Page 38 of Brutal Obsession
I’m more than obsessed with this woman. I am consumed. Fanatical. My cravings for her are near pathological.
I want her enough that I’m willing to play with fire and risk being singed to ash.
“She’ll wake up soon,” Valeria says, drawing my attention back to her. “And then you’ll realize that I’m telling the truth.”
As the car turns onto the long drive leading to the family compound, I tighten and loosen my jaw. The gates swing open, and the Caruso mansion looms ahead, illuminating the safe haven built for the residents of Carlisle.
Our home isn’t solely the biggest house in Carlisle. It is also the best. Marble columns flank the entrance, and the gardens stretch out in manicured perfection. Fountains and statues that hint at old money are scattered throughout the compound, while the imposing wrought iron gates silently acknowledge our power.
This place is more than a home. It’s a fortress. A statement. Every stone used to build its thirty-six bedrooms is a testament to the strength of the Caruso name. My brothers and I all live here,together, under one roof. Some say it’s old-fashioned, but to us, it’s tradition.
It is what keeps our bond unbreakable.
The compound’s layout offers ample space for privacy but is tight-knit enough that loyalty to the family is never in question. Here, we eat together, argue together, and plot together. Our unity is our greatest weapon, and I’m eager to use it to sail through my latest dilemma.
Inside walls steeped in history, portraits of our ancestors line the halls. While the dining room accommodates fifty guests, the library, game room, and private bar are where the real business happens.
Port and cigars have been part of many agreements struck here.
It’s no secret that outsiders desire what we have. Even those already wealthy will do anything to be a part of our success. They swarm like sharks, seeking invitations or an offer of partnership. Some even dangle their daughters in front of us like prized fish. They want the Caruso name on their side, and the security and prestige that come with being one of us.
That’s why we keep the gates sealed shut. They open for us, but for others, they signify that not everything can be bought, no matter how deep your pockets. I’ve seen men and women of great means debase themselves for a seat at our table. Some succeed, but most fail.
Here, only the strongest survive, and Valentina is about to be put through the most brutal test.
15
VALENTINA
Iemerge from the sedation like I’m clawing my way out of a deep, dark well. My limbs are heavy, and my thoughts are sluggish. I’m unaware of my location and how I got here. The world is muffled, as if I’m wrapped in cotton wool, but gradually, sounds and scents filter through the blackness.
I don’t feel sick, and there’s no pain. Just bone-deep exhaustion that makes my eyelids the weight of concrete. I force myself to breathe while attuning my senses. The seat under me is buttery soft, a clear sign of the leather you find in luxury cars, and the ticking of cooling metal soon overtakes the gentle purr of a high-powered engine.
Giovanni’s cologne is the first scent that hits me. It’s distinctly him, but instead of tripling the output of my heart, it triggers sirens in my head. His powerful scent reminds me of whose world I’ve entered, and that I’m not a player on this team.
My name isn’t even on the signup sheet.
Against the screaming protests of my head, I crack my eyelids open. Though they barely open, the world comes into view. We’re parked in an estate so grand it could be apalace. The endless grounds feature vast lawns, marble statues, and impeccably trimmed hedges. Beyond the gates, the lights of Carlisle twinkle in the distance. No other houses or signs of life are close by. It’s seemingly just Giovanni, Valeria, and me.
I snap my eyes shut again and feign sleep when a conversation drifts through the haze.
Valeria speaks with a clear, professional tone, and it grates on my nerves. This is as personal as it gets. “I’ll have the attic room made up for her. It’s private, and she’ll have everything she needs, but it will keep her away from prying eyes.” I picture her raking her nails over Giovanni’s chest when scratching fills her brief pause. “We should keep news of her surrogacy on the down-low until we know if the transfer was successful.”
Surrogacy?The term is a brutal slap to the face. It twists my stomach with an equal amount of anger and humiliation.
Is that all I am to them? A vessel? A means to parenthood?
The thought of being called their surrogate for the next nine months makes my skin crawl. I’m not a part of their family, nor am I a willing participant in their prearranged agreement.
I’m the woman who got caught in the crossfire of their scheme.
Shame creeps across my face. I’m nothing but a problem to be managed. A dirty secret they want to hide in an attic room like a shameful mistake.
The sting of admitting it is intense and deeply gutting. It maims my chest and makes it hard to breathe. I loathe how I am being treated, but more than anything, I can’t stomach the idea of carrying their baby only to hand it over at the end.
Anger replaces my shame when I imagine the months ahead. How will I look at myself in the mirror, knowing I’m growing someone else’s child? How will I survive them taking what I’ve carried and nurtured for nine months like my sacrifice meant nothing?
The thoughts are unbearable.
