His Darkest Obsession

Celina

"Absolutely unacceptable-" more specifically, revolting, pathetic, and a fucking blessing. "-is what it is." But I don't dare dump the hard truth onto the hysterical girl crying on the other end of the line.

It's a miracle I'm able to keep my mouth shut for so long, especially considering I've been sitting here, listening to her sob over a mediocre man for the past ten minutes.

This is the issue with women who emotionally involve themselves with men. They give full control of their emotions to a man who is, by textbook definition, a disappointment.

While the rest of us, whether it be their children, mothers, sisters, or the women they fucked, are subjected to this disappointment they seem to ooze out of every clogged up useless pore in their bodies.

Not only had Hana yet to understand this simplistic notion, but she was the worst kind of victim. The kind that saw the good in them.

This was the first thing I'd picked up freshman year about my new roommate, who turned out to be a friend. Only she was the worst type of friend. Sweet, naive, and far too innocent to ever take any of my advice. Even if it was the only right way to deal with her problems.

I examine the dark shade of red coating my almond-shaped nails and briefly wonder how I'm going to find a nail tech that I don't want to slaughter in America.

"Lina?" A choked sob fills the line, louder than the others. "Are you even listening to me?"

"Mhm." With a roll of my eyes, I set the phone on speaker and reach into my bag to pull out my laptop. "Thomas, dick, little brunette from Political Law 101."

If three years at Oxford had taught me anything, it was how to be an expert at listening without actually listening.

That gets her off my ass and back to her breakdown, while I hold up my empty champagne glass, ushering one of the two flight attendants over.

Yet they both are too busy ogling the bodyguards positioned on either side of the bar.

"If word of this gets out... it'll look so bad on me." Hana's soft voice trembles through the line, and despite the annoyance bubbling in my chest, I don't like hearing it crack. "I-I just want him to feel as terrible as I did when I saw him and her-"

I sigh, fed up.

Not only was this trip back to New York so sudden, and frankly, against my will, but I was spending it cooped up hundreds of feet in the air with useless staff, listening to a messy breakdown, completely sober.

"There's only one thing men like Thomas care about." I look to the guard positioned closest to me and raise a brow at the stoic-faced man.

It takes a moment for him to draw his gaze towards me, but when he does, I look from him back to my empty glass, my request clear.

"I-I don't know." My naive little friend answers on the line while my eyes pierce into the reluctant ones of the man."Money?"

I wanted another drink.

He wasn't going to get it because he thought that he was above serving me.

It takes about twenty seconds of my stare for the inept Shrek to begrudgingly grab my glass from my hand and turn to walk towards the bar at the end of the jet.

Only then do I direct my attention back to my hysterical little friend. "No," Thomas Webler was not only an heir, but a distant kin to the royal family. He was as dumb as a rock, yet managed to get into Oxford and spent his time between classes flying women out to snort overpriced coke off their tits.

Yet his record was as clean as a whistle, and had I not been able to sniff out a coke head in my sleep, he'd been able to keep his little issue under wraps.

Information was the highest form of power in my books, and while I didn't have a conventionally powerful family - one that obtained status the clean way, that was, I had the upper hand amongst all my elite classmates.

Dirt.

"Upholding his family's image." I fold open the laptop on my lap. "As long as daddy's happy, he can do whatever-or whomever he wants in secret." I'm a firm believer in karma; she was my favorite type of bitch.

But letting things happen naturally was no fun. But dishing out my own karma as I saw fit? That was the only viable option.

My mouse clicks into my encrypted folder, and I hover over the folder with his name on it. "It'd be a shame if word of this affair got out to daddy dearest."

It'd completely ruin him.

Hana Lim, the daughter of Tae Lim, head of the South Korean parliament, was the only bridge Thomas' father had in maintaining his power. No one got on Tae Lim's good side, but when you did gain his support, the extent of power one had was limitless.

News like this would not only break his ties with the man who currently held the highest status in South Korean society, but it'd bury him alive.

Especially when the only reason Tae Lim put up with Thomas' family was that his daughter was head over heels for his son.

Word of this breakup and his endeavors would be catastrophic, but more importantly, so entertaining to watch unfold.

"No..." The gasp in her voice tells me she knows where my head is at. "That'd be too cruel.... Lina, I can't. I won't."

