Page 89 of Arranged Obsession
It takes a few seconds before I hear the screaming.
Slowly, I push myself up. I’m lying on the sidewalk, flattened against the front of the diner. The sidewalk is covered in what looks like trash, like someone spilled their lunch, until I look closely.
And realize they’re parts of a person.
I recognize the scraps. Some of the clothes. An earring. A few fingers attached to a torn-apart hand.
Elena Vasquez.
Behind her, my car is a smoldering wreck. Pieces of flaming debris are thrown all over the place. Nearby pedestrians are running around, shouting at each other, and some older man crouches down to yell in my face. His lips move, but I can’t hear what he’s saying. It looks like,are you okay, are you okay?
I murmur something and shove him aside as I get to my knees.
Elena’s ear sits on the ground.
I throw up, heaving and sobbing. This can’t be happening. This has to be a nightmare. But I’m not waking up.
Slowly, I push to my feet.
The Whelan driver is gone. He’s evaporated. If there’s anything left of him, I can’t see it anymore.
Whoever planted those explosives wanted to make sure they didn’t miss.
Except they did. Somehow, they got Elena instead of me.
I replay the scene in my head. We were standing there, talking?—
And she was next to the car.
“Lady!” Someone’s shouting in my face again. This time, it’s a police officer. An absurdly young man, skinny as hell, wearing so much gear on his belt that it looks like he’s about to fall over. “You’re injured! Come sit down, you’re hurt!”
“Meant for me,” I mumble as he leads me away from the wreck. “That was meant for me.”
If he understands, he doesn’t show it.
I’m wrapped in a blanket, the remains of Elena still glistening on the sidewalk, as an ambulance and a firetruck come tearing down the street toward me.
Chapter 29
Cormac
I’m not usually the kind of man who goes to work angry.
I find rage isn’t the best fuel for a killer. Cold, emotionless obsession is much better. I’ve always killed because it felt good, not because I was so out of control that I couldn’t stop myself.
Now though, I burn with it.
I lurk outside a simple row home in a quiet Brooklyn neighborhood. Kids live around here. The park’s usually full of families. There are more babies born than there are murders around here.
Not the kind of place for a Bratva man.
This is not how I wanted my evening to go.
But this is what I am. No matter how hard I try, I keep coming back to this. Death and blood. I’m trapped in a cycle of murder and retribution built by my own dark needs.
But now I’m dragging those I care about down with me.
I sneak around the back of the house. I go slow, circumventing as many lights as I can. I’m wearing all black and a black surgical mask to cover my face. If any of these Brooklyn housewives look out their window, they’ll catch a glimpse of a monster.
