Luciano's Obsession

I used to think that if I closed my eyes long enough, I could escape the weight of the life I had no control over. The constant thrum of fear in my chest, the suffocating sense of helplessness that clung to me like a second skin. When you live in a house like mine, with walls that bear the weight of mistakes too numerous to count, there's no such thing as escape.

I woke up to the dull murmur of the city outside, the sounds of cars and distant voices filtering through the thin walls. The morning light creeps through the cracks in the blinds, bathing my small room in pale, indifferent sunlight. The coffee maker gurgles in the corner of the kitchen, and an alarm clock beeped beside my bed. I already know what time it is without looking at the clock.

The man I live with is still asleep. His loud, guttural snores echoed through the thin walls of the tiny apartment, slurring with the remnants of whatever drink he had last night.

I slip out of bed, my feet cold on the wooden floor. I glance toward the couch, where he's sprawled out, clutching an empty bottle. His snoring is punctuated by occasional grunts, a grotesque reminder of the chaos he's created for himself and me.

Dad, I think to myself bitterly. Always such a disappointment.

He's not always been like this-selfish, reckless, and always looking for a way to crawl out of the hole he's dug. He became this way when my mum died nine years ago, I was ten at the time but it still feels like yesterday.

I walk softly to the kitchen, making sure to avoid the creaky floorboards near the hall. I don't want to wake him up yet. He'll be on me soon enough, demanding things I can't give. The same things he's always demanded: money, favors, time-anything to cover up his mistakes.

I glance at the stack of overdue bills on the counter, and my stomach sinks. The same stack that's been there for months, untouched, collecting dust. Every time I see it, I feel the weight of it pressing down on my chest, I'm reminded of the life I never asked for.

"Aria," my father's voice calls out, breaking the silence of the morning. It's slurred, thick with sleep and alcohol. "Aria, get up. I need you."

I close my eyes, wishing I could ignore him or pretend I'm someone else, somewhere else.

I force myself to walk into the living room, where he's still lying sprawled on the couch. His eyes are barely open, his hair a tangled mess, and his clothes wrinkled from whatever late-night binge he had last night. The smell of alcohol hangs heavy in the air.

"Morning, Dad," I say, my voice sounding emptier than I mean it to.

"You got any money?" he asks, his tone flat and demanding. "I need you to pay some debts. I can't go another day without settling this."

His words hang in the air like an unwanted cloud. Every time he says something like that, it cuts me a little deeper. He doesn't care about me, he only cares about himself-about getting out of the mess he's made, no matter who he drags down with him.

"I don't have any more money," I reply, keeping my voice steady even though I can feel the tension building in my chest. "I told you, I'm working on what I can."

He grumbles, shifting on the couch, clearly irritated by my refusal. He looks at me through half-lidded eyes, a mixture of anger and desperation on his face. "What do you mean you don't have any? You're not telling me you've blown it all already, are you?"

I want to scream at him, tell him that it's not my fault he gambled away our lives, that it's not my fault I'm the one cleaning up his mess, but I don't. Instead, I swallow the bile rising in my throat and hold his gaze.

"I'm trying, Dad," I say, though the words feel hollow. "But I can't fix everything for you. You need to stop-"

"I need you to take care of it!" He cuts me off, his voice rising. He sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the couch. "Do you think I'm some charity case, Aria? Do you think I want to be in this position? This is on you too, you know. I gave you everything. I raised you, and now you can't even help me?"

His words stab at me, sharp and painful. It's always the same. His guilt trip and manipulation. I wanted to tell him that I didn't ask for his "help." I wanted to remind him that it was his choices that brought us here.

I take a deep breath and nod. "I'll see what I can do."

His eyes narrow, but he doesn't say anything else. I turn and walk away, fighting the urge to break down. How did I get here? How did I end up in this life? How did I become the one who carries all the weight while he gets to play the victim?

I glance at the clock. I don't have much time, I need to go to work, to make sure I bring in enough money to keep him off my back for another day, maybe another week or even a month.

It feels like it will never end. I'm trapped in this cycle of never having enough, never being enough.

I grab my coat from the back of the chair and make my way to the door but before I can open it, my father calls out again.

