Page 1 of His Savage Obsession

1

ENZO

Gallagher. Any time someone utters the name, they spit, as if the very syllables carry a bitter taste. It doesn’t matter if we’re standing in our cramped kitchen, the scent of stale coffee lingering in the air, or on the bustling floor of a glitzy casino, the lights flashing and the sounds of laughter mingling with the clinking of chips. A Gallagher is synonymous with filth, a stain on the fabric of our community's reputation.

So why do I yearn for Autumn Gallagher so desperately? A wild-eyed redhead whose smile could light up an entire room, casting a warm glow that could melt the coldest of hearts. She is tight and taut in all the right places, curvy and voluptuous in all the others—an alluring contradiction that draws every gaze. I know men in the organization who would love nothing more than to see her strung up by her ankles and beaten within an inch of her life, not for any transgressions she has committed, but simply because of the name she bears. Autumn has never done a cruel thing in her life; her essence is untouched by the darkness that envelops her family.

She is the most innocent of all the Gallaghers. The rest of them are like ravenous dogs, prowling for blood, but she is an angel who glides silently above their chaos. They are dangerous murderers, calloused and ruthless, yet she’s never hurt a fly, her spirit too pure to entertain violence. The family would undoubtedly question how I can be so certain of her character, but I know exactly how anyone else comes to understand the truth of things. I watch, and I watch intently. Specifically, I watch her, every fleeting moment, all the time, captivated by the light she brings to a world so full of darkness.

When duty doesn't call, I follow Autumn, an irresistible pull drawing me into her orbit. I watch her as she navigates the vibrant streets of Las Vegas, a canvas of neon lights and restless energy. By day, she immerses herself in college classes, diligently pursuing her degree in Hospitality Management, a field that suits her bright, welcoming nature. I’ve seen her skip science labs, opting instead for lively lunches with her girlfriends, their laughter ringing out like music against the backdrop of the bustling city. I've witnessed them slip cash to unsuspecting men on the Strip, their laughter mixing with the clinking of ice in foot-long margaritas. They stroll through the sun-drenched sidewalks, giggling and sharing secrets, expertly dodging the watchful eyes of police officers to avoid the repercussions of underage drinking. Autumn is cautious, aware of her limits, yet I know she has poured her friends into an Uber more than once, ensuring they all make it home safely. She is a good friend, fiercely loyal and protective of those she loves.

I can’t pinpoint the exact moment my obsession with her began. Was it the day I first caught sight of her, slipping into a club at the tender age of sixteen, her spirit uncontainable? I remember how I confronted a man in the bathroom who thought he could take advantage of her innocence—I beat the hell out of him,fueled by a primal instinct to protect what felt precious. Perhaps it was her eighteenth birthday that sealed my fate. She and her friends, emboldened by fake IDs, danced through the Bellagio, their spirits high as they reveled in the thrill of gambling. The Bianchi family, notorious for their iron grip on the city, kindly let them off with a warning, but not before issuing a stark threat to her brother, a grim reminder of the lengths they would go to protect their own. They would never lay a hand on a woman, but a woman’s closest male relative was fair game.

After that fateful day, I found myself watching her with renewed intensity, as if I were a moth drawn to the flame of her vibrant existence. I yearned to breathe her air, to be enveloped in the sweet scent of her floral perfume that lingered in the air like an intoxicating spell. I craved the sound of her laughter, a melody that could light up the darkest corners of my world. Nothing about Autumn could ever be deemed uninteresting; she was a beacon of life, and I was hopelessly captivated by her light.

Last year, her father indulged her with an absurdly large single-family home for her twentieth birthday—a lavish gift that seemed almost extravagant in its scale. With four spacious bedrooms and three gleaming baths, it was the kind of sprawling abode that a family with two kids might consider their dream sanctuary. But Autumn, in her vibrant and spirited way, transformed it into the ultimate venue for unforgettable gatherings. The parties she hosted were nothing short of legendary, drawing friends and acquaintances from all corners and leaving behind a trail of laughter and echoes of joyous memories.

