Page 32 of The Obsession
You don’t just decide to leave.
You can’t.
Over time, your aggressor wears you down piece by piece until the fear, the shame, and the exhaustion outweigh your hope. Every insult, every threat, every small act of control chips away at you until it feels impossible to see a way out.
I’m riding shotgun in the refrigerated truck beside Gino, my eyes scanning everywhere as we pull through the front gates of the property where the Christening is being held. This place is stunning, a sharp contrast to the dive I’m currently living in. Even when I was young, my parents could never have afforded anything like this. I grew up in a modest three-bedroom brick house in the suburbs.
Clearly, the local Cosa Nostra live better than the Steel Reapers. Mick could never afford a place this lavish. These days, we can barely make ends meet. His drug habit has gotten so bad that he’s rarely sober. I can only presume that’s where all our money is going.
My attention is locked on the stunning white-weatherboard house with an expansive wraparound veranda, and I can’t help but feel envious.
The view from the rear of the property is just as beautiful, so much so that it almost takes my breath away. Does Dominic live like this, too?
The truck pulls up beside a large mobile kitchen situated behind the expansive white marquee, and once Gino puts it into park and switches off the engine, I reach down for my bag and climb out.
Massimo had to swing past his house and pick up his wife, Maria, who’s going to make sure everything runs like a well-oiled machine while he concentrates on preparing and plating the food.
I’ve worked with her before; she’s a ballbuster but efficient, and she gets the job done.
To be honest, I was relieved not to be riding with him, because there would have been questions about my bruise, ones I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready to answer.
Things have been so busy today, I’ve barely had time to think about Mick, my predicament, or Dominic, but as soon as the guests begin to arrive after church, the nerves settle low in my belly.
“Okay,” Maria chimes, clapping her hands together to get our attention.
The bar staff from one of the Mancini nightclubs have already begun taking around silver trays laden with the best alcohol money can buy—Champagne, aged scotch, and imported beer—offering them to the guests.
I’ll say one thing about the Mafia, they don’t do anything by halves. If you didn’t know who these people really were—a group of gangsters and thugs—you’d think you’d stumbled into some high-society gala.
The event is extravagant, every detail polished to perfection. It’s nothing like the half-hearted barbecues Mick drags me to. I consider myself down to earth, and I’m far from a snob, but when I’m with the Steel Reapers, I feel like I’m surrounded by a bunch of feral Neanderthals.
“Grab a tray of hors d’oeuvres,” she orders. “Be quick and efficient.” Her eyes move to me, pinning me with a look. “And for God’s sake, smile. This is a Christening, not a funeral. It’s a time to rejoice.”
I wonder if Maria bosses poor Massimo around like this at home. He’s such a sweet man, so I feel sorry for him if she does.
Pushing that thought from my mind, I force my feet tomove, following the other servers around the side of the marquee and into the swarm of people.
Staying near the edge of the crowd and keeping my head down, and, despite Maria’s warning, I smile only when necessary. My tray empties faster than I expect, and relief floods through me as I slip towards the back for a refill.
No sign of Dominic yet, not that I’ve been looking.
I pass a couple of servers on their way back out, offering them a polite smile. Maria is nowhere to be seen as I set down my empty tray and grab another. That’s two small victories already, and the party’s only been going for ten minutes.
But my luck doesn’t last. Just as I reach the edge of the marquee, a hand shoots out and clamps around my wrist. The sudden grip startles me, and I nearly drop the tray I’m holding, but a second hand steadies it before it falls. My eyes snap up, and there he is, Dominic, in all his large, imposing glory. The frown etched into his handsome face tells me exactly how he’s feeling.
He’s wearing a suit today, which is something I’ve never seen him in. It looks good on him, and I hate that I notice that. His usual attire consists of jeans, tight T-shirts, and boots. He’s also had his dark hair cut, buzzed short to the scalp. It makes him look scarier and more menacing, so it suits him.
Once he’s sure the tray won’t slip from my grasp, his hand shifts from it to my chin, tilting my face upwards. He still hasn’t released my wrist, though.
“What happened to your face?” he asks, his voice low and rough.
“It’s nothing … I-I fell.” The sound he makes isn’t quite a growl, but it vibrates with something darker, something that makes my stomach twist. I force out a smile and accompany it with a lame laugh. “It’s true, I’m clumsy.”
“I don’t believe you.”
I narrow my eyes. “I don’t care if you believe me or not. You don’t get to ask me that. My personal life is none of your business.”
“It is if I make it my business.”