Luckily for her, I could and I would.

If there was one thing Ademaro's upheld, it was the notion of an eye for an eye.

We didn't just let things go. We didn't take the high road.

When you're wronged, you retaliate. When things don't work, you manipulate them into working. And when you're double-crossed, you bury them so far into the ground, they can do nothing but stare at the dirt swallowing them up with the look in their eyes similar to that of a terrified puppy crying out for help.

It was therapeutic, really.

"I totally understand." I reason, clicking through the array of photos I have stored for safekeeping. "Let's just take the high road."

Thomas in Bora Bora, snorting a line off the prime minister's wife. Thomas was at a strip club with the dean of our university. And most importantly, a video of Thomas in said club, ranting about how important a man he was in comparison to all the lazy common folks. And that was only the surface of his spiel that would soon send him into his downfall.

As if the universe is rewarding me for my findings, I'm handed my glass of champagne by an annoyed-looking, inept Shrek.

"Here's what you're gonna do." The pleasant velvety taste of my drink reaches my tongue before I take another sip and begin drafting the email, "Block his number, take a spa weekend to clear your head, and when you're all well rested, the universe will straighten out this mess."

"You really think so?" Hope fills her voice.

"Positive." Said universe was currently drafting the email, attaching the photos, and addressing it to the UK's biggest gossip column.

A light swoosh sounds, telling me I've just ruined someone's life with the raise of my finger, and I finish my drink in celebration.

"Have a little faith, Hana. Things will sort themselves out." Fate was nothing but a lousy excuse humans used to cover up the fact that they were terrified of the unknown.

I couldn't remember the last time I'd been terrified, let alone left room for unknowns.

"I truly don't know what I'd do without you, Lina." She'd probably drown in her sea of melodramatic emotions. "My summer's gonna be so miserable without you. I don't know how I'll get over it."

A smile touches my lips. The thought of her, miserable with nothing but those stuck-up snakes she called friends, oddly makes me feel appreciated. "Thanks."

She's quiet, like she's waiting for me to say more, but I don't have anything else to say, and so with another overdramatic sigh, my friend speaks. "I'll miss you, but I'll see you soon. Kisses."

"Kisses." I hum, yet despite forcing affection into my tone, the word still escapes, drizzled in sarcasm.

It wasn't that I disliked Hana. I didn't mind having her around. I even cared enough about her to see through all those friends she surrounded herself with and deem them as snakes waiting to pounce on her fortune.

I, on the other hand, was different.

I didn't care for her money. I cared for the connections and status she's one day be useful for in my pursuit to the top. And until then, I needed her reputation clean and untouched. So if it meant talking to her about feelings and other useless things I couldn't care less about, I'd do it.

It wasn't personal, nor did I have her worst interest in mind. In fact, I was every bit of a perfect friend.

The only difference is my knowledge surrounding our friendship and how I didn't believe it to be real. The truth is that I didn't like anyone enough to befriend them.

My phone chimes, drawing me out of my mind, and with the soft shut of my laptop, I check the thirty-two text messages, all sent from the same contact.

Did you get onto the jet?

Have you identified the pilot?

Have you made sure you've got all your things?

How's your blood sugar?

Blah, blah, blah.

I'd love to sit here and say that my papà wasn't normally this overbearing, but that'd be a lie, and while I loved a good lie, my father's need to treat me like his little girl at all times gave me a severe migraine, and I never gave half-assed lies.

However, it was clear that something was severely wrong for him to be ordering me back to New York, a place he always seemed to be pushing me out of.

Another five texts filter through, and I get so fed up, I respond to his texts with one of my own.

I think I'm being harassed.

My finger still hovers over the send button when his response comes through.

By who?!

Are they around you

right now?

Where are my men?

They are supposed

to be watching you.

Call me this instant.

He calls me.

I decline and text him back.

It's some old man who

won't stop texting me.

Three dots appear in the corner of my screen, and then they disappear as if the realization settles.

I think he's in New York City.

Once again, three dots appear, but this time he sends me one text that reeks of his disapproval.

That is not funny.

I disagree.

I find it hilarious.

I can practically hear his tired sigh, and when something other than amusement crawls into my chest as I think of how I'd just fucked with his concern, I know it's time to shut off my phone.