In a bid to remain close to her, I made the significant decision to purchase a home directly across the street. It was an expensive venture, but I deemed it a necessary investment to keep awatchful eye on her life as it unfolded. I could have opted for a security system to be installed in her house, but I quickly realized that circumventing the one her father had already set up would be a daunting challenge. The thought crossed my mind to send her an anonymous note, a gentle warning about her dad’s watchful eye in the sky, but I hesitated. What if that small act of concern led to a confrontation that pushed Autumn away? The mere idea of losing her was a risk I couldn't afford to take.

So instead, I spent several hundreds of thousands of dollars and settled into my new home next door, hoping it would give me the proximity I desired. The Bianchi brothers, my trusted friends, raised their eyebrows at my choice, suggesting I was a bit too far from the bustling heart of main Vegas, but they respected my decision and refrained from prying too deeply. On the day I moved in, sweet, cordial Autumn surprised me with a plate of her homemade cookies, a warm gesture that melted away any lingering tension. She introduced herself with a bright smile, but the moment she uttered her name—Autumn Gallagher—one of my brothers, caught off guard, spat on the floor in shock. The suddenness of it left her looking abruptly taken aback, eyes wide with surprise and confusion.

In a hurried attempt to smooth over the awkwardness, I quickly explained, "He has a tick," gesturing toward my brother, who was too busy muttering curse words in Italian under his breath to pay attention. "And he's going to clean that up." With a reluctant sigh, he complied, but the moment lingered in the air, a testament to the unpredictability of new beginnings.

For eight long months, I have lived next door to Autumn Gallagher—a family rival, the obsession of my life. Caught between love and loyalty, desire and duty, my heart feels like a pendulum, swinging in conflicting directions.

Tonight, I find myself watching Autumn through my bedroom window, the glow of all my downstairs lights spilling warmth into the dimness of my room. Up here, it’s cloaked in shadows, a perfect concealment that allows me to observe her without being seen. Even if she were to chance a fleeting glance in my direction, she wouldn’t be able to spot me nestled in the darkness. I can't help but wonder, not for the first time, if she ever thinks about me at all. What do the Gallagher family whisper to her about the Bianchis? Does she look at me and see only an enemy, a reflection of everything her family despises? Or does she even remember who I am amidst the chaos of our families' rivalry?

There is no party tonight, a stark contrast to the usual revelry that fills the cul-de-sac with the thumping beats of her high-end speakers. Instead, the evening is silent, save for the occasional rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze. Anyone looking her way is treated to an unexpected glimpse into her world. Autumn moves gracefully around her home in a tiny little robe, every curtain thrown wide open as if daring the night to intrude. She has her phone pressed to her ear, and every few moments, her laughter rings out, bright and unrestrained, echoing in the stillness. I wish, desperately, that I could hear the words that prompt such joy. But even without the dialogue, Autumn is a sight for sore eyes, a vision that captivates me entirely.

As always, I find myself making a vow—one day, she will be mine. I will be the one to sew up the feud between the Gallaghers and the Bianchis. I will bridge the chasm that divides our families, bringing them together and mending the fences that have stood for far too long. The reasons for our animosity are vague to me, obscured by years of enmity, but I hold onto the hope that when she and I get married, that will be the end ofit all; a new beginning forged from the ashes of our families' histories.

In a subsequent moment, the thought of our union ignites a fire within me. I grip myself with urgency as I watch Autumn gracefully transition from room to room, her presence a magnetic force that draws my gaze. With a firm eye fixated on her luscious legs, I handle myself with a fervor akin to a pump-action shotgun, a primal instinct coursing through my veins. It doesn't take long before I find myself filling my hand, whispering her name like a mantra, a desperate plea for connection.

Like a light switch flicked on, Autumn's head suddenly turns in my direction. I know there’s no way she could have heard my murmurs, but instinctively, I step back into the comforting darkness of my room, veiling myself in the shadows that cloak my longing. A grim look settles on her face as she stares directly at my bedroom window, a moment of tension crackling in the air. I hastily grab a tissue, cleaning myself off with an urgency that only amplifies my desire. When I finally return to the window, her lights have been extinguished, and the sound of her garage door opening echoes through the quiet night.

