Page 69 of Lord of Obsession

"This isn't about Dario's hold on me." I move again, drawing their attention away from my actual escape route. "It's about finally being honest about what I am.What we all are."

Vittorio's sigh carries decades of family service. "Then you leave us no choice."

He signals his team, the gesture carrying unmistakable meaning: take him down. Their approach shifts from containment to active suppression. The next volley of fire comes dangerously close to lethal intent, forcing me to abandon my position for more cover.

A bullet catches my leg, the impact like a hammer blow against my thigh. Not arterial, but deep enough to compromise mobility. I grit my teeth against the pain. Time's up. Enzo has either succeeded or failed; I can't delay any longer.

The secondary exit beckons, a narrow drainage tunnel that leads to the harbor. Designed for emergency evacuation when this facility still processed family merchandise. Tight quarters and pitch darkness, but it’s my only viable option now.

I fire the remaining rounds in a suppressive pattern, buying precious seconds as I drag myself toward the hidden entrance. Vittorio shouts orders, realizing too late what I'm attempting. His team converges on my position with ruthless efficiency, but they're seconds tooslow.

The tunnel swallows me into darkness as bullets chip concrete at the entrance. Water soaks through my clothes, cold enough to numb the fire in my leg as I crawl forward on hands and knees. Behind me, Vittorio's curses fade as distance and concrete muffle sound.

My phone vibrates in my pocket—a text, not a call. I pause, risking precious seconds to check the message. From Enzo, just three words:

"Package secure. Redirected."

Relief floods through me, stronger than the pain of my injuries. Dario is safe. The team sent to my apartment has been diverted to the false location I provided. For now, at least, we've avoided the worst possible outcome.

I continue forward, each movement sending fresh agony through my wounded leg. The tunnel stretches endless in the darkness, but I keep moving, driven by purpose stronger than pain. Behind me, sounds of pursuit grow more distant. Vittorio isn't built for tunnel crawling, and the narrowing passage makes it impossible to send his entire team after me.

Eventually, light appears ahead—dim and watery, but unmistakable. The tunnel's exitemerges near the harbor's edge, well away from the main shipping lanes. Rain still falls, the drops now indistinguishable from the dirty water soaking my clothes.

I drag myself onto rain-slicked rocks, blood mixing with water as I assess my surroundings. Three blocks west, a safehouse Dario established when he first began his pursuit of me. Stocked with medical supplies, weapons, and emergency funds. If I can reach it without leaving a blood trail for Vittorio to follow...

My phone buzzes again. Dario this time, his message characteristically direct:

"Where are you? Apartment compromised."

So Enzo told him about the threat but not about my diversion. Interesting. I text back coordinates that make no sense to anyone without the cipher we established—another safehouse, this one unknown to either of our families. A true neutral ground where we can regroup.

Then I force myself to my feet, ignoring how the world tilts sideways with pain and blood loss. Each step carries the weight of choice made and consequences accepted. TheValenti name and all its protection now stands against me rather than behind me. Every resource, every connection, every advantage I once took for granted now represents a potential threat.

But as I limp toward safety, thoughts of Dario waiting at our rendezvous point drive me forward. The pain matters less than the purpose. The blood loss matters less than the bond we've forged in violence and need and recognition.

I've made my choice. Chosen him over family, over legacy, over safety and certainty. If that choice costs my life, so be it.

Some prices are worth paying.

Montcove's skyline lights up as I limp the final block to our rendezvous point. Blood loss and exhaustion have turned the journey into an endless nightmare, each step a deliberate act of will against my body's demands for surrender. The makeshift bandage I fashioned from my ruined shirt has long since soaked through, leaving a trail I can only hope the rain has washed away.

The safehouse rises like a fortress from between abandoned warehouses—a nondescript building with boarded windows andfaded brick that conceals state-of-the-art security beneath its dilapidated exterior. Dario acquired it years ago through shell companies untraceable to either of our families. One of many contingencies he established while I was still pretending to live a different life than the one I was born into.

Pain shoots through my injured leg as I approach the entrance, the bullet wound sending shockwaves of agony with each step. The hidden camera above the door tracks my movement, its subtle adjustment the only indication that I'm being watched. I make no effort to conceal my face, knowing Dario's security protocols by heart. Three knocks, pause, two more.

The door opens before I can complete the sequence, and Enzo's shadow fills the entrance.

"You look like shit," he observes, his usual professionalism cracked by genuine concern as he takes in my blood-soaked appearance.

I push past him, scanning the dimly lit interior for the only person who matters. "Where is he?"

"Secure." Marco helps support my weight as he closes and locks the door behind us. "Your diversion worked. Salvatore's team is still at the clinic on 49th, negotiating with ghosts."

Relief floods through me, stronger than the pain or blood loss. "And the team at my apartment?"

"Redirected, as promised." Marco guides me toward a back room where first aid supplies await. "Though they'll figure out the deception soon enough, if they haven't already. Vittorio may be a blunt instrument, but he's not stupid."

I sink onto a metal chair, finally allowing my body to acknowledge the extent of its injuries. The bullet in my thigh has gone clean through—small mercies—but the blood loss is substantial. Enzo works with practiced efficiency, cutting away ruined fabric to access the wound.

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