I debate asking my father why he'd summoned me back to the city I desperately clawed my way out of, but I decide I really didn't want to know.

The man was a mobster, and behind his pleasant smiles was a world of crime. A world I decided to leave behind when I moved away for college.

I didn't value the power my Italian side of the family held in the world of criminal activity.

I was better than all that. All of them.

I craved real power, influence over the masses. Violence and threats were so mainstream and lacked any creativity. I wanted to instill fear through mind games and manipulation. I wanted the most powerful people to force polite smiles to my face while they buzzed with unease in my presence.

The last thing I needed was my name associated with a notorious crime family. Especially when my goal was to have it tied to politicians, royals, and all the other elite of the world.

So when I was at Oxford, I wasn't Celina Ademaro, daughter of Silvio Ademaro - the only living founder of the Galanti crime family. I was Lina Ayad, granddaughter of an assassinated Egyptian President, turned middle-class scholarship student, making a name for herself at Oxford University.

And just as my mind begins to spiral into just how much of a shit show my life is, I can't help but feel a pair of bug eyes on me.

"Fix your staring problem," I mutter, not bothering to spare a glance up at the man who's standing so close that if I were to glance up, I'd be able to make out his puny little brain through his fat nostrils. "It's unnerving."

The man doesn't respond, nor do I particularly give a shit as I hold up my empty glass. "Make yourself useful and fetch me another glass while you're at it."

I wasn't normally this much of a bitch. I was more into subtle domination, but my father's men brought out the worst in me.

When I have yet to feel the man take my glass, I finally look up at him.

"I'm not here to wait on you." The man grits out carefully, and I can't pin what's wrong with his voice, but I don't care.

"Agreed." I don't drop my hand. "You're here to do whatever the fuck I tell you to do." I trail my eyes across his pale, angry face. "And unless you want your tiny testicles hanging off the wing of my private jet, I suggest you stop your bitching."

His eyes narrow briefly as they move towards the gold band on my ring finger. "It is not your private jet."

His puny little brain was still stuck on semantics.

"It's my father's." A patronising smile graces my lips as I hold the ring up between us. "So is this."

Any man who worked for my papà would recognize Silvio Ademaro's ring. It'd been a gift from Ricardo Galanti himself on their first big milestone.

"Pretty, isn't it?" It glints beneath the light, and the man remains silent, seething but that's all he can do because this small piece of gold is a reminder of my seniority, something I intent to exploit to its full potential.

He scowls at it. "It'll also look just as good after I've informed my father what an incompetent man he's hired and then use your own gun to shoot up your nostrils into that pea-sized brain of yours."

I wouldn't ever do that. Guns weren't my forte, but he didn't need to know that, and by the annoyance oozing off him, he believes my lie.

The man's entire body is rigid as he takes my glass and walks towards the bar, while I lean back and watch him. That is, until my gaze moves to the four other bodies at the bar, specifically to the bodyguard chatting up the flight attendant.

He's tall, built, somewhat attractive. Much like the other men who worked under my papà. Only his complexion, along with his features, is far lighter.

But that's not what grabs my attention. It's his body language and how he doesn't seem the least bit interested in the flight attendant. It's clear in the way his eyes glaze over when she talks, and his gaze stays above her head.

Yet he's still dragging the conversation on.

Perhaps he's bored or wants to get his dick wet, but the way his body language doesn't add up piques my interest.

His expression is mirrored by the other bodyguard, and I mean that quite literally, seeing as he seems to be a carbon copy of the first.

Brothers. Twins.

Just as I'm about to speak, the man with the staring problem returns, holding out my champagne glass.

Finally.

I take it, bring the glass to my lips, and peek up at him from my seated position. "That wasn't so hard now, was it?"

The death stare he sends me warms my cold little heart enough to take a generous sip. "Are you Italian's always so condescending?"

I narrow my eyes at him, more concerned with the fact that he's not Italian than with his pathetic insult. "Only to people who cannot clearly think on their own."

He mutters something under his breath.

"Your accent." I get comfortable in my seat and swirl what's left of my drink in my glass, "Where is it from?"

He side eyes me, his voice odd-sounding like he's downplaying his accent. "I don't have an accent."

