Page 139 of The Obsession
I’m not naïve enough to think he hasn’t killed before—he’s an enforcer for the mob—but seeing how effortlessly and coldly he can end someone’s life makes my head spin so much that I feel like I’m on the verge of passing out. Or maybe I’m just concussed.
My entire body is still trembling as I sit in the passenger seat of Dominic’s car while he drives towards Lucia and Romeo’s place.
The adrenaline has long worn off, and the shock of everything has settled in.
That house quickly became my haven, but it’s now tainted beyond repair, and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to step back inside, let alone live there.
Romeo and Lucia are out front waiting for us when we pull through their front gates.
I know Dominic called them, because I heard snippets of his conversation as he paced back and forth beside the car before we left.
Lucia heads around the front of the vehicle to get Peach out first. She’s no longer crying, but her breathing is still coming in small, hitching hiccups.
By the time Lucia gets to me, I’m already climbing out. Peach spots me instantly, reaching with her tiny fingers that stretch in my direction. The poor thing is still shaken by what she witnessed. I’m just grateful her face was pressed into my chest when her uncle killed my attacker.
My whole body aches, but I take her from Lucia without hesitation. The moment Peach is in my arms, she melts against me, tucking her face into the crook of my neck as her thumb slips into her mouth.
“Come,” Lucia says, snaking an arm around my waist and guiding me toward the house.
As we climb the steps to the front porch, I glance overmy shoulder just in time to see Romeo slide into the passenger seat before Dominic backs out of the driveway.
No prizes for guessing where they’re headed. The thought makes my stomach recoil.
Tears sting the backs of my eyes as Lucia guides me down the long hallway toward the rear of her house.
“Romeo called Dante, and the doc’s on his way,” she says, pulling out a chair at the dining table for me to sit.
I nod. I don’t want to see their doctor, but I probably should. My head is pounding, and I think the cut on my forehead needs stitches.
“I’ll make you a cup of tea, and then we can talk.”
My haunted eyes lock with hers, as the tears I’ve been fighting finally spill free. “He just ended her … r-right there in front of me.”
She abandons the tea and pulls out the chair beside me, settling in close. “I grew up in the Cosa Nostra,” she says gently, her voice lower now. “So I’ve become used to that sort of thing. But for someone like you, I can only imagine how hard that must have been to see.”
“I—”
“This world isn’t for the faint hearted, Em. It’s kill or be killed.”
“She wasn’t a threat to him.”
“But she was a threat to you and this little one.” She rubs her hand up and down Peach’s back before adding, “They protect their own, and if someone threatens them, they’re eliminated without hesitation.”
“That’s barbaric.”
Lucia holds my gaze for a moment before quietly saying, “It’s the way it is with the mob. They have rules—a moral code they live by—and those rules don’t bend for anyone. There’s no mercy for strangers or enemies … sometimes not even for their own.”
She pauses, her expression turning distant. “When Iwas living in Italy, Dante, Arabella, and Romeo flew over to get me out before I was forced to marry the psychopath my father had chosen for me. They found me locked in my room and injured. One of Papa’s guards tackled me when I tried to escape. Romeo didn’t hesitate. He raised his gun and put a bullet between the man’s eyes.”
Her words make me grimace. This is the side of the Mafia I knew existed, but had never truly seen until today.
Three days have passed, and we are still staying with the De Luca’s. I’ve got five stitches in the side of my head, lumps and bruises everywhere, and a moderate concussion to top it off.
My nights have been spent curled up beside Peach in one of the spare bedrooms. She’s become clingy since the incident.
The first night, Dominic sat in a chair in the corner of the room, waking me every few hours—per the doctor’s instructions—to make sure I was okay. I don’t think he slept.
He’s been back to the house a number of times—bringing clothes and whatever else we’ve needed—and running errands. It’s been a welcome buffer. I’m not angry at him, just shaken. I don’t even want to imagine what would have become of me if he hadn’t shown up when he did.