"Don't forget to pick up some cash from the bank," he says, his tone now condescending, as though it's an afterthought. "It's important."

I pause, gripping the doorknob so hard my knuckles turn white. I turned and picked up the check from the small wooden table beside the couch.

"I won't forget," I say, though I know he won't even remember asking me by the time I come back.

I step out, the weight of the day settling on my shoulders. I try not to think about how many more days like this I'll have to endure. How many more days until something breaks, until I finally find a way out of this hell.

I don't know if I'll ever get out. And that thought is the hardest.

I tugged my worn jacket tighter around me, feeling the fabric rough against my arms. My feet carried me automatically down the cracked pavement, past sagging houses and shuttered shops, toward the looming glass box of the bank downtown but halfway there, a familiar little house caught my eye - a burst of color in the gray neighborhood. Pale blue shutters, potted plants spilling over with bright flowers. Laura's house.

I slowed, my heart tugging in two directions. The clock in my head warned me that every second I wasted would only add fuel to my father's rage but a deeper, more desperate voice whispered that I needed this - even if just for a moment.

I turned down the short walkway, my sneakers scuffing against the broken stones. The porch creaked under my weight as I knocked, a soft tap that sounded louder in the heavy, still afternoon.

A moment later, the door swung open and there she was - Laura Morano, my childhood best friend. Her messy blonde hair was twisted into a lopsided bun, and her T-shirt was smudged with flour, like she'd been baking again.

"Aria!" Her face lit up like sunshine breaking through storm clouds. "God, it's been days! Come in, come in!"

For a second, just standing there in front of her, I felt the tight knot in my chest loosen. I smiled - a real, unforced smile - and stepped inside.

The familiar scent of cinnamon and vanilla wrapped around me like a hug. Laura's kitchen was warm, cluttered, alive. A sharp contrast to the suffocating silence of my father's house.

"Sit," she said, dragging me toward the worn kitchen table littered with half-finished crossword puzzles and coffee mugs. "I just made banana bread. You look like you could use a whole loaf."

I sank into the chair, my body aching with invisible bruises. Laura bustled around, slicing bread, pouring lemonade, talking a mile a minute. Her chatter was a balm - pulling me out of the dark thoughts that clung like cobwebs.

It wasn't until she sat across from me, her keen green eyes studying my face, that the silence settled between us.

"What's wrong?" she asked quietly.

I stared at the table, tracing a crack in the wood with my fingertip. The words fought in my throat, shame and anger twining together, but Laura knew me too well.

"It's your dad, isn't it?" she said softly.

A bitter laugh escaped me before I could stop it. "Who else?"

Laura reached out and squeezed my hand. Her touch was warm, steady. "What happened this time?"

I swallowed hard. The humiliation burned hotter than ever. "He... he gambled away almost everything again. He's been drinking, making deals with people he shouldn't. And today, he sent me to cash this." I lifted the crumpled check slightly. "Probably his last hope before someone breaks down our door looking for him."

Laura's face tightened with concern. She didn't ask why I still stayed - she knew. He's the only family I have left.

"I'm so tired, Laura," I whispered, my voice cracking. "Tired of always cleaning up his messes, tired of feeling like I'm the only one holding this sinking ship together."

Tears pricked the back of my eyes, but I blinked them away fiercely. Crying wouldn't change anything. It has never changed anything.

Laura squeezed my hand tighter. "I hate what he's done to you," she said fiercely. "You deserve so much better, Aria. You're not his pawn, neither are you his shield. You have your own life to live."

I wished I could believe that the dream of freedom didn't feel so far away, like a shoreline glimpsed through endless storms.

"I can't just leave," I said hollowly. "He has no one else. And if I don't help him, who will?"

Laura's eyes softened with sadness - not pity, but understanding.

"You're stronger than you think," she said quietly. "One day, you're going to get out of that house, Aria. You're going to have the life you deserve, not because someone hands it to you but because you fought for it."

Her words settled in my chest like a tiny spark, struggling against the cold.

I gave her a watery smile. "Thanks, Laura. I... I needed to hear that today."

We sat there for a few more precious minutes, nibbling at banana bread, pretending the world outside didn't exist. Laura went about her business, making beautiful dresses. I've always admired her skill, she's a really good fashion designer and I hope one day, she gets the recognition she deserves.