I'd laugh if my guard hadn't begun to slowly rise. "You're a shit liar."

I lean over and reach a hand into my bag. The action draws the attention of all the men on the plane. The one nearest to me tenses, and the twins at the bar slowly drop their hands to their waistbands.

My fingers latch onto cool metal, and when I slowly lift it out of my bag, they all take a step forward, only to stop when I pull out my barrette.

I occupy myself with clipping a chunk of my hair back, while the man's shoulders drop a fraction of an inch until he's confident enough to fix me with a smug look.

"Russia." His mouth forms a sneer, and he drops the act, his accent extremely thick. "My accent is from Russia."

I don't speak, I pin him with a glare before movement from the end of the plane catches my attention, and I'm forced to watch the two twin brothers slit the throats of the flight attendants.

I open my mouth to speak, but can't bring myself to say anything, nor can I force my instincts to kick in fast enough.

It's like everything's happening in slow motion, and I'm falling right into the trap they want.

My lazy gaze moves to the glass in my hand, and I squint at the remaining bubbly liquid before my fingers loosen, allowing it to slip right through them and shatter onto the floor.

Shit.

I can't hear what they're saying, nor do I process any of what's going on; all I can do is stare at the satisfied gleam in his bug eyes until finally, I'm submerged into the void.

Ah shit.

Karma really is a bitch.

Celina

Hangovers were only bearable because I woke up knowing that I'd consented to the god-awful feeling in exchange for a night of getting completely shit faced.

This hangover, however, was not something I'd consented to.

Perhaps it was the withdrawal from whatever they'd drugged me with, but a bolt of movement causes the walls around me to shake. Walls that seem far too close for my liking, in a space that's far too dark for me to be sure.

Things continue to rattle, a hum similar to that of rubber skidding on asphalt filters through the walls.

I try to move my limbs only to realize my hands are tied, so are my ankles in the same way a roasted pig is, only instead of an apple shoved into my mouth, it's a dirty rag.

A muffled voice drifts into my ears, the sound staticky yet clear enough for me to recognize that it's coming from a radio. It's not long before the broadcaster's voice reiterates the exact radio station, and when I recognize it, I know we're not only driving, but we're in the city.

These assholes put me in a trunk.

And as if my day can't get any worse, I wiggle my toes, only feeling the tight leather of the Louboutin on my left foot, my right missing.

I'd spent an entire week breaking in those pumps, and they'd finally gotten comfortable.

God, this shit sucked.

With a newfound sense of annoyance, I spit the rag out of my mouth, reach my tied hands up into my hair, and grab my barrette.

Not only was it made of gold with my initials carved in diamonds, but beneath the metallic clasp lay a space for a small Swiss knife.

It takes me a mere moment to maneuver my hands, pop open the blade, and cut through the rope before I do the same to the rope tying my ankles.

I hadn't even landed in New York, and this low-life shit was already dragging me down into it.

A wave of homesickness hits me right in the stomach. I missed Oxford.

There I wasn't dealing with wannabe criminals stooping so low as to drug me into submission. I was dealing with self-obsessed, back-stabbing narcissists.

They were all slimy and manipulative, my type of crazy.

These men were amateurs at best, and I'm proven right when I lift the bottom mat of the trunk, reach into the spare tire compartment, and pat my hand around the various tools, stopping when my hand comes in contact with a thick metal bar.

There's a reason my papá taught me about cars, and it had everything to do with learning how I could find weapons if I were ever trapped in one. The car jack is the most obvious one of them all.

Like I said, amateurs.

It's not long before the car comes to a halt, and then the familiar sound of footfall is heard.

I press my ear to the frame.

One, two, three.

Three men are approaching me, and if I remember correctly, two are identical blonds, and the other is a fat, nostrilled inept Shrek. All of which were easily double my size, but I had the element of surprise to my advantage.

"Ty uveren, chto ona pravil'naya?" A voice filters through the metal frame of the trunk, and it's times like this where I regret not knowing every language known to man. (Russian| You sure she's the right one?)

"On budet imet' nashi golovy, yesli ona ne." This voice is of another male, his voice fading into the back of my mind as the trunk is cranked over, and a sliver of light streams in, illuminating the space.

(Russian| he'll have our heads if she isn't)

My eyes burn as I push past the sting and adjust to the sight of three male crotches before me.

