Page 49 of The Dark Obsession

Tyson remains silent for a while, pondering my words as I silently, motionlessly wait for him speak.

“I don’t think I can feel those things anymore.” He admits in a low voice.

“It started with me numbing physical pain but over time, that transferred over to my emotions as well.”

A sociopath.

From his dead gaze, I’ve had a hunch that he’s neurodivergent but I didn’t let myself see how serious it actually was.

Yet it still doesn’t change anything between us.

Despite what he is and what he does, Tyson has treated me better than all the neurotypical people in my life and I’ll continue to judge him by his actions, not some preconceived notions of society.

“Because of your dad?” I ask softly, running my fingers over his scarred arm.

He looks taken aback, genuinely shocked that my first reaction to his admission was not disgust, but empathy.

“Yeah. He was Capo of the Camorra in Los Angeles. The Italian mafia reigning over the West Coast.” He clarifies upon seeing my confusion.

“I’m not sure what he saw in my mother. I mean sure she was beautiful, sophisticated and of Italian descent, but she already had two young boys whose father left them without a trace, abandoning them like they meant nothing to him.

In those circles it’s uncommon not to marry an Italian virgin, however the man was in desperate need of an heir.

Or maybe he was just glad she had no living relatives who could protect her from him.

Our grandfather was the only family she had left but he was merely an enforcer who got shot on a raid once his boss set his sights on his daughter.” Tyson’s arms around me tighten and I feel his hands fist at my lower back.

“In my older half-brothers, he saw someone who could take over his duties while he wallowed in wealth, slowly rotting away. But the money soon ran out. He was hot-headed and violent, not suited for negotiating deals and handling the business side of things.

Gradually, his drinking got worse, and he took his frustration out on my mother and me, blaming us for his failures.” Tyson’s every word is laced with such cold hatred that has me turning rigid.

Tears gather in my eyes, but I don’t dare making a sound. I’m barely breathing for the fear that it would stop him from sharing more of his past with me, from opening up to me.

“My father has always preferred my half-brothers in his own sick way, taking them in as his own. Which naturally made me as the youngest child disposable and therefore mostly at the receiving end of his rage. Just a frail, sickly boy he was ashamed of and therefore named my eldest brother his heir. That was the beginning of his downfall.

Blood means everything in the Camorra so you can imagine the uproar this caused. I was glad for it though. I never begrudged Dante, never had any interest in furthering the Corso name.”

I struggle picturing Tyson that way, being anything but the picture of raw masculinity that he is now.

What shocks me even more is the absence of pain in his voice. It sounds indifferent, almost empty.

And I begin to understand.

All that early childhood trauma has led to him shutting off his feelings to be able to bear it.To survive.

It makes sense why he’s the way he is, closed-off and seemingly heartless. But that’s not all there is to him, I refuse to believe it.

He might not feel emotions like others would but that doesn't mean they’re not there somewhere.

“Raffaele and Dante were older, tougher. Able to do dangerous jobs being brought up with the Capo’s ruthless values. He made fucking kids his soldiers.” Tyson snarls through gritted teeth.

“Though his lack of regard for tradition, his marriage to a lesser woman and illegitimate children cost him the last ounce of respect he had amongst his men.”

His voice becomes haunted, his body turning rigid against mine.

“My mother would try to protect me. But she could only do so much until she was lying on the floor, beaten to a bloody pulp. Once she passed out, he’d then turn to me because kicking an unconscious body wasn’t doing it for him anymore.”

Tears are now running freely down my cheeks, soaking his shirt as I cling to him, silently weeping for the little boy.

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