Page 221 of Reckless Obsession

I reach the bottom of the stairs and step into the narrow hallway stretching beneath the mansion. Heavy steel doors line both sides, each one reinforced, secured, and deliberately lacking anything as welcoming as a window. Some have cameras mounted above them. Others have small observation panels covered from the outside.

Behind those doors are people who made the unfortunate mistake of crossing the Petrov family.

People who stole from us.

Betrayed us.

Threatened us.

People who thought money, power, lawyers, governments, or sheer stupidity would somehow protect them.

It usually didn’t.

My hands are tucked into the pockets of my hoodie as I continue down the corridor, my mind strangely quiet. That should probably concern me more than it does. Usually, my thoughts are crowded like a fucking nightclub.

Tonight, there is only one thought.

Jake Wesley.

My footsteps slow as I reach the final stretch of the hallway.

Two guards are stationed outside the door. One straightens the moment he sees me. His expression doesn’t change, but his head dips respectfully.

I stop in front of the door, reach for the lock, and the mechanism clicks twice. The heavy steel door groans as I pull it open, then I step inside.

The room is almost bare. Concrete walls. A single light hanging overhead. A metal chair in the corner. Nothing decorative, nothing comfortable, nothing that suggests whoever ends up here is supposed to leave feeling particularly optimistic about the future.

And sitting in the middle of the room, tied to a chair with his wrists secured behind him, is Jake.

His eyes widen when he sees me.

At first, there is only confusion. Then recognition takes its place. It moves across his face slowly, like the moment a man realizes the gun pointed at him is loaded.

“You…” Jake chokes out, the word trembling in the stale basement air.

I don’t answer him.

Instead, I walk farther into the room.

The guard left a plain metal chair by the wall. I hook two fingers around its back and drag it across the concrete. The legs shriek loudly enough to make Jake flinch, though he tries to hide it by straightening his shoulders.

It does not work.

Fear has a smell. A posture. A rhythm.

Jake’s breathing is too fast. His wrists strain once against the restraints before he forces himself still. Anger flashes in his eyes, bright and ugly, but beneath it sits something more useful.

Panic.

I turn the chair around and place it directly in front of him, close enough that our knees nearly touch.

Then I sit.

For a moment, I simply look at him.

He looks worse than he did from the doorway. His hair is messy, his expensive shirt rumpled, and a bruise blooms along the hard line of his jaw. Someone must have had very little patience during the drive here.

I almost admire it.