His Blind Obsession

AMELIA

The sound of the door closing behind me was final. Not a slam—Mrs. Thomas wasn't cruel enough for that. Just a soft, decisive click that said what eighteen years in the system had taught me: you age out, you're on your own.

No family. No safety net. Just two hundred dollars in an envelope and the address of a hostel in a neighborhood I'd been warned to avoid.

Welcome to adulthood.

I stood on the front steps of St Mary's Orphanage, my duffel bag clutched in both hands, and tried not to let the panic rising in my chest show on my face. The autumn air bit at my cheeks, carrying the smell of exhaust fumes and that particular New York City scent—hot concrete mixed with street vendor food and a thousand other things I couldn't name.

"You'll be fine, Amelia," Mrs Thomas had said, pressing the folded envelope into my hand before gently guiding me outside. "There's a little money in there. Enough for a few nights at a hostel while you find work. You're eighteen now. You're strong. You've always been strong."

Strong.

I'd heard that word my whole life. Strong Amelia. Brave Amelia. The girl who never complained, who learnt to navigate the world without sight, who smiled when people whispered about the "poor blind girl".

But standing alone on these steps with nowhere to go, I didn't feel strong. I felt terrified.

I'd been at St. Mary's since I was eight. Ten years. It was the only real home I remembered. And now, just because I had turned eighteen the previous week, the funding had dried up. I was expected to simply figure it out.

The envelope in my pocket felt impossibly thin.

I breathed in and started down the steps, counting them like I'd done a thousand times before. One, two, three, four, five. My white cane swept in front of me, the familiar tap-tap-tap against concrete grounding me even as my heart hammered.

The sidewalk was crowded. It always was in this part of the city. I could hear snippets of conversation as people passed—a woman on her phone complaining about her boss; two men arguing about a basketball game; a child whining for ice cream. Normal people, living ordinary lives, completely unaware of the blind girl trying not to fall apart beside them.

I'd applied for jobs. Mrs Thomas had helped me. But every interview ended the same way—awkward apologies, promises to "keep your résumé on file", and polite dismissals that all meant the same thing: We don't want to deal with your disability.

My cane hit something soft. A leg.

"Watch it!" A man's voice sounded annoyed.

"Sorry," I mumbled, angling away.

I kept walking, no real destination in mind. Just forward. Away from St Mary's. Away from the only safety I'd known.

The sounds changed as I moved through the neighbourhood—fewer families, more bass-heavy music bleeding from car windows, voices that carried an edge. Mrs Thomas had warned me about certain areas and specifically mentioned the territories—Santoro to the west, Volkov to the east, and a narrow strip of neutral ground where some bar called Crimson operated.

"You stay in the middle, Amelia," she'd said. "You don't want to be caught in the crossfire when the families have disagreements."

Disagreements. Such a polite word for what I'd later learn meant bodies and blood.

But I'd lost track of where I was. Every street sounded the same when you couldn't see the landmarks.

My stomach growled. I hadn't eaten since breakfast, and the sun—I could feel its warmth on my face—was definitely past noon now. Maybe setting toward evening.

I needed to find the hostel. I needed to...

Glass shattered somewhere close. Too close for that. I froze.

"You think you can push Volkov product on Santoro territory?" a man's voice snarled, rough and furious. It was the voice of someone used to giving orders. "You think the Family won't notice?"

"It was a mistake—" another voice pleaded, young and desperate.

"Damn right it was a mistake."

More voices now, overlapping. Shouting. I heard scuffling and the sound of bodies hitting metal—was ita car? My pulse spiked.

Run. I needed to run.

But which direction? The voices were in front of me, I thought, but sound bounced off buildings in strange ways. If I ran the wrong way, I'd run straight into—

A gunshot cracked through the air.

I gasped, stumbling backward. My cane clattered to the ground. More shouting. More shots—multiple weapons, the sounds overlapping. People screaming.

Move. MOVE.

I turned, hands outstretched, scrambling for a wall, a doorway, anything. My shoulder slammed into rough brick. Good. I pressed against it, making myself as small as possible, the cold stone scraping through my thin jacket.

"Get down!" someone yelled. "Santoro's men are moving in!"

More gunfire. The sound echoed off buildings, making it impossible to pinpoint the source. My breath came in short, panicked gasps. I couldn't see where the danger was coming from. Couldn't see where to hide.

Something wet splattered against the wall near me—I felt droplets hit my arm. Something warm. The smell was copper and salt.

Blood.

Someone was screaming, high-pitched and desperate, then suddenly cut off.

Footsteps pounded toward me. People running.

"Please," I whispered to no one. To God, maybe. To anyone listening.

A hand clamped onto my arm—rough, urgent.

I screamed.

"Get down!" The voice cut through the chaos like a blade—cold, commanding, the kind that expected instant obedience. "Don't scream. Don't move unless I tell you to."

Strong hands gripped my arms with practised efficiency. I smelled gunpowder, expensive leather, and cologne that probably cost more than a month's rent. The fabric of his jacket was fine wool—I could feel the quality even through my fear.

"I can't—I don't know where—"

"Cazzo," he bit out—Italian, I thought, though I didn't know the word. His arm locked around my waist like a steel band, pulling me forward before I could react. "Move with me or you're dead. Your choice."

He didn't wait for my answer. Just pulled me forward, and I had no choice but to stumble along with him. His body was solid against my side, his grip firm but not painful—controlled strength that suggested he knew exactly how much force to use. His breathing was steady despite the exertion. It was as if running through gunfire while dragging someone had become routine for him.

A phone buzzed in his pocket—once, then twice more in quick succession. He ignored it.

"Santoro!" Someone shouted behind us. "We need you back here!"

He didn't respond. Didn't slow. He simply continued to move forward, keeping me on the move.

There were more shots fired from behind us. Closer. I heard the whine of a bullet ricocheting off brick.

"Fuck," he snarled, his grip tightening. "They hit Mikhail. Move!"

My feet scrambled to keep up, but soon I was barely touching the ground as he half-dragged, half-carried me away from the chaos. I couldn't tell where we were going. Could only feel the rush of movement, hear his harsh breathing, and feel the strength in the arm around me.

Finally, he stopped. Pushed me against a wall in what felt like a narrow space. An alley, maybe.

"Stay here. Don't move. Don't make a fucking sound." That's not a request but a command. "If you run, you die. If you scream, you die. Understand?"

"Yes," I managed.

"Good girl."

Then he was gone. I could hear his footsteps retreating, back toward the violence.