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. Maybe it is. I lean forward in my chair, letting a small smile crack my usually cold facade. “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, and the gifts are more frequent. The silk ribbon slides free with a tug, falling to the desk in a crimson ripple. I lift the lid slowly, savouring the moment, and peer inside. It’s another pair of severed hands. Pale, mutilated, perfectly placed in the box like some grotesque art installation. One still wears three gaudy gold rings, and that’s confirmation enough that these belonged to 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 with his 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 laugh 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. You don’t throw away gifts.” Liam 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.”

The image he paints in my mind… 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 very patiently. I know she’ll come back. She always does. She can’t help herself. As much as I shouldn’t crave the chaos she brings with her, I’ve grown used to the tension and 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. Our alliance has worked for years, but lately, they’ve been testing the edges. Asking for more product. More control. More territory. More… everything. It was subtle at first. Now it’s no longer subtle, and it worries me. 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 in grim anticipation. I see them out through the grand foyer, shaking hands and making nice under the high archways of my estate. They light cigars and laugh, thinking the world is still theirs. I close the door behind them, locking it with a soft click. I take a deep breath, only to realise the house smells different.

I sniff again, and garlic, butter, and rosemary fill my senses. She’s been here. The thought nearly stops my heart mid-beat. I move fast and silently, my footsteps echo softly down the marble corridor as I stride toward the kitchen. Every sense is lit up, keyed in, electrified with the possibility that this time I’ll catch her. I’m almost there when I hear a door closing and adrenaline spikes in my veins. I start running without thinking twice. 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.” I already know she’s gone, like smoke in the wind; she always disappears. I stand there a moment longer, watching the tree line sway in the breeze. Every time I get close, she slips right through my fingers. 

Eventually, I lower the gun, exhale slowly, and head back inside with my jaw tight. She outplayed me again. I re-enter the kitchen and focus on the scent of food. It’s warm and rich and perfectly timed, like she knew when I’d be done, or when I’d be alone. Dinner waits on the counter. A perfectly plated pasta, and warm bread wrapped in a cloth napkin. Beside it sits a bottle of red wine that’s already opened, breathing beside two crystal glasses. I walk over slowly, staring at the place setting. It looks like a romantic date. A first date, if you ignore the part where she broke into my house, warmed up some food, cracked a bottle and bolted out the back door. A laugh bubbles up in my throat. 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. “Thank you for the dinner, Sweetheart.”