Page 101 of Reckless Obsession

The container falls into a heavy, expectant silence as Anton walks toward the man slowly, stopping right in front of him. He tilts his head, studying the bastard with that cold, dissecting gaze. The man glares back with dumb, bleeding defiance.

“Say that again,” Anton says, voice low and deceptively soft.

The man spits blood at his feet. “I said you’re a bunch of assholes.”

Anton gives a single, slow nod. Then he reaches down, unclasps his watch—the one our father gave him years ago, the one he never takes off unless necessary—and hands it to Kyle without a word.

Alex lets out a quiet sound that isn’t quite a laugh. I glance at him, and he glances back. We don’t need to say a word because we’ve been having this exact conversation with our eyes since we were old enough to understand what it meant when Anton took off the watch.

Beside me, Igor shifts his weight, the way he always does when he recognizes what’s coming.

“Untie him,” Anton orders quietly.

One of our men moves quickly and cuts the ropes. The man barely gets to his feet before Anton is on him.

His fist tangles in the man’s hair, and he yanks him forward hard enough to almost rip him off balance entirely. Anton drags him toward one of the low metal benches bolted to the floor while the man curses and struggles, throwing useless swings that don’t even come close to slowing him down.

Anton is built like a tank, but that’s not the frightening part. The frightening part is how economical he is.

The first hit folds the man halfway over. The second snaps his head back. The third lands with enough force to send blood spraying across the floor. The sound echoes through the container.

Here’s the thing about my brothers and violence. It’s never the same twice, and it’s never the same between them.

Alex does it like it feeds him. Like there’s some deep, feral part of him that comes alive when his fists are in use, something that hums with satisfaction at the sound of impact and the sight of a man realizing too late that he picked the wrong room to be brave in.

Anton is different.

Anton hits like he’s billing for his time. Cold and precise. Deeply, genuinely offended that this is what he’s had to become tonight, that this man has cost him enough that there’s no longer a polished solution available and he’s been forced to resort to this.

“Do you have any idea,” Anton says, his voice calm as he lands another punishing blow, “what you cost me by dumping those bodies on my site?”

The man groans, spitting more blood.

Anton grabs him by the hair again. “Investors are pulling out. Contracts are delayed. People are asking questions they have no right to ask. All because someone sent you to play games with my family’s business.”

He shoves the man’s face toward the low bench.

“Bite it,” he orders.

“Please… please don’t—” The man shakes his head. He’s crying now, blood and tears mixing on his chin, both hands raised in the universal language of please.

Anton’s grip tightens, forcing his face down.

“Bite. The. Fucking. Bench.”

There’s no rage in his voice anymore. Just flat, terrifying finality.

The man complies, biting down on the cold metal with a broken whimper. His whole body trembles like his skeleton is trying to escape.

The other prisoners start whispering frantically, one of them praying under his breath. The fear in the air is thick enough to taste.

Anton steps back, breathing steadily through his nose, all that polished control stripped away to reveal something ancient and ugly underneath. Then, with one savage motion, he brings his foot down hard on the back of the man’s head.

The sound is sickening. A wet, final crunch and the man collapses like a puppet with its strings cut, teeth shattered, face destroyed, and completely dead on the spot.

“Well damn, can’t remember the last time he lost his cool like this,” Igor mutters beside me, almost amused.

Just then the container door swings open.