With a heavy sigh, I grab my phone, tracking her departure. Her car appears as a blinking blue dot on the sprawling map of Las Vegas, a beacon drawing me towards her. She drives toward the strip, and I contemplate the idea of following her, a reckless thought flitting through my mind. It’s been a long day, but for Autumn, I would carve out time. She could easily find herself in a world of trouble on the strip; she could undoubtedly use my help to navigate the chaos.

I know I should let her be for tonight, but the thought of her getting hurt while I could have been there to protect her gnaws at my conscience, a weight I cannot bear.

Autumn is everything to me, the very essence of my being. She may not fully grasp it yet, but she is the air I breathe, the reason I wake each day. The man I have become is entirely because of her influence, her light guiding me. Every day, I strive to be better and stronger for her, to be the protector she deserves. Though she is young, I have faith that she will understand this truth one day soon, and it will bind us together in ways we have yet to imagine.

2

AUTUMN

I'm no fool. Someone's had their eye on me ever since the day I was born, and I can feel it like a shadow lingering just out of sight.

My nannies were the worst, a trio of women who seemed more interested in their own escapades than in caring for me. In between their trysts with my father, they made it a point to report back on my supposed comportment issues, which they exaggerated for their own amusement. "Autumn doesn't know her salad fork from her dinner fork," they'd whisper, snickering behind their hands. "Autumn keeps mixing up M and N when she's writing," they'd say, as if that was the gravest of sins. It was all so ridiculous, really. Yet, the moment I accidentally stabbed one of them with a pencil—a petty act of frustration—they vanished without a trace, whisked away in the back of a black van that seemed to materialize out of thin air. I never saw her again. It was just a pencil in the hand, a fleeting moment of chaos that led to her disappearance. I overheard a few of the maids muttering in hushed tones about how she was paid off and sent overseas to escape the fallout, but I was only ten at the time;what did I care about the fate of a woman who had never treated me with kindness?

After that incident, my dad took it upon himself to hire bodyguards to watch over me. These weren't just any guards; they were big, hulking men, their muscles bulging beneath their tailored suits, who stood like immovable statues in the hallways of our home. They didn’t flinch or wither under the gaze of a ten-year-old girl who was still trying to figure out the complexities of her own world. I never thought my stare was particularly frightening, but apparently, the nannies he was diddling on the side found it intimidating enough to warrant such heavy protection.

Sean Gallagher, my father, had a name to uphold, a legacy to maintain. The best way to do that, in his mind, was to ensure that his progeny were nothing short of perfect. This included my older brother, Liam, who wore the family name like a badge of honor, a shining emblem of the Gallagher legacy. He was groomed from the moment he drew his first breath to take over the vast Gallagher empire. With every stride he took, he seemed like a walking billboard for the family, embodying all the values and expectations that accompanied our surname. If you stood Sean and Liam side by side, you’d swear they were twins, the similarities striking except for the salt-and-pepper flecks in my dad's hair and the distinct receding hairline that spoke of his years. It would be kind of cute if I didn’t feel an underlying dread that Liam would dutifully do right by our father and have me shadowed for the entirety of my existence.

I can't shake the feeling that there will come a day when Dad hands over the rights to the cameras in our home to Liam. He'll frame it as a necessary precaution, telling his son that it’s vital to keep an eye on me because I’m a handful and need tobe monitored for my own protection. There’s no telling what wild antics I might get up to if I’m left unattended. Knowing the twisted obsession they share over my life, I can easily picture them sitting together, watching the footage in some kind of grotesque viewing party, a bizarre circle jerk of voyeurism, indulging in the sight of me wandering around in a robe, engaging in animated discussions about the finer points of table setting with my college classmates.

But they aren’t the only ones keeping tabs on me. Just days after moving into the home my father purchased, three others took the plunge and bought houses on Sycamore Street. Two of them resembled people I thought I recognized from my childhood, likely family spies dispatched to monitor my every move and ensure my safety under the guise of neighborly kindness. But the third one was a little different—a presence that sent a shiver down my spine, hinting at secrets yet to be uncovered.

Enzo Bianchi—a name that seemed to incite a corrosive look on my dad's face the moment I brought it up. "ABianchilives on your street?" he asked disdainfully, his voice dripping with contempt. "Disgusting, Autumn. A waste of space and air." The bitterness in his tone was palpable, as if he were speaking of a particularly vile pest rather than a person.