Page 12 of Endless Obsession

I need a fucking drink.

There’s a bottle of Belvedere in the nearest cabinet, and I pull it out, grabbing the first mug I see, and pour a healthy slug of it. Normally, I’d be a little more classy about it, even in my own home—get out a proper glass, pour a drink, and sit and sip it. But after the day I’ve had, I don’t fucking care. I gulp it like water, pour a second slug, and gulp that too. And then I drop the mug into the sink hard enough to chip it, and stride upstairs to the bathroom for a second hot shower. I’m still finding blood in the crevices of my fingers, exactly as I knew I would. Some of it is probably from that man a week ago—some of it is from yet another man I was asked to take apart earlier today. Nothing to do with my own sins, this time. Just someone else who crossed my father, and had to pay.

There was a time when the violence felt like an outlet. Now, it feels exhausting. Pointless. And at barely thirty, I know I’m too young to feel such a bone-deep exhaustion with the cruelties of life.

I stand under the hot spray for a long time, hands braced against the tile, letting it run through my hair and down my back, over my muscles that are still wound tighter than a spring. Even the heat and steam can’t help me unwind after the day I’ve had. I need something better. But it’s too late in the evening to go out into the city to find a better distraction, and I want my bed. I’m fucking exhausted.

I turn off the shower, getting out and roughly drying myself off, walking naked into the dark bedroom and flopping down onto the bed. I close my eyes, feeling the pull of sleep already overtaking me, holding off just long enough for me to fumble for a blanket before I’m out like a light.

But sleep, for me, is rarely peaceful. And tonight is no different.

I’m back in the warehouse, the metal structure hot and stinking, but this time, it’s me hanging from the chains, me with those hot iron manacles wrapped around my wrists, my bare toes barely brushing the concrete underneath me. My skin bared to the blade in Lev—my brother’s hand, his smile wicked as he approaches me, a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.

He’s wanted this. Waited for me to fuck up. Thought about the day when he could do to me what he’s always wanted to. What my other brothers want to do.

The tip of the knife digs in. “It’s going to be slow,” he murmurs. “I’m as good at this as you are, Ivan. I just never wanted you to know?—”

The pain deepens in the dream, sharp and hot, and I wake with a jolt, sitting upright in bed. My palms are throbbing, and I realize where the bite of pain came from, that my hands were clenched so hard that even my short nails had dug deeply into my palms. I shake them out, dragging in a deep, shaky breath as I sit there in the dark, trying to regain my composure.

Cold sweat is prickling over my skin. I need a diversion. I need to take the edge off. Something better than just picking up a girl in a bar.

I reach for my phone on impulse, hitting the last text I sent, to one of my close friends. Leo is a good friend who has no direct ties to the mafia or Bratva or any other underworld group that I know of—he’s just wealthy as shit, through a combination of being born lucky and making good investments after he came into his trust fund. I hang out with him fairly often, along with a couple other friends, and he’s always good to get into trouble with.

Especially the kind of trouble I’m in the mood for right now.

Ivan: Let’s go out tomorrow night. Masquerade. I need to blow off some steam.

I toss the phone onto the bed next to me, laying back against the pillows. My heart rate and breathing have returned to normal, but I’m a long way from getting back to sleep. That nightmare is far too close to being a real possibility, and fear churns in my gut, reminding me of what a precarious position I’ve put myself in.

The kind of things I’ve done, things like what I did to that man today, will pale in comparison to what my family will do to me if I get caught.

My phone buzzes, and I reach for it, squinting as I hold it up.

Leo: Masquerade? Hell yeah. I’m in. I’ll text Jonas and Brad, see if they want to go, too.

I text back a quick sounds great, and then toss my phone down again, closing my eyes. I only got a couple hours of sleep before the nightmare woke me up. At this rate, I’ll be lucky if I manage a couple more. And I need to be better rested than that.

If I’m going to survive this, I need to be on top of my game.

—

I get to Masquerade, one of the best-kept secrets in Chicago, at ten p.m. the next night. I drove myself, glad for a chance to get my Mustang out of the garage, and I pull it up to the valet, giving the man standing there a pointed look as I hand him the keys. He’s really more of a boy, probably nineteen at the most, and he’s looking at the sleek black car with an expression close to worship.

“Don’t fucking scratch it,” I tell him, and go to join Leo and the other guys.

Leo is on his phone, talking rapidly to someone. Jonas is leaning up against the wall smoking a cigarette, and Brad looks impatient to get inside. I don’t blame him. The kind of pleasures that Masquerade offers are enticing, and I’m looking forward to the night, too.

“Ready, boys?” I ask with a grin, and Jonas stubs out his cigarette as Leo holds up a finger, letting me know that he needs another minute on the call. We wait impatiently as he finishes up, turning his cell phone off. We’ll have to surrender our electronics as soon as we get inside—one of the many rules of the club.

I turn to the smooth wall, a small steel box next to an almost invisible seam in it. I slip a key out of my pocket, turning it in the keyhole on the front of the box, and it pops open, revealing a number pad. Quickly, I tap out the passcode, and there’s a slight rumbling sound as the wall parts, rolling back to allow us to walk in.

I pay an insane amount of money to be able to hold onto that key, to have the passcode, to be allowed the privilege of bringing guests here—each of which has to pay their own monthly dues to be allowed inside. Masquerade is an exclusive club, one that makes men pay dearly for their memberships. Women are allowed in much more freely, and less expensively, but Masquerade is owned by a woman—the wealthy widow of one of Chicago’s former top mob bosses, if rumor is to be believed—and she ensures that only men who won’t take undue advantages of the club’s privileges are allowed to enter.

There are plenty of men who take issue with that, but I enjoy the exclusivity. I also appreciate the knowledge that every man inside the club is someone who knows how to behave like a gentleman.

Once inside, the door rolls closed behind us, leaving us in the dimly lit, smoky-scented entryway. The floor and walls are dark wood, with a thick wine-red runner leading to the stairs that go down to the door on the far wall. To my right are two wing chairs, a low velvet bench, and a small table for anyone waiting, and to my left is a long wooden desk, similar to the check-in desk at a hotel.

A beautiful woman in a crisp black skirt suit, her blonde hair pulled back in an elegant updo, is standing behind it. She smiles pleasantly at me, her makeup impeccable, her red lipstick perfectly applied.