Page 47 of Lord of Obsession

Red bleeds into the edges of my vision. The folder joins its brethren on the floor, crime scene photos mixing with coffee shop surveillance in a damning collage. My phone buzzes: an address, a time, and a promise of answers that will justify the small fortune I'm about to spend.

I check my watch: two hours until the meet. Just enough time to remind certain parties why the Greco name carries weight in this city's underworld. Why crossing us—crossing me—is signing your own death warrant in crimson ink.

I shrug into my jacket, feeling the familiar press of steel against my ribs. Marco falls inbehind me as I stride toward the garage, already calling in backup. The rage in my chest crystallizes into something sharp and focused.

Time to go hunting.

The warehouse district air reeks of fish guts and diesel as I wait in the shadows. My informant's intel paid off. Ferrara's men are loading crates into a panel van, their movements quick and furtive. Through my scope, I count six targets. Amateur hour. They didn't even post proper lookouts.

My earpiece crackles. "Two more coming in from the south entrance," Marco whispers. "Armed. They’re moving like they've got training."

A grunt acknowledges his warning as I adjust my position. These aren't the usual dock rats; their stance and vigilance mark them as proper soldiers. My lips curl into a razor-sharp smile. Good. I want them to put up a fight.

The van's engine turns over with a throaty purr. Time to move. I signal my team, watching dark shapes detach from doorways and slip between shipping containers. The trap closes like a noose around unsuspecting prey.

Then everything goes sideways.

A second van screeches around the corner, its side door already sliding open. The muzzle flash comes first, sharp and bright in the gloom. Then the impact slams into my shoulder, spinning me back against corrugated steel. Pain blazes white-hot through my chest.

"Contact!" Marco's voice cuts through the chaos as gunfire erupts. "Boss, you're hit?—"

I ignore him, already rolling to my feet. Blood soaks my shirt, but the kevlar caught the worst of it. My return fire drops the shooter, his body tumbling from the van like a broken doll.

More targets emerge from the warehouse shadows. We're outnumbered now, caught in a crossfire that speaks of careful planning. This wasn't just a chance encounter; they knew we were coming.

"Sir, we need to fall back," Marco's warning cuts off in a burst of static.

Red mist descends as I charge forward, each shot finding its mark with lethal precision. These fuckers dared to come after what's mine. Dared to think they could touch Rafael without consequences.

A bullet grazes my ribs, hot enough to sear flesh. I barely feel it. Another round punches through my thigh, but adrenaline keeps me moving. The pain will come later. Right now, there's only the symphony of violence and vengeance.

I reach the first van just as its driver tries to flee. One shot through the windshield ends his escape attempt. Inside, I find what I'm looking for: surveillance photos of Rafael. Date-stamped logs of his movements. A detailed map of his daily routes marked with potential ambush points.

Fury ignites in my chest, burning hotter than any wound. They weren't just watching him. They were planning to take him.

A shout from behind gives me just enough warning. I spin, weapon raised, but I'm too slow. The butt of a rifle slams into my temple, sending me sprawling. Stars explode behind my eyes as rough hands grab my jacket.

"Not so tough now, eh, Greco?" A face looms close—Angelo Ferrara's nephew I recognize. His breath reeks of tobacco as he presses the rifle barrel under mychin. "Daddy's attack dog brought low. And all over some Valenti pussy?—"

The knife slides from my sleeve into my palm. One upward thrust finds the soft spot beneath his jaw, the blade angled just right to sever the carotid. Hot arterial spray coats my face as he stumbles back, eyes wide with disbelief.

"Boss!" Marco's voice, closer now. "Area's clear but we've got incoming. Sounds like half the fucking city's rolling this way."

I push to my feet, ignoring how the world tilts sideways. Blood trails down my leg, marking my path as I retrieve the photos and documents from the van. Evidence of their plans burns readily enough, fed by diesel siphoned from their own vehicle.

"Time to go, sir." Marco appears at my elbow, his tone urgent. "You need medical?—"

"No hospitals." I shrug off his supporting hand, though my vision blurs at the edges. "Get our people clear. Leave no traces."

He hesitates only a moment before nodding. Good man. The warehouse district fades into my rearview mirror as sirens wail in the distance. My phone buzzes: a messagefrom my father's spy in the police department, warning of increased patrols.

Let them come. They'll find nothing but shell casings and questions, while I carry the only answers that matter. The Ferraras made their play and lost. The price of my protection comes steep: paid in blood and burning metal.

Worth it to keep Rafael safe. To keep him mine.

My hands shake slightly as I light a cigarette, the nicotine doing little to dull the mounting pain. Dawn breaks over the harbor, painting everything in shades of crimson and gold. Somewhere in this city, Rafael wakes to another day of pretending at normalcy, unaware of the night's carnage carried out in his name.

Let him play at being civilized while I wage war in the shadows. Let him hide behind his law books and moral certainties. In the end, he'll understand. Everything has a price.

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