Page 1 of His Ruthless Obsession

1

NERIO

Ilean back in the leather chair, eyes fixed on the wall of security feeds displaying every corner of The Vault. The screens cast a blue glow across my office, illuminating the crystal tumbler of whiskey at my fingertips. But it's not the amber liquid that holds my attention—it's her.

Jazz moves through the club like she owns it, commanding respect with each stride. Her curls, twisted up into an elegant style that I want to rip down, bounce as she directs the staff, pointing to spots that need attention. Even through the grainy footage, her presence dominates every frame she enters.

"That table needs to be moved two feet to the left." Her voice carries through the audio feed as she addresses one of the waiters. "And make sure all the VIP sections have fresh ice buckets. These people pay premium, they expect premium service."

I take a slow sip, tracking her movement from camera to camera. She pauses at the bar, running her finger along the surface, then snaps at the bartender about a smudge I can barely see. Her standards match mine—perfection or nothing.

The security feed from the entrance shows her handling a delivery guy with a stack of boxes. She checks each item against her clipboard, refusing to sign until she's inspected everything. Smart woman. Trust, but verify—a principle that's kept me alive in this business.

"Those centerpieces better be exactly what we ordered." Jazz's tone brooks no argument as she directs the staff to arrange crystal vases filled with dark roses. "The launch party needs to make a statement."

My fingers tap against the armrest as I watch her work. She's transformed the place in the weeks since I hired her. Where others see a nightclub manager, I see a strategist, someone who understands power plays and perception. The way she carries herself, how she commands without having to raise her voice—it's familiar. Like looking in a mirror, but with softer edges and sharper heels.

A smile tugs at my lips as she stops to adjust a crooked frame on the wall, her reflection visible in the glass. Every time I look at her I can't stop but think she is so goddamn beautiful. A curvy figure that I will run my hands along — and soon — toned and glorious. She's a goddess that I can't wait to see kneel before me.

Soon enough she'll learn how much she wants me.

A knock at my door breaks my attention from the screens. Two of my soldiers enter—Marco and Angelo—their faces grim.

"We lost another shipment," Marco says, running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. "Third one this month."

I set my glass down, ice cubes clinking. Being Don Lorenzo's cousin means handling these headaches falls to me. The family raised us together, taught us the business side by side. But while he inherited the crown, I earned my position as capo through blood and calculation.

"Tell me everything." I lean forward, elbows on the mahogany desk.

Angelo shifts his weight. "Mantiones jumped our guys on 35th. Tommy's got a broken arm, Joey took a beating. They're getting bold, targeting our territory like this."

"The runners are scared," Marco adds. "Half of them won't make deliveries anymore. Can't say I blame them—Mantiones are animals. No finesse, just violence."

My jaw tightens. The Bueti family has always operated with precision, gathering intelligence before making moves. It's why we control half the city's high-end operations. But these disruptions are cutting into profits, making us look weak.

"They hit the pharmaceutical route too," Angelo says. "Our contact at the warehouse won't work with us if we can't guarantee safe transport."

I stand, walking to the window overlooking the dance floor below. The bass thrums through the glass, a steady heartbeat beneath my feet. "How many men did they send?"

"Five, maybe six. Used baseball bats, tire irons. Real amateur hour shit, but effective."

My reflection stares back at me, gray eyes cold. The Mantiones might lack sophistication, but they're forcing my hand. And nobody fucks with Bueti business—especially not on my watch.

Violence starts to writhe under my skin, wanting an out. I'm known to be unforgiving and deadly for a reason, but tonight I don't have time to make an example of the assholes who have a little too much misplaced confidence.

"Pull our guys back," I order, keeping my voice steady despite the rage building beneath my skin. "Double security on remaining routes. I want eyes on every corner of our territory."

"Already done," Marco says. "But we're spread thin. The runners?—"

"Then find new ones." I cut him off with a sharp gesture. "Pay them more. Give them protection. Whatever it takes." Before my cousin hears of it.

On the security feed, Jazz bends to adjust a centerpiece, her movements precise and controlled. The sight of her momentarily derails my focus. How can it not when she looks so good like that, filling my mind with the images of her bent over my desk instead.

"Sir?" Angelo's voice snaps me back.

"What about our inside guy at the precinct?" I turn from the window, forcing my attention back to business.

"Says Mantiones are paying off beat cops to look the other way."

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