I let myself relax for the first time in what felt like days, soaking in the warmth of friendship like a flower turned toward the sun until reality came crashing back in, swift and brutal, as I glanced at the clock on the wall.

Terror seized my gut.

Shit. I'm late.

I jumped up, nearly knocking over my chair. "I have to go. If he's waiting..."

Laura stood too, worry lining her face. "Be careful, okay? Call me if you need anything. Anything at all."

I nodded, too choked up to speak. She hugged me tightly, and for a moment, I clung to her like a drowning woman to a lifeline.

Then I pulled away, shoving the check deeper into my pocket, and ran down the porch steps, down the cracked walkway, back into the heavy, oppressive heat of the day.

Every step felt heavier, dread pooling in my stomach. I could already imagine the anger waiting for me at home. The accusations, the fists banging on tables, and the way he would make me feel like the villain in his endless tragedy.

In the midst of all the thoughts, I could still hear Laura's words.

"One day, you're going to have the life you deserve."

I don't know how or when, but for the first time in a long time, I was hopeful.

There was blood on my cuff again.

I stared at the tiny speck of crimson blooming against the pristine white of my shirt, as if the fabric itself had rebelled against me. Annoyed, I flicked my wrist, inspecting the damage. It would need to be burned. Alessandro would complain, as he always does, about my expensive taste and my apparent disregard for it.

The body slumped against the chair across from me let out a final, pitiful wheeze before collapsing entirely. His head lolled to the side, eyes wide and vacant, mouth frozen mid-plea.

Pathetic.

I rose from my seat, careful to avoid stepping in the pool of blood beginning to seep across the concrete floor. The warehouse stank of sweat, metal, and fear - the same cocktail of scents that has clung to me since I was old enough to understand what power truly meant.

"You didn't have to kill him," Alessandro said from the doorway, arms folded, his dark brows knitted in disapproval.

I pulled a cigarette from the silver case in my pocket, lighting it with a flick of my lighter. The smoke curled around me, a slow, lazy exhale.

"He broke his word," I said simply, as if that explained everything.

Alessandro sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "There were other ways."

"There are always other ways," I agreed, rolling the cigarette between my fingers. "But this one sends a clearer message."

In our world, clarity was everything.

He didn't argue further, he knew better.

Instead, he watched silently as I shrugged off my blood-spattered jacket and handed it to one of the waiting men.

"Burn it," I instructed without looking at him. "And the body."

"Yes, sir."

The man scurried off, leaving me and Alessandro alone with the thick silence.

I turned toward the windows. The city lay beyond - sprawling, glittering, full of secrets.

My city.

My kingdom.

I've been in control of this city ever since my father stepped down.

Power, control and legacy.

These were the pillars of my existence. The things I have been bred for. But lately, there was something else. Something softer and more dangerous.

Aria Moretti.

The ghost of Aria's face floated behind my closed eyelids - soft, sweet, unaware of the chaos she had ignited inside me.

I still remember the first time I saw her - six months ago, at a club. The most beautiful girl I've ever seen. She looked like she didn't belong there, but tried to fit into the loud music and chattering.

She was wearing a pale blue dress that clung modestly to her curves, her hair a simple river of brown, cascading down her back. No jewelries or flashy makeup, just purity and innocence.

I had watched her from across the room, unable - unwilling - to look away.

While everyone else melted into a blur, she had stood out like a candle in a dark cathedral.

That day something inside me shifted.

A want, no - a need. Bone-deep and unshakable.

Aria.

Her name tasted like sin in my mouth.

I have spent the last months observing her. She was tucked away in the crumbling part of the city, living a miserable life under the thumb of a drunken fool who called himself her father.

She doesn't know I exist yet. But soon, she will be mine whether she likes it or not.

Alessandro's voice broke through my reverie.

"You're thinking about her again."

It wasn't a question.

I glanced over my shoulder at him, inhaling deeply from my cigarette.

"She's different."

"She's dangerous." Alessandro countered.

I chuckled lowly. "She's a slip of a girl, trapped in a miserable life. What's dangerous about that?"

