His Blind Obsession

His Blind Obsession

yoni.bau · Completed · 129.9k Words

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Introduction

Blind. Sold. Claimed by the wrong man.
At eighteen, Amelia was nothing—until two powerful men decided she belonged to them.
One wanted to own her. The other would burn the world to keep her.

Dragged into the blood-soaked empire of the Santoro mafia, Amelia becomes a pawn in a brutal power game. Jeremy Santoro—the cold, dangerously seductive heir—should have ignored her.

Instead, he touched her.

And that one mistake?
Turned her into his obsession.

Hiding inside Crimson, a bar where secrets are currency and men are monsters, Amelia survives by staying invisible—until the night she slaps a stranger for kissing her… and feels a voice she can’t forget.

Jeremy.

When his ruthless uncle tries to claim her as property, Jeremy snaps.

He takes her.

Not as a lover.
Not as a savior.
But as something far more dangerous—

His.

Locked inside his mansion as his personal maid, Amelia quickly learns the truth: Jeremy is engaged to another woman. A powerful alliance. A future already decided.

But he still comes to her at night.

Still touches her like she’s the only thing he’ll ever need.
Still risks everything… just to hear her say his name.

And when Amelia discovers she’s carrying his child—
the game changes.

Because she was never just a blind girl pulled from the gutter.

She is the missing heir to a bloodline powerful enough to destroy the Santoro empire from within.

Now three crime families are hunting her.
Jeremy’s bride wants her dead.
His uncle wants her broken.

And Jeremy?

He’s already chosen.

Her.

Even if it means betraying his name, his blood, and the empire he was born to rule.

In a world where power is everything, Amelia was invisible.
Now she’s the most dangerous woman alive.

Chapter 1

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. I was moving away from the only safety I had ever known.

The sounds changed as I moved through the neighbourhood—fewer families, more bass-heavy music bleeding from car windows, and 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 should avoid becoming entangled in the conflict between the families."

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. He simply pulled me forward, leaving me with 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. All I could sense was the surge of movement, the intensity of his breathing, and the power of his arm encircling me.

Finally, he stopped. He pushed me against a wall in what felt like a confined 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.

I am left alone in the darkness, surrounded by violence. And this is just the first day of my adult life. How can I survive as a blind girl in this cruel world? I could not help but cry and hope some miracle will happen.

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