psychotic grin, like he’s about to chew me up.

He doesn’t waste time.

“Grigori,” he calls out, voice dripping with cocky malice. “You’ve got three seconds to toss that gun down, or my boys here will put more holes in you than your mama could ever count.”

I remain expressionless, lifting the gun slowly before tossing it to the ground, watching as one of his guys scrambles to pick it up. Claudio’s expression barely shifts, but there's a dangerous sparkbehind his eyes, the kind that says he’d shoot me just for the thrill of it.

“Come inside. We’ve got a lot to discuss.” His grin widens as he motions toward the door.

I follow, letting him lead me in, careful to mask the burn of hatred twisting in my gut. If Molina’s here, this might be my one shot at taking him down. But I’ll need answers first.

We step into the warehouse, and it’s exactly what I’d expected—a cavern of sin. Stacks of weapon crates line the walls, each filled with shiny, unregistered firepower while tables piled high with cocaine bricks and heroin baggies fill the center. No pretense of caution or stealth here; these guys know they own these particular streets.

Claudio gives me a self-satisfied smirk as we pass a group of men working furiously counting and repackaging the drugs. He's proud, like a king surveying his kingdom, though he doesn’t know how close he is to losing it all.

“See, Grigori,” Claudio begins, his tone one of mocking warmth, “we’re gonna take back what’s rightfully ours. New York, Chicago… both cities will be on their knees, back in our hands like they should’ve been all those years ago if you hadn’t screwed us.”

I glance around, counting heads, noting exits, searching for any sign of Molina. Too many guards, each one armed to the teeth. They’re prepared for a small army, expecting an ambush. Every escape route is sealed tight, and every man in here would sooner die than give me an opening.

“Your precious Ivanovs are going to watch their empire crumble,” Claudio says, venom coating each word as he leans inclose, daring me to react. “And it’s all gonna end the same way it started—with you.”

Claudio leads me deeper into the warehouse, giving me a full view of his so-called operation. Everywhere I look, cartel soldiers are busy assembling, shifting crates and bags, making space for the vast arsenal of drugs and weapons. His confidence is unmistakable, but I see the cracks in his crew. They’re young, barely trained muscle, itching for action but undisciplined. They’re a force, but they’re not the Ivanovs.

“So this is the big plan, huh?” I say, sounding bored. “Moving back in like you’re conquering the Wild West?” I ask, grinning.

---