"You," he said pointedly. "You're dangerous when you're reckless. And obsession makes men reckless, Luciano."

I flicked ash onto the concrete, studying the ember with lazy fascination.

"I'm never reckless," I said smoothly.

Alessandro raised an eyebrow. "No? You killed a man tonight for speaking out of turn. You're planning God knows what to drag a girl you barely know into our world."

"I know enough," I said, my voice sharp enough to cut.

He stared at me for a long beat, then sighed again -the heavy, resigned sound of a man who knew arguing was useless.

"What's the plan?" he asked eventually.

I crushed the cigarette under my boot, savoring the final hiss as the ember died.

"I'll make her an offer," I said, voice low and deliberate. "One she can't refuse."

"And if she does?"

I smiled, slow and cold.

"She won't."

Because people like Aria don't have choices, not in a world ruled by men like me.

Alessandro muttered something under his breath in Italian - a prayer, maybe, or a curse.

I strode past him without looking back, my mind already whirring with possibilities.

Soon, the life she knows would end and she'll be by my side even if I have to burn the world to make it so.

*****

The casino thrummed with life - velvet curtains draped the walls, the low hum of conversation wrapped around the clink of glasses, and the spinning roulette wheels sang like sirens. It was just another night in my empire. Another night pretending to be entertained by fools throwing away their fortunes for fleeting thrills.

I stood at the upper balcony, overlooking the chaos, a glass of whiskey untouched in my hand. Alessandro lingered a few paces behind me, his arms crossed, ever the silent watchdog.

Movement by the entrance caught my eye. I stiffened, glass halfway to my lips.

Vicenzo Moretti.

Aria's pathetic excuse of a father stumbled through the doors, reeking of desperation even from this distance. His shirt was wrinkled, hair mussed, and his eyes - greedy, hungry, and reckless - darted around the room, already calculating how fast he could lose whatever pitiful cash he'd scrounged together.

I smiled coldly.

Fate has just dealt me an unexpected gift.

Alessandro noticed the shift in my posture and stepped forward.

"Problem?" he asked slowly.

I shook my head, setting the glass down on the polished oak railing.

"No, Ale. Opportunity."

He followed my gaze, immediately catching sight of Vicenzo at the blackjack table, already waving a few bills arrogantly at the dealer.

"You know who that is," Alessandro said, a statement, not a question.

"I do," I murmured, voice tight with satisfaction. "Aria's father."

Alessandro tensed.

"Luciano... whatever you're thinking, be careful. This obsession-"

I turned to him with a sharp and humorless smile. "I'm always careful. Besides..." I looked back down at Vicenzo fumbling with his chips, sweat already beading at his temple. "He just walked into my den willingly. I'd be a fool not to seize the moment."

Without waiting for Alessandro's protest, I descended the sweeping staircase.

The crowd parted instinctively - the weight of my name, my presence, enough to silence the air around me. I approached Vicenzo slowly, savoring the way he looked up and immediately went still, sensing - even in his drunken stupor - that I wasn't just another patron.

"Care for a real game?" I asked casually, sliding into the seat across from him.

Vicenzo blinked, confused.

"And who the hell are you?"

The dealer froze mid-shuffle. A few nearby players stiffened. I let the insult slide, my expression unbothered.

"Someone who can make or break your night." I leaned forward slightly, voice dropping. "High stakes. One-on-one. Unless you're afraid."

Vicenzo's pride - what little he had - bristled at the challenge. Exactly as I intended.

He barked a laugh, trying to puff himself up. "Afraid? Of you?"

I smiled thinly. "Prove it."

Within minutes, we were dealt in. Poker - a fitting game for the lies and bluffs about to unfold.

The first few rounds were easy. I let him win small hands deliberately, feeding his ego, watching greed bloom in his bloodshot eyes.

He bet bigger. I matched him effortlessly, casually throwing in chips worth more than his monthly earnings. Sweat rolled down his temple. His hands shook as he reached for his whiskey, gulping it down too fast.

And then - when the pot was obscenely large - I struck.

A perfect hand. Impossible to beat.

He didn't know it yet, but his fate was sealed.

He pushed the last of his money into the pot with trembling fingers, a cocky grin plastered sloppily across his face.

