Page 97 of Obsession & Oath

Let them stare. Let them speculate.

Rocco is as loyal as ever, and Mia is quick to shoot down anyone who gets mouthy. But the cat is out of the bag now, whether I confirm it or not.

Everyone knows that at some point over the last five months, I crossed a line with Carmen Rubio.

My old Brooklyn routine has become muscle memory: checking in at the casino, reinforcing supply lines, and making sure our businesses are still standing despite the war. Check into a hotel and check out of it three days later. Rinse and repeat.

But it’s all just going through the motions. My head isn’t here. It’s trapped in that moment the gunshot went off.

By the end of the week, Teo pulls me to one side and admits his sources have come up empty. No one has seen or heard from Carmen since the warehouse. It’s as if she vanished.

The news has Mia kicking up a storm, forcing herself into war meetings, strategizing, and planning.

But in the quiet aftermath, she admits, instead of forcing me to acknowledge my own feelings, that she misses Carmen, that she worries about her old friend, worries what a man like Lacruz might do to her.

No news is bad news.

And we both suffer it together.

I keep replaying the moment in the warehouse—the way Carmen gasped when she saw Mia, the way her body jerked when the bullet hit her, the way she disappeared into the hands of the Cartel while I stood there, completely useless.

Most nights, I just stand outside, smoking a cigarette I don’t even want, staring down the Brooklyn streets like they hold an answer.

Another fruitless night of gruntwork. No movement at the Rubio mansion. No contact. No leads.

The neon glow of Brooklyn fades into the soft blue of dawn as Rocco and I make our way through the quiet streets.

I rub a hand over my face, the stubble on my jaw rough beneath my fingertips. I need a shave. But everything feels too exhausting.

“Coffee,” I mutter, already changing course.

Rocco doesn’t argue. He just follows.

Looking at the man beside me, I’m once again reminded that he’s been doing this for months longer than I have. How he’s still on his feet, I have no idea.

I push open the door to the cafe, and for a second, the summer slams into me like a punch to the ribs.

Caffè di Montelunahas always felt like a little slice of Montecroce. The same dark wood counters, the same warm scent of espresso and burnt sugar, the same clinking of ceramic cups against saucers.

I can almost hear Carmen’s laugh, can almost feel the brush of her hand against mine. I almost think I can turn to find her beside me, rolling her eyes, teasing me about my overly serious coffee order.

But when I do turn, it’s just Rocco, running a hand through his messy hair as he steps up to the counter. The barista greets him, and he orders for us, unconcerned with the memories that threaten to drown me.

I swallow hard and force myself to focus.

Carmen isn’t here.

With a shake of my head, I lead us to a table in the corner and collapse into the seat. The coffee Rocco hands me is strong, bitter, and exactly what I need to stumble home after this without collapsing from sheer exhaustion.

Across from me, Rocco stirs in an unnecessary amount of sugar, watching me over the rim of his cup.

The silence between us is heavy, punctuated only by the hum of the espresso machine and the quiet murmur of other early risers.

“You good, man?” Rocco finally asks, leaning back in his chair.

I grunt noncommittally, taking another sip.

“Yeah, see, that’s not convincing,” he says, eyes narrowing. “You’ve been off ever since you got back. And don’t even try to tell me it’s just the war. We’ve been friends long enough for you to spare me the bullshit.”

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