Page 2 of The Obsession
I swallow hard. “The baby … is she alright?”
“She’s stable,” Mary says gently, “but given the circumstances, Violet will be losing custody until she can get clean and prove she’s capable of providing a safe environment. In the meantime, we’re trying to place the child with a family member before considering foster care. Are there any relatives who might be willing to take her?”
The question rattles me, and for a moment, all I can do is stare at the wall.Family.I’m the only family Violet has, apart from her adoptive parents, but they fell out a few years ago due to my sister’s bad choices. Besides, they aren’t blood, so I wouldn’t even consider them.
I wouldn’t know the first thing about taking care of a kid, but the thought of my niece ending up in foster care, after some of the shit I went through growing up, has bile rising to the back of my throat.No kid deserves that.
Without even thinking this through properly, the words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, “I’ll take her.”
I’m wide awake now and buzzing with a nervous kind of energy when I arrive at the hospital. I can’t remember the last time I felt this uneasy. Maybe it was the day I found my mother floating facedown in the pool, and life as I knew it changed forever. Or when my father took off, and my little sister and I were made wards of the state. Or maybe it waswhen Violet was adopted by a couple who only wanted a girl … and not me.
I’ll never forget how gutted I was when we were separated, or the sheer desperation I felt in the months and years that followed, not knowing what had happened to her, or if she was even okay. I promised myself I’d protect her, and look where that got me.
Being passed from one fucked-up home to another, along with everything I’ve endured over the years, has hardened me. I barely recognise the person I used to be.
I roll my shoulders and crack my neck from side to side, trying to loosen the tension coiling in my muscles as I step off the lift and head down the long corridor towards the maternity ward, where Mary from DOCS agreed to meet me.
The air smells like bad memories. I hate hospitals. I hate pretty much everything these days. I’ve grown into a bitter fucking bastard … the kind of guy who snarls at everything and bites the hand that reaches out, because it feels safer that way. I stopped relying on others a long, long time ago.
My boots echo off the linoleum floor as I walk, earning a few curious glances from the hospital staff who clearly aren’t used to guys like me showing up here.
When I reach the waiting area, I spot a woman I presume is Mary sitting on a chair by the wall, clutching a folder tightly to her chest. She looks younger than I expected, mid-twenties maybe, with that clean, professional look that screams she still believes she can fix the world.
There’s a spark in her eyes, too, that kind of hopefulness people in her line of work start out with before the job grinds it out of them. Give it a few years of dealing with junkies, broken families, and kids who never stood a chance, and that light will fade. It always does. I’m living proof of what the system can do to you. The anger and resentment I carry inside from my past is profound.
I clear my throat as I approach, making sure to announce my presence. My eyes stay locked on her, and I see the moment it clicks who I am because she suddenly looks quietly terrified.
Her gaze drags from my slicked-back dark hair and down my six-foot-four frame, over the muscle built from years of burning off rage in the gym, before stopping for a beat on the ink winding down my forearms.
I don’t miss the slight grimace when her eyes finally move back to lock on my face. I’m used to that reaction. With my size, the ink covering most of my skin, and the permanent scowl I can’t seem to shake, I’ve got the kind of look that makes people cross the street or find a reason to walk the other way. I stopped caring about that a long time ago. If anything, it keeps people at a distance, which is how I like it.
“Mr Rizzo?” she asks, standing a little too quickly and speaking in a voice that resembles that of a frightened, squeaky mouse.
“Yeah,” I say, stopping in front of her. “That’s me.”
I tower over her, so she has to crane her neck to meet my gaze. For a moment, neither of us says anything, but I notice the way her eyes keep flicking towards the scar running down the length of my cheek.
It’s a constant reminder of the man I’ve become every time I look in the mirror. I got this when some fucker thought it would be a good idea to slash my face during a fight; so in return, I crushed his windpipe with my bare hands.
He was the first man I ever killed, and I still get flashbacks of the terror I saw in his eyes as I watched him choke to death on his own blood. I’m not the type to look for trouble, but I’ll sure as fuck finish it when it finds me. They don’t call me Dominic ‘Dead End’ Rizzo for no reason.
Mary clutches the folder tighter to her chest, and I canfeel the weight of what brought me here settling heavily between us.
She’s probably already judging me, but I don’t give a fuck what she thinks of me. I might not know the first thing about raising a baby, but I already know that little girl will be safer with me than in foster care, or wherever else she might end up. Mary can assume whatever she wants, but there’s no way I’m letting my niece go through what Violet and I did as kids.
She gives me another once-over before speaking. “Would you like to meet your niece first? Then we can have a chat and see if you … umm … you fit the criteria to be her temporary carer until something more permanent can be established.”
Her tone is cautious, like she’s not sure if she’s talking to a potential guardian or someone she should be calling security on. I guess I can’t blame her for that. I know I look intimidating, and she’d be right. I rough people up for a living, but the thought of meeting Violet’s little girl hits me harder than I expected.
For the first time in years, I’m not sure if I’m ready for what’s waiting on the other side.
I follow Mary down the hall. I’m suddenly unsure if I’m even up to this—maybe I’m not the better choice—but I’m not about to turn my back on my niece if she needs me.
Each step I take feels slower than the last, and my chest tightens. When Mary stops outside a small room and pushes the door open, the world narrows to the soft beeping of machines and the faint scent of antiseptic.
I pause at the doorway, and from here, I can already see how small my niece is. She barely takes up half the hospital crib. She’s wrapped in a pale-pink blanket with a tiny hatcovering her head. Tubes run from her fragile body to a monitor beside the crib. The gentle rhythm of her breathing is somehow both calming and terrifying.
I love my sister, but a part of me hates her for what she’s done to this innocent little life. How could she have such disregard for her own daughter?