"Show me your cards, amico," I drawled lazily.

Vicenzo slammed his cards down with a flourish, revealing a full house. He leaned back, smirking until I revealed mine.

Four of a kind.

The color drained from his face. The smirk shattered.

The dealer silently pushed the mountain of chips toward me. The spectators, sensing the impending disaster, discreetly drifted away.

"You owe me," I said softly, each word deliberate.

Vicenzo gaped at the empty space where his money had been.

"I-I don't have that kind of cash-"

I leaned closer, my voice a blade cloaked in velvet.

"Then we'll arrange something else."

His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. I rose to my feet, smoothing the lapels of my tailored jacket.

"Come to my office," I said, my tone brooking no argument. "We'll discuss your options."

Behind me, Alessandro sighed heavily, already knowing what I was planning even if he didn't approve. But I don't care.

Tonight, I just snared the key to unlocking what I want, and I will stop at nothing until she's mine.

The heavy clang of the door echoed through the cramped house as I stepped inside, heart hammering against my ribs. My shoes scraped against the worn floorboards, and for a moment, I stood still, almost afraid to breathe. The silence in the house was thick, unnerving - like the calm before a violent storm.

"Aria!" my father's slurred voice tore through the silence, sharp and demanding.

I flinched, shutting the door quietly behind me before making my way toward the living room. The air was thick with the smell of stale whiskey and cigar smoke. I found him sprawled across the couch, a half-empty bottle swinging from his loose grip, his eyes bloodshot and glassy.

He was waiting for me.

"Did you get the money?" he barked, not even bothering to greet me.

I stiffened, reaching into my worn-out bag and tossing the envelope onto the scratched coffee table. He grabbed it with greedy hands, barely glancing at me.

It should have ended there. I should have just turned around and retreated to my room, but something was wrong. There was a gnawing tension in my gut, an instinct that told me the worst was still lurking.

"I had to stop by Laura's," I said, hoping to soften the atmosphere. "She was worried. I haven't seen her in days."

He grunted, stuffing the cash into his pocket. "Tell that nosy bitch to mind her own business."

I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek to keep from snapping at him. Fighting was pointless. My anger never changed anything.

Instead, I quietly started picking up the empty beer cans scattered around the room. It was a pathetic attempt to find normalcy in the chaos that was my life.

Then, he spoke. "I might've... had a little bad luck at the casino," he muttered, almost too casually.

I froze, a crushed can crumpling further in my fist. Slowly, I straightened and turned to look at him, heart pounding in my ears.

"What do you mean?" I asked, voice low and shaking.

He avoided my eyes, focusing on lighting a cigarette with shaking hands. "Owed a little more than I can cover..." he coughed, waving the smoke from his face. "But it's fine. I'll figure it out."

My stomach dropped. Ice spread through my veins.

"How much, Dad?" I whispered.

He shrugged, but his twitching mouth gave him away. "Couple hundred grand."

I stumbled back as if he had struck me. "A couple hundred-!"

"You don't understand how it works," he cut me off sharply, his words slurred and defensive. "I was on a winning streak. I was sure I'd double it. I just... had a bad run."

I pressed a trembling hand to my mouth, trying to process the sheer stupidity of it.

"Who?" I rasped. "Who do you owe?"

He hesitated, and then muttered under his breath, "Luciano De Rossi."

The world seemed to tilt.

I grabbed the edge of the table to steady myself. My legs barely held me up.

Luciano De Rossi.

That name alone was enough to send terror slicing through me. I've never met him, but I've heard stories whispered in the dark, he's a man more myth than mortal, carved from stone and sin, with a reputation so brutal that even the toughest men trembled at his feet.

Luciano De Rossi doesn't give second chances or forgive debts. He takes payment in blood or flesh - whichever comes easier.

And my father... my stupid, reckless father has tied our lives to that monster.

"You don't get it, Dad," I gasped, fighting the rising hysteria. "You can't just walk away from someone like him! He's not going to forget about this. He's not going to let it go!"

He waved me off with a drunken laugh. "I got it under control, princess. Don't you worry your pretty little head about it."

I felt like screaming. Like shaking him until he saw what he had done. But I knew he wouldn't listen, he never listens to me.

