Page 11 of Veil of Obsession
My cheek still burns. My mother’s voice still echoes. But here—in this place—she doesn’t exist.
I count to ten, listening for footsteps. Nothing.
Only then do I move. My fingers twist the wall-mounted lamp, and with a quiet click, the hidden panel shifts open. A breath of cool, stale air rushes out. My pulse steadies.
The room hums with a quiet, steady energy, almost like it’s alive. Three and half years of watching him, and I’ve pieced together my little shrine. Monitors are everywhere, each oneblinking with his world in gray, grainy footage. The screens show fragments of his life: the places he haunts, the people who orbit him like moths to a dangerous flame.
He doesn’t know it, but he’s under my watch, every move of his captured and catalogued.
I remember the first time I saw him. It was four years ago at a gala that my uncle had thrown. He wasn’t someone I found interesting from the first glance, but my gaze kept going back to him, as if I couldn’t look away.
Lucio’s the complete opposite of me. Reckless, loud, open with the way he acts, and doesn’t let anyone put him on a leash. I crave that sort of freedom, but I’m too much of a coward to go after what I truly want. So instead, I watch someone who practices his freedom with reckless abandon.
Across the room, my wall sprawls like a spider’s web. Strings connect faces to places, pinned down with photos, notes, and the occasional napkin stained with something darker than ink. The New York Camorra—his world, his family’s empire. I know its veins, its paths, where they meet, where they splinter. Every line, I’ve traced over and over with my fingers. He’ll never see the lines as I do; he only walks them.
Under dim, buzzing lights, the shadows make everything look old, forgotten, and secret. I can smell the faint scent of old paper and ink, the tang of metal from tacks and clips. Each paper, each photo, is like a piece of him I’ve claimed, a fragment I’ve stolen without him even knowing.
To him, I’m invisible. To me, he’s everywhere. I take a seat behind the screen, and within seconds, I’m looking into his bedroom. There’s something about this that makes it feel so…intimate. I can see him, but he can’t see me, and that makes me feel incomprehensible things.
He’s sprawled on his bed, sheets hanging low on his hips. Bare skin, lean muscles covered in ink, all mine to watch. He hasno idea. No clue that my gaze traces every inch of him, that my breath catches when he shifts, muscles flexing beneath tanned skin.
He’s right there. So close. So oblivious. I zoom in on his face; he’s not asleep, but he’s just lying there. He’ll usually leave for the gym in an hour or two and will stay there for a couple of hours before returning to his apartment, which is just enough time for me to sneak in and leave him some souvenirs.
I just hope that no one will come looking for me around the time I’m gone. I usually turn the shower on and lock the door before sneaking out from the window in the bathroom.
Instead of just sitting here and watching him, I go back into my actual room, closing the entrance to my secret room. Leaning back on the wall, I let out a long, loud sigh and rub my hand over my face.
I won’t cry. I. Will. Not. Cry.
Feeling like shit doesn’t resolve anything, and I refuse to sit here and cry about the…problems between me and my mother. It hasn’t ever gotten me anywhere before, and it won’t get me anywhere now.
3
Lucio
The smell of sweat and damp canvas fills my nose as I pace the gym, my fist slamming into the punching bag with all the pent-up rage I can muster. My back is soaked; sweat’s streaming down in buckets, dripping off me like I’m in a damn rainstorm.
I can’t stop myself. I’m pissed off. And hell, I’ve got every right to be. Emiliano—my big brother, my Capo—always trusts our younger brother, Matteo, with the important shit. Every single time. Doesn’t matter that Matteo’s younger than me. They’re all convinced he’s the “responsible” one. As if I’m some loose cannon they can’t rely on. Not to mention that practically everyone else knows everything before I do. What is the fucking point in trying to force myself into their little circle?
“You keep punching the bag like that and you’ll dislocate your shoulder,” Dominico says, voice cutting through the air like a knife.
I ignore him and keep going, knuckles digging into the leather, heart pounding.
“When I talk to you, you fucking answer me, Lucio.” Dominico’s voice rises.
I feel the weight of his authority pressing down harder than usual now that he’s consigliere. Second-in-command. My cousin. The nerve.
I finally pause, turning to face him while wiping sweat from my face with the towel around my neck, each swipe a reminder of the frustration seething inside me. “Fuck you want, Dom?”
There may be an eight-year age difference between Dom and me, but I’m taller and look older. I’m twenty-two years old, but he’s the one looking fresh out of college. But that’s shadowed by the dark circles under his eyes. The man has had it rough since the death of his wife, but that doesn’t mean he can come meddle in my fucking business.
“Watch your tone. I don’t have a problem with breaking your fucking jaw. I’m not your fucking brother to take disrespect.”
Rolling my eyes, I push past him and make my way to the changing rooms. His footsteps ring out as he follows me across the concrete floor. I push the changing room door open, ignoring him.
Fucking stalker.
The changing room is as grimy as the ring itself, reeking of old sweat, blood, and damp concrete. The fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting a sickly yellow glow over the cracked tile floor. Rust stains trail down from busted pipes in the ceiling, and there’s a constant drip somewhere in the corner, echoing against the silence. The benches are chipped and splintered, covered in faded graffiti from fighters who passed through long before me.