It's almost as pleasant as the utter confusion I hear in one of their voices. "ty che, blyad-" (Russian|What the fuck-)

I kick my foot out. The one still occupied by my high heel, and drive it into the first crotch I see.

It's one of the twins that goes down first, doubling over with a surprised choke. The millisecond of surprise on the other two gives me enough time to swing the crowbar in my hand blindly.

This time it's inept Shrek that goes down, clutching his crotch as he falls to the floor with a loud cry.

I'm left with one man who lunges for me. But I'm faster as I roll out of the trunk, kick off my heel, and turn towards the last man standing.

Not for long.

"If you're going to kidnap someone," I lurch forward and jam the crowbar into the place behind his knee until his large weight goes crashing onto the floor. The gravel is hot beneath my bare feet as I walk up to the man who's now forced on his knees before me. "At least have the decency to know your victim."

He sneers up at me, "Fuck yo-"

His skull doesn't crack when I hit him upside the head; he merely topples onto the ground, and when I bend down, hold my fingers against his neck, and feel the dull throb of his pulse, I frown at the crowbar in my hand.

That didn't kill him.

Disappointment washes down the adrenaline.

The years I'd spent away from this life were years I'd spent away from training, sharpening my skills, and strengthening my body.

Was I losing my touch?

Anxiety begins to take its deadly course as the knowledge of what this means settles. I'm vulnerable.

I wasn't at my best anymore.

Not when they'd been able to kidnap me in the first place, not when I couldn't do something as simple as kill a man with a crowbar and a good swing.

I've lost my touch. I'm... weaker -physically, that is. My mind is far too sharp to ever deviate from its course. But the fact of the matter is clear: I need to get the fuck out of here.

I wasn't someone who ever ran from a fight, but I also wasn't a complete dumbass who didn't know when to put their pride aside to survive.

And right now, if I wanted to survive, I needed to run.

I assess my surroundings before I make any move.

I'm on a driveway, a long one, on a property that spans acres of land, if not more. And if that's not a clear enough indication that I'm nowhere near the city, all that can be heard is the faint trickling of water. Everything else is still.

I spot a large fountain in the centre of the roundabout and take off towards it. I alllow myself to slump against the old stone once I slip into a crevice I know I won't be seen in as I look to the long path leading up to what I can imagine is a gate.

The intricate stone of the driveway is littered with overgrown grass, weeds, and plants, all growing through its crevices. Mature trees line the perimeter on either side of the long, lonely road, and the only hint of the gate I'm rewarded with is through the trees.

I begin to mentally calculate my chances of making it down the path successfully, and when I realize they're slim, I look for another way out.

I peek around the cement fountain littered in moss and overgrown vines to the monstrosity of a house, looming darkly against the summer sky.

The beast of a place is completely dark, with no signs of upkeep recent enough to be considered in this decade. It's all dead, aside from the ivy trickling up the exterior, swallowing the brick beneath.

The longer I look at it, the larger the structure becomes, surpassing the term mansion.

It was far too grand, its age far too ancient, and the wealth buried beneath the poison ivy far, far too imposing.

It was a fucking castle.

One that'd work as a perfect prison, and one that'd bore me to tears if I'd been locked away in it.

I realize my only chance at getting the fuck out of here is the long way down to the gate.

It's not long before I take off in a sprint, down the driveway that stretches agonizingly long. Seconds drift into minutes of sprinting at full speed before I've reached a point where I'm able to get a closer look at plotting my escape.

But the soft kiss I've briefly shared with freedom slaps me right across the face because if there's one thing that's been maintained, it's the fifteen-foot wrought iron gate.

Lined in what appears to be bulletproof steel and armed with not one, two, three, but four security cameras, all turned and pointed down at little old me.

A frustrated noise escapes from beneath my breath.

I was going to milk this excuse into never returning to New York for the rest of my life. That is, if I ever get out of this fucking place.

In a moment of extreme anger, I allow myself a moment to frankly lose my shit.

And by lose my shit, I mean jack the crow bar in my hand up at the first camera I see. It smashes into tiny little pieces while the crowbar drops back to the floor.

I pick it up and do the same to two more cameras before it gets trapped between the bars, stopping me from breaking the last one.