Page 67 of Obsession

It’s quiet in the middle of the day, no loud music playing and just a few employees cutting limes and lemons behind the bar. They startle when we enter, and they must have some sense because they scurry away into the back, putting space between us and them. I’m thankful that this isn’t a killing spree and Tommy’s gun stays pointed downward, letting the staff leave.

John leads us to the back office, the space that used to belong to Marcus. Inside, Rocco sits at the desk, a laptop open in front of him. He looks up, his eyes roaming over John and then the crew behind him. I give him credit; the guy doesn’t show his fear outwardly, but still I can tell from the way his body tenses as he takes in the sight before him that he’s scared. I wonder if he knows that the guard stationed out front is dead, or if he just assumes as much.

He’s stuck in the middle of a bloody war between the Costellos.

One wrong move and anyone could die.

I’m in the same boat.

“Rocco,” John greets, walking up to the desk and sliding casually into the chair across from him.

“John.” Rocco closes the laptop and sits up straighter in his chair. “What brings you to the club?” he asks, trying to seem unaffected. If Damien was here, I doubt the big, burly man would even flinch at John’s presence. But without any backup, and having John plus his goons here, means the man is outnumbered.

“I need you to sign some paperwork.” John gestures to me, and I realize that’s my cue. Opening the manila envelope, I tug the papers free and flip to the right page, sliding it across the desk to Rocco.

The man seals his lips and looks down. “You know I can’t do that, Johnny.”

Tension consumes the small office. John laughs, a sinister sound that makes both Rocco and I both flinch. “Listen, you can either sign with this pen here…” John grabs a pen from the desk and clicks it, gesturing for Rocco to take it. “Or I can stab you in the eyeball with it.”

He shakes his head, nostrils flaring. John doesn’t hesitate. Rearing his arm back, he darts it forward with enough force that the pen goes straight into Rocco’s right eye. The man screams, his hands raising to the eye that still has a pen sticking out of it. Blood runs down his cheeks, splattering on the desk.

My stomach clenches, and I swallow hard, fighting the need to vomit at the grisly sight. “Jesus,” I mutter under my breath.

“Sign it,” John demands, taking a fresh pen from the holder and forcing it into Rocco’s hand.

Tears begin to leak out of Rocco’s good eye as he takes the pen and scribbles his name on the line. As soon as he finishes, John grabs the pen from his hand and signs his own name before stacking up the papers and handing them back to me.

John nods at Tommy, who steps forward, putting a bullet in Rocco’s head. “Roman, you and Tommy stay here. This mess needs to be cleaned up, and when the staff gets in tonight, please inform them of the change in management. Christopher, you’re with me. And Adrian”—he looks over to me—“get that paperwork filed today.”

I nod compliantly, waiting until I get into my car and a mile away from the club before I scream.

Despite the nausea that wells in my stomach, I file the paperwork and get back to my main task today.

I still have to get Sam released from prison and take down this fucked-up family.

THIRTY-SIX

Adrian

“Did you get the job done?” Leo’s deep voice asks over the speaker in my car.

“Not yet.”

I hear him say something to his wife, likely telling her that I didn’t blackmail the judge yet before I hear him also tell her that she is not going to fly to New Orleans nine months pregnant. “Do you need me to come down?” he asks when he gets back on the phone.

I can’t help but be amused by their situation. Leo was a made man before he met Val, and now the woman has a death grip on his balls. Not that I think he minds. It’s obvious he’s completely in love with her. And now she’s carrying his child.

Something warms my heart at the thought of Madi being pregnant. Her stomach swollen with my child. I like the image, but I shake it from my brain as I focus on the task at hand.

“No.” I turn my car onto Tulane Street. “I’m doing it right now.”

“Good. Let me know when it’s done.”

I end the call right as I find a parking spot outside the Orleans Parish Criminal District Court. The lot attendant greets me with a wave as I pass through. I’ve been in this courthouse thousands of times, representing a variety of clients, but today feels a little different as I pass by the familiar faces and make my way through the building.

I know from the judge’s schedule that he’s free right now. I storm past his receptionist, who tries to shout at me not to enter the judge’s chamber, but I don’t pay her any mind.

Entering the space, I’m pleased to find him at his desk, looking up at me with shock as I shut and lock the door behind me. He looks me up and down. “Adrian Russo?” He says my name like a question. “Why are you barging into my office?”

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