Page 68 of Lord of Obsession

I swing the car into a narrow service road that cuts between industrial complexes. Years of childhood exploration with Luca taught meevery hidden path in Valenti territory. This particular route leads to an abandoned shipping facility that once served as a family distribution center. Concrete and steel walls, multiple exits, and architecture that favors defenders over attackers.

Perfect for what comes next.

The pursuing vehicles hesitate at the turn, momentarily uncertain of my strategy. I use the hesitation to gain distance, pushing the car to its limits as I navigate potholes and debris. The facility looms ahead, its darkened silhouette a familiar shadow against the storm-lashed sky.

I screech to a halt inside the main loading bay, positioning the car to block the primary entrance. The Glock slides smoothly into my hand as I exit the vehicle, the weight familiar despite years of pretending I'd forgotten how to hold such weapons. I move with the practiced efficiency Salvatore himself instilled in me, seeking higher ground as headlights illuminate the bay's entrance.

Three vehicles. At least six men, all armed and trained in Valenti retrieval protocols. Led by Vittorio, whose reputation foreffective violence is matched only by his loyalty to Salvatore's orders.

The odds aren't good, but they don't need to be. I don't need to win. I only need to delay.

Five minutes. That's all Enzo needs to redirect the team approaching my apartment. Five minutes to keep Vittorio's attention focused entirely on me, rather than coordinating with other family operations.

Five minutes to ensure Dario's safety, even if it costs me everything.

"Come on then," I whisper as the first shadows detach from vehicles, weapons drawn as they approach my position. "Let's see if Uncle's training stuck."

The first shot rings out, echoing against concrete walls like a death knell. Not aimed to kill, but to establish boundaries. To communicate that this won't be a simple retrieval.

Return fire comes immediately, disciplined and controlled. They're good. Professional. Lethal in their efficiency. But I have something they don't: absolute certainty in my purpose.

Bullets chip concrete near my position as I move laterally, drawing their attention away from potential secondary exits. Vittorio's voicecarries through the cacophony of gunfire and rain, ordering containment rather than elimination. Salvatore wants me alive, then. Small comfort as rounds trace patterns closer to my position.

I return fire, aiming to wound rather than kill. These are still family soldiers, men who've served loyally without questioning the morality of their orders. The distinction matters less to them, judging by how close their shots come to critical targets.

A bullet grazes my arm, tearing fabric and flesh in a white-hot line of pain. I ignore it, using the injury to fuel focus rather than panic. Blood soaks into my clothes as I shift position again, drawing them deeper into the building.

Four minutes now. Almost there.

Vittorio himself appears at the edge of my vision, moving with the lethal grace that's earned him his reputation. He signals to his team, coordinating their approach with practiced precision. I catch the gesture for "non-lethal if possible" as they close in from multiple angles.

"Rafael." His voice carries through the cavernous space, controlled and reasonable. "This doesn't need to end badly. Your uncle just wants to talk."

A bitter laugh escapes before I can suppress it. "With restraints and interrogation drugs?"

"That depends entirely on your cooperation." No pretense of denial, at least. Vittorio has always been direct in his methods. "Come in voluntarily, and I guarantee minimal discomfort."

Three minutes. Keep him talking.

"And Dario Greco?" I shift again, maintaining cover while assessing potential escape routes. "What are Salvatore's plans for him?"

A short pause tells me everything I need to know. Vittorio weighs his words carefully, aware that the wrong response could escalate this confrontation beyond retrieval to elimination.

"That's between your uncle and Antonio Greco." Diplomatic, but telling. "Family business."

"That's what I thought." I squeeze off two more rounds, forcing his team to retreat to cover. "Tell Salvatore I meant what I said. I'm done with family obligations."

"Philosophical differencescan be discussed back at the estate." Vittorio signals his team to circle around, attempting to flank my position. "Preferably without additional bloodshed."

Two minutes. Almost there.

"There's nothing to discuss." I edge toward a secondary exit, one partially concealed by stacked shipping pallets. "I've made my choice. Salvatore needs to accept that."

"The boy has clearly compromised your judgment." Vittorio's voice hardens, professional detachment giving way to genuine concern. "Whatever hold Greco has on you, we can break it. Get you the help you need."

His misunderstanding would be comical if it weren't so dangerous. He sees this as manipulation, as Dario exploiting weakness rather than recognizing shared strength. The Valenti mindset in its purest form: loyalty to blood supersedes all personal desire or independent thought.

One minute. Just a little longer.

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