Page 27 of The Art of Obsession
My suit is tailored perfectly, dark and sharp, the fabric catching the light in all the right ways. I adjust the cuffs, thecollar, making sure everything is in place. There’s a meeting to attend, a client to impress, and the world is waiting for me to remind them who’s in control.
Everleigh’s face flashes in my mind again.
As if by fated intervention, the motion detector on my smartwatch beeps an alarm that she is rising for the morning.
I monitor the cameras as she stirs. My lips press into a smile as she lifts the sheet and screams at the cold metal around her waist.
The fire in her eyes amuses me—she’s a tempest, a wild thing trying to claw her way out of her cage. I can see the anger bubbling beneath her skin, her hands trembling as she fights against the restraints, but I’m pleased.
I can’t help but chuckle under my breath as she spits her insults, her voice sharp with rebellion.“Picasso wannabe,”she sneers, her eyes flashing with fire.“Personality of a palette with shit for paint.”The words are as crude as they are clever. I’m impressed. She’s quick, even when furious, and it amuses me, though she will pay for it later.
She has spirit, an undeniable strength, even in her rage.
Still, she’s testing me, pushing me to see how far she can go before I break her. But I’m not bothered. No, I’m pleased. She’s still underestimating me, thinking she can push my buttons and escape unscathed.
I’ll let her have her little tantrum for now, but soon, I’ll show her exactly who’s in charge of all her affairs, including her very breath.
Once she gets in the shower, I turn off the live feed, switch to business mode, and prepare to meet my client.
Cigar smoke curls around me,thick and pungent, as I sit back in the leather chair, my fingers tracing the rim of my glass. Whiskey on the rocks.
The dim light of the lounge casts long shadows, the kind that hide secrets in plain sight. My client, a man of considerable wealth and questionable reputation, leans in, his eyes gleaming with the anticipation of the deal we’ve been circling for weeks. He’s the type who thinks money can buy anything—and in most cases, he’s right. But with me, it’s different.
I select my clients with calculated care. Most are like me, but they maintain a life of isolation and privacy. The kind who do not hesitate to sign an NDA that would cost them billions if they choose to break it. The kind who have longstanding business relations with me and know how I operate.
When you have built a one-man empire, you are granted more respect and acclaim than those birthed with underworld connections or bloodlines.
Soren Crowe. A billionaire with a reputation for funding illegal, artistic ventures. His appetite for the extreme is well-known. And for using his influence to acquire what others can’t, often leaving a trail of bodies behind him.
Crowe takes a long drag from his cigar, exhaling slowly before he speaks. “A generous down payment, Acheron. For the opportunity to witness yourultimate genius,” he says smoothly but with an impatient edge. “I trust that won’t be wasted.”
I smile, the expression as cold as the drink in my hand. “Your money will be well spent,” I assure him, my tone unyielding.“I make no excuses for the delays in the shipment. But rest assured, the matter will be dealt with.”
His eyebrow quirks, intrigued. “Dealt with? What do you mean by that?”
I take a slow sip of my drink, savoring the burn as I lean forward, locking eyes with him. “You’re about to find out.”
Without further ado, my security enters the lounge with the customs agent in hand. Beaten to a pulp but left alive. My manager follows.
I set my glass down and rise. The client’s eyes widen in amusement as he watches me circle the agent, his lips curling into a grin. “Impressive,” he says, enjoying the display.
They’ve placed him on his knees, handcuffed, trembling. His eyes dart nervously as I approach. I savor his fear.
Folding my hands behind my back, I circle him slowly, my gaze cold, calculating. “You thought you could steal from me, didn’t you?” I keep my voice low, the mask making it impossible to read my expression.
The worm shrinks, lowering his head. Ever since Everleigh, I’ve spent the past couple of weeks buying up artifacts and priceless art. Auctions. Wealthy private clients. Some I’ve procured from the black market. And all require going through customs with agents paid well to rush my orders and maintain my required secrecy.
“But you didn’t just steal from me,” I inform him, squaring my broad shoulders. I stop behind him, the air thick with dangerous tension. “You tried to steal fromher.”
The agent flinches, his breath hitching. “Who isher?” he whispers, his voice shaky, desperate.
The client leans back in his chair, swirling his drink as he watches the scene unfold. “And what happens now?” he asks, his curiosity piqued.
I take my time, letting the silence stretch. Finally, I speak. “Now, he learns the consequences of his actions.”
With a flick of my wrist, I give the signal, and my manager steps forward, handing me the prepared dagger, the cold steel gleaming in the dim light. Without hesitation, I slit the agent’s throat. He’s not worth taking my time. His body jerks, a gurgling sound escaping his mouth as blood spills across the floor. I kick his lifeless form, the sound of his body hitting the ground echoing in the silence.
I turn to my manager. “Clean it up.”
