His Darkest Obsession

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.