Her Obsession.

Conner

“Boss, there’s another package for you.”

Liam’s voice is laced with amusement, that damn smirk of his already in place as he strides into my office, cradling a sleek black box wrapped in a blood-red ribbon like it’s a birthday gift. He sets it down on my desk with exaggerated care, and I don’t miss the way he lingers, hovering beside me, shifting from foot to foot like a kid waiting for fireworks. He’s been quietly enjoying this twisted little game. Watching it unfold over the past three years with barely contained glee, like it’s the best show on earth. And maybe it is. I lean forward in my chair, letting a small smile crack my usually cold façade. “Another gift?” I murmur, fingers brushing the ribbon. “So soon. I must’ve been good.”

The last package came just four days ago. Before that, it was a week. Whoever they are, they’ve become bolder, more frequent. Like they can’t help themselves. The silk ribbon slides free with a whisper, falling to the desk in a crimson ripple. I lift the lid slowly, savoring the moment, and peer inside. Another pair of severed hands. Pale, mutilated, perfectly placed in the box like some grotesque art installation. One still wears three gaudy gold rings, confirmation enough. The arms dealer from Prague. The one who thought he could skim two million off my last weapons shipment and disappear into the wind. Guess he didn’t make it far. How thoughtful. Liam whistles, long and low, hands on his hips as he leans in to get a better look. “Another problem solved without you having to lift a single finger.”

I chuckle under my breath. “Efficiency is a rare gift these days.”

He snorts. “A little too rare, considering your mystery woman seems to be outpacing our entire crew.”

I hum, setting the lid gently back onto the box, careful not to smudge the blood still drying along the inner edge. “Take it to the freezer with the others.”

Liam raises a brow. “You sure you want to keep collecting them, boss? It’s getting a little… Silence of the Lambs downstairs.”

I shrug, leaning back in my chair. “They’re gifts. And you don’t throw away gifts.”

Liam just laughs, shaking his head as he picks up the box and turns toward the door. “One of these days, she’s going to walk in here with a ribbon around herself, and you’ll finally get to thank her in person.”

I don’t respond. Because the image he paints… A shadow wrapped in silk and blood. A woman with eyes only for me, who watches from the darkness and kills in my name. Who leaves the scent of sugar and gunpowder behind, like a whisper of devotion. I’ve thought about her more than I should. Wondered who she is. What she looks like. What it would feel like to have her mouth on mine instead of leaving messages in blood. My stalker. My ghost. My girl. One day, she’ll step out of the shadows. One day...

Another week passes. Seven long, silent, excruciating days without a whisper of her. No perfume on my pillows. No bloodied boxes tied up in bows. No fresh cookies or rearranged books or faint fingerprints on the mirror above my bed. Nothing. Trust me, I’ve been looking. Watching. Waiting. Patiently. Because I know she’ll come back. She always does. She can’t help herself. And as much as I shouldn’t crave the chaos she brings with her, I’ve grown used to the tension, the thrill of the unknown. I miss it when it’s gone. I’ve just wrapped a late meeting with the Italians who share territory here in New York. Our families have coexisted for years, keeping our lines clean, our profits high, and our streets mostly blood-free. It’s worked. Lately, they’ve been testing the edges. Asking for more product. More control. More territory. More… everything. Subtle at first. Now it’s not so subtle and it worries me. I like them. I’ve known some of those men since I was a kid. They’re not just allies; they’re part of the old world, part of the structure that’s kept this city balanced for decades. Still, if they keep pushing, if they cross a line…Well. Let’s just say, I’m not the only one watching. If she finds out they’ve become a problem, I may not get a chance to fix it diplomatically. I’ll wake up to another neatly tied box sitting on my doorstep. Maybe this time, it’ll be a head and a rosary wrapped together. The thought makes my stomach twist, not in horror, but in grim anticipation. I see them out through the grand foyer, shaking hands and making nice under the high archways of my estate. The marble reflects their polished shoes as they walk out into the cool night. They light cigars and laugh, thinking the world is still theirs. I close the door behind them, locking it with a soft click. The night air trails in behind me, brisk, quiet, sharp with the scent of autumn leaves and something… else.

Garlic. Butter. Rosemary. Heat. She’s been here. The thought nearly stops my heart mid-beat. I move. Fast. Silent. Predator-mode. My footsteps echo softly down the marble corridor as I stalk toward the kitchen, every sense lit up, keyed in, electrified with the possibility that this time I’ll catch her. Then a sound. A door. Adrenaline spikes in my veins. I take off without thinking, muscles snapping into motion like a coil released. I don’t slow down as I hit the kitchen, I tear open the back door and burst into the night, eyes scanning the darkness like a madman.

“Fan out!” I bark into my comm, already pulling a gun from my waistband. “Check the grounds. She's here.”

But I already know. She’s gone. Like smoke. Like she always is. I stand there a moment longer, watching the tree line sway in the breeze. She couldn’t have gotten far. But she always escapes me. Every time I get close, she slips right through my fingers. Eventually, I lower the gun, exhale slowly, and head back inside, jaw tight. She outplayed me. Again. I re-enter the kitchen, the scent of the food even stronger now. It’s warm and rich, perfectly timed, like she knew when I’d be done. When I’d be alone. When I’d be vulnerable enough to feel the full weight of her absence, and grateful for the twisted little reminder that she was just here. Dinner waits on the counter. Pasta, perfectly plated. Warm bread wrapped in a cloth napkin. A bottle of red wine already opened, breathing beside two crystal glasses. I walk over slowly, staring at the place setting. It looks… romantic. Like a date. A first date, if you ignore the part where she broke into my house. A laugh bubbles up in my throat, sharp, bitter, but real. She’s insane. She’s dangerous. She’s absolutely, unapologetically mine. I sit down, pour myself a glass of wine, and raise it to the empty chair across from me.

“To the ghost in my walls,” I murmur with a crooked smile. “You make one hell of a lasagna.”