Page 1 of Twisted Obsession
Prologue
Age Eighteen
“In matters of justice,
a knight has no greater
duty than to stand firm
for what is right.”
– Lord Tristan Fairbanks
Dmitri
“Dmitri, are you listening to me?” Alexei asked, rapping his knuckles sharply against the round, wooden table to seize my wandering attention.
“Yes,” I replied with conviction. “We will take Carmine Balestrini tomorrow night.” I was keenly aware that he wouldsoon ascend to the position of don of New York’s Eastern territory, a position of great power and influence.
It was a move that felt both justified and inevitable, especially considering our history. Two years prior, we had ended the life of Carmine’s younger brother, Alfonso. The memory was vivid—Alfonso and two other boys from our school ambushed Alexei in the dim, echoing confines of the boys’ locker room after everyone else had departed. Though Alexei could easily have beaten Alfonso in a fair fight, the odds were stacked against him. Held back by the other two, he was a helpless target as Alfonso mercilessly bludgeoned him with a baseball bat.
Above our clandestine meeting place, the streets seethed with an undercurrent of pandemonium, violence, and disorder. Pedestrians moved along, blissfully ignorant of the malevolence lurking just out of sight, a sinister presence in every shadow. Among these shadows, members of the Cosa Nostra prowled, their influence woven into the very fabric of the city. Two years ago, we five—Alexei Popov, Maxim Rostov, Isaak Angeloff, Nazar Sokolov, and I—united to regain our dignity and respect.
Our sanctuary was the bowels of an abandoned Catholic church, its hollowed-out halls hiding secrets from the days of Prohibition. In its depths, we discovered a network of tunnels, lined with dusty crates likely filled with illicit alcohol. This was our stronghold, where we vowed that no one would ever see us as weak again. It was a place none of our visitors would ever leave. Instead, fear would be our calling card. Though our names would remain unknown, our presence would be unmistakable, a harbinger of death and retribution.
The Red Knights, as we called ourselves, swore an oath to eradicate every heir of the Cosa Nostra, severing their legacy at its roots. They had taken my mother from me, a day they wouldeternally rue. In response, we crafted our own hit list, mirroring that of the Bratva. Unfortunately for Carmine Balestrini, he had the misfortune of being next.
“Where do we want to take him?” Isaak chimed in, curiosity lacing his voice as he leaned against the dimly lit wall.
“He’s always at Club Millennium. That’s where we should take him,” Nazar replied with a knowing nod, his eyes narrowing as he recalled the countless nights spent tracking Carmine’s every move over the past month.
In the shadowy underworld of mafia families, the first rule is simple—never be predictable. Predictability is a vulnerability, a beacon for threats lurking in the darkness. Yet, the Italians seemed to either underestimate this principle or believed themselves to be invincible, strutting through life with a dangerous blend of arrogance and carelessness.
“Let’s take a vote,” I declared, my voice firm and resonant in the dimly lit room. “All those in favor.”
“Aye,” Alexei responded swiftly, his voice cutting through the silence.
“Aye,” Maxim followed, his tone steady and unwavering.
“Aye,” Isaak intoned, raising his finger as his gaze swept over the assembled faces around the table.
“Aye,” Nazar’s voice came last, but it was no less resolute.
As the head knight, my vote carried the weight of three, granting me the decisive power should any dissent arise. “With my three votes, the ‘Ayes’ have it. By this time tomorrow, Carmine Balestrini will cease to exist.”
~***~
Just as Nazar had predicted with uncanny precision, Carmine was at Club Millennium. The pulsating lights and rhythmic music of the club surrounded us, but the presence of three of his top men complicated our task, creating a formidable barrier between us and our target. It was more challenging, yet not insurmountable. Sooner or later, Carmine would find himself isolated, presenting us with the perfect opportunity to strike.
And then it happened—a single, fatal mistake. Carmine made the ill-fated decision to have his security team investigate the diversion we cleverly orchestrated. Ten minutes later, with a discreet slip of something potent enough to dull his senses and obliterate his awareness, we had him bundled into the back of our SUV.
When we reached the cathedral, Alexei and Isaak carried Carmine through the cathedral and down the stairs to the labyrinthine tunnels below.
Carmine’s screams were muffled by the gag as he struggled violently against the chains and ropes that bound him to the metal chair, which was securely bolted to the floor. He sat there, stripped of dignity, his body exposed and vulnerable.
Good. Let him struggle in vain. Let him hold on to the fleeting hope of escape or, perhaps, even mercy. He needed to feel a fraction of the terror my mother endured as she fought for her final breath while I clung to her desperately when his family took her from me.
I stepped forward, the shadows playing across my face, and pulled the gag from his mouth.