Tears stung my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. I turned away, grabbing my coat from the back of the chair. I need to get out, I need air.

I rushed through the night streets, barely noticing the way the cold bit at my skin. Laura's house came into view, warm light spilling from the windows like a beacon in the darkness.

I pounded on the door, and it flew open almost immediately.

"Aria?" Laura gasped, taking one look at me before pulling me inside. "What happened?"

I collapsed onto her worn sofa, shaking uncontrollably.

"My father..." I choked. "He owes money. A lot of money. To... to Luciano De Rossi."

Laura's face paled. She sat beside me, wrapping her arms around my shoulders.

"Oh my God, Aria..." she whispered. "That's bad. That's really, really bad."

"I know," I croaked, pressing my face into her shoulder.

We sat like that for a long time, Laura rocking me gently like a child.

"You're strong," she murmured eventually. "You're going to get through this. I don't know how, but you will. I believe in you."

I wanted to believe her.

I really did.

But as I sat there, trembling in Laura's arms, one chilling thought kept repeating in my mind:

There was no getting out this time. The devil himself will come for us, and there will be no escape.

*****

Seven hundred thousand dollars.

I repeated the number over and over in my mind like a broken mantra, hoping that the repetition would somehow dull the horror of it. The amount made the weight on my chest heavier. I had no idea how I was still breathing beneath it.

The days blurred together after I found out. Morning, night - it didn't matter. I worked, walked, begged, counted coins and calculated false hopes.

I picked up extra shifts at the diner, waited tables until my feet went numb, and my back screamed. The regulars stopped commenting on how pale I looked. The manager started glancing at me with concern, asking gently if I needed a break. I told him I was fine - always fine - even though my hands trembled whenever I held a tray, and my stomach has not known the meaning of a proper meal in days.

During the day, I cleaned apartments for elderly tenants in our neighborhood. They paid little, but it was something. I cleaned like my life depended on it - because it did. I scrubbed and mopped and wiped away other people's dirt while my own world was rotting around me.

At night, I scoured the apartment for anything worth selling. Jewelry I haven't worn in years, old electronics, handbags. I listed them all online or took them to pawn shops. I stood there while some greasy-haired man offered me $20 for a necklace that belonged to my mother. I almost hit him, but in the end, I took the money and walked out with my pride bleeding down my spine.

Laura came by every day. She brought food I didn't eat and words I didn't believe.

"I scraped some money together," she said one night, handing me a wad of crumpled bills. "It's not much, but-"

I took it without a word. I hated myself for needing her help and dragging her into this mess. But more than anything, I hated that she was doing more for me than my own father.

My father.

He was still gambling, drinking, and talking like he had a plan.

"I just need one win, Aria," he said, his voice thick with false confidence. "One win, and I'll fix everything."

I looked at him that night, really looked at him - at his sunken eyes, stained teeth, and the way his fingers shook as he clutched another drink - and I realized something that made my stomach turn:

He wasn't scared like I was or like he should be.

He thought the universe owed him a miracle. He thought luck was a woman who'd eventually crawl back to him. He didn't understand that we were drowning and that he has tied weights to both our ankles.

"You're going to get us both killed," I snapped at him. "Do you even care?"

He just waved me off, muttering something about destiny and chances. I didn't even argue anymore. What was the point?

That night, I curled up on the floor of my room - I couldn't bear to lie in the bed I used to share with my mother when I was younger. Her presence was gone now, faded like dust on an untouched shelf. Sometimes, I imagined what she'd say if she were still alive.

She wouldn't have let it get this far. She would've protected me.

Tears stung my eyes, but I didn't wipe them away. I let them fall, one after another, until my vision blurred and my chest ached. My mother died a horrible death, she never got justice. The people responsible for her death are probably still walking freely and living their lives while I live in pain daily.

Seven hundred thousand dollars, and all I've managed to scrape together was less than four thousand. Four thousand, after bleeding myself dry, and selling pieces of myself.

It was hopeless. But, every morning, I woke up and tried again because I was still breathing. I didn't know what else to do, fear had a grip on my soul so tight, it has become my only fuel.

Luciano De Rossi doesn't just come for the debtor, he came for everything they loved. And I'm all my father has left.