Page 1 of Depths of Obsession
CHAPTER 1
"Holy shit! What the hell did you do?" I demand, my voice shaky as I take in the scene before me. My boss, Marcello De Carlo, stands over the body of a man lying in a pool of blood. A metallic scent fills the gallery’s small, dimly lit storage room where paintings and sculptures are stacked against the walls, waiting for their debut. My stomach churns as I start forward. Squatting down, I reach out to check for a pulse. My legs are shaking, and I lose my balance landing hands first in a pool of blood.
I let out a yelp and then struggle to stand, in the process getting blood on my pants and blouse.
"You shouldn’t have bothered. He’s dead. Bastard deserved it." Marcello’s voice is unnervingly calm as he steps away from the body, toward the center of the storage space. The cluster of half-unpacked crates and art supplies makes the room feel even smaller. The air is heavy with tension. Marcello casually adjusts his collar, checks his cuffs, and straightens his jacket as if this is just another day at work.
I immediately head across to the closet in the corner with the large sink. I jam my hands under the flow of icy water.
“What the hell happened?” I demand as I scrub my hands with an industrial scrub brush. There’s blood under my nails and I am desperate to get it off me.
I catch my reflection in the mirror. Blood is splattered on my cream-colored blouse. My hair is falling out of my messy bun and my dark eyes are the size of golf balls. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen a dead body but it’s the first time I had my hands in blood. My stomach heaves.
I give up on my hands. I turn off the water and quickly dry them on a rag and then storm back into the main storage room.
“Did you kill him?” I ask, my eyes darting between the lifeless body and my boss, my heart thundering in my chest. The sight of the dead man in the pool of dull crimson blood on the cold concrete floor weakens my legs all over again. I’m supposed to be tough but the only time I’ve seen a dead body is in a casket.
“Of course I killed him." Marcello shrugs as if we’re discussing something trivial. "He tried to rip me off on a deal. I’m not putting up with that shit. I didn’t move to Italy to be swindled by some stupid bastard. If I wanted that, I would’ve stayed in New York.”
"Marcello, what the fuck were you thinking?" I ask, still in shock. The words barely make it past the lump of panic lodged in my throat. My gaze darts around the storage room, over the stacks of paintings leaning against the walls, the half-emptied boxes, and the random sculptures scattered about like silent witnesses to the unfolding horror. Dim lights cast eerie shadows across the space, making the scene feel even more surreal.
“I didn’t get any blood on the paintings, if that’s what you’re concerned about,” Marcello says, sounding almost smug. “I made sure of it.”
“I’m fucking concerned about the body on the floor!” I snarl, my voice trembling with rage and disbelief. "What the hell are we supposed to do with it?"
Marcello makes a final adjustment to his jacket, then turns to meet my gaze, his expression indifferent. "It had to happen. Now, take care of this," he says, nodding toward the body as if it’s just another chore on my to-do list. Make the coffee. Check in the new inventory.Dispose of a damn body."And don’t forget my bloody clothes in the office. Make sure the office is wiped down as well."
I stare at him, my mouth hanging open, struggling to process what he’s just said. "What the actual fuck are you talking about, Marcello?"
He glares at me, his expression hardening. "Seriously, Pippa, do I need to spell it out for you? You’re a mafia princess. Call your people and take care ”—he gestures at the body with the tilt of his chin—“of that. Why the hell do you think I hired you? This is your job."
Rage boils inside me, fusing my stomach into knots. "You hired me because I have an art degree from one of the top schoolsanda law degree. You needed help running this gallery and keeping your paperwork legal.”
Marcello snorts, a cruel smile playing at the corner of his lips. “I hired you because you’re mafia royalty. You’re Pippa Dominici, daughter of one of the major capos of the Giordano now Valdici mob family. I needed someone with connections to take care of things. This is one of those things.” He fucking snapped his fingers at me. “Now, take care of it.”
If the ground had been ripped out from under me I couldn’t feel any less adrift. My hands tremble as my mind races to make sense of his words. "I’m not a mafia princess," I spit out. "I’m the daughter of a former capo. I don’t have the contacts to deal with this shit. And I’m not getting involved in whatever mess you’ve made. This is where I draw the line. You’re fucking on your own here." I turn on my heel, heading for the door. I can’t get out of here fast enough.
“Pippa,” he yells, and I whirl around. He snaps my picture and then a cold smile warps his face. “You can’t leave,” Marcello says, his voice cold and commanding. "I’ll tell the police you did it." He shakes the phone in his hand. “And now I have proof. Look at you with blood all over your pants and blouse.
I stop dead in my tracks, loathing tightening around my throat like a noose. "They won’t believe you."
"Oh, they’ll believe me,” he says with a cruel smile. “You’re part of a known mob family, and you’ve been running the gallery for months now. When they dig around and find out I’ve been laundering money and making dirty deals, they’ll assume you were involved. I’ll make sure they believe you’re involved. If I go down, Pippa, you go down with me."
Horror claws at my insides. "I had no idea about any money laundering or deals." How could I have been so stupid? So fucking naive?
Marcello checks his collar again, looking completely unconcerned. “Try convincing the cops of that,” he says, glancing at his watch. “I’m late. Take care of this, and we’ll talk tomorrow.”
He steps toward the hallway that leads back to the gallery’s entrance, but I move to block him. No way in hell he was leaving me alone with a dead body. "You have no idea what you’re asking or who you’re dealing with," I growl, my voice shaking with fury. "You aren’t leaving me to clean up this mess alone.” I point toward the closet in the corner. “Stand over there while I make a call."
Marcello’s eyes narrow, but something in my expression must have made him think twice. He steps back and leans against the door frame of his office, arms folded across his chest, watching me like a hawk. My boss is slightly over six feet, with a runner’s trim physique. His blond hair is artfully highlighted, and his blue eyes are enhanced by contact lenses. His sainted Irish mother gave him the eyes, he always says.
That was the only thing she gave him apparently. She’d left him with his father when he was a baby. His father was wealthy but never around. Marcello considers himself the epitome of fashion in a city famous for it. That should have been my first clue that he would be an asshole to work for. Instead, I ignored my instincts and took the job. I wanted so badly to do something on my own, without my family’s influence.And look how that turned out.Maybe I should go grab his bloody clothes. It would at least prove he was here. If I’m going down, I’ll be taking him with me.
But I’m not going down for this.
Panic claws at my insides as I pull out my phone. I can’t call my father. He’d lose his mind—and then he’d punish me. Then he’d drag me back home, marry me off to the most disgusting mafioso he could find. I’d never escape. My mother would make sure the wedding happened by the end of the week. If only I hadn’t come in tonight. There was me being diligent. I thought if I came in and unpacked some of the new pieces tonight maybe, just maybe Marcello would let me attend his meeting tomorrow with one of his wealthiest clients. As much as I’m not a huge fan of Ria Tailor, she is a mover and shaker in the art world, and I’d thought this might be my chance to make a favorable impression. And look where that thinking got me.
Hands trembling, I scroll through my contacts, finding the only person who can possibly help me right now. I dial the number, my heart racing.
