Her Obsession (by Sheridan Hartin) novel Chapter 166

How He Hunts.

Diego

Connor calls it surveillance. That’s a polite word for stalking with purpose. He caught a whisper that Ricci’s been sniffing around our shipping lanes again, trying to find a weakness or buy loyalty from people who should know better. The job’s simple enough watch, record, report. No interference. No blood. Just eyes on the target. I said yes because he asked, but if I’m being honest, I didn’t need the order. I’ve been watching Ricci anyway. There’s something rotten about him. Always has been The way he smiles like he’s already gotten away with something Men like that forget someone’s always watching. Tonight, that someone’s me. I’ve been in the shadows for two hours now, crouched between the hedges and the side wall of his estate. It’s too clean, too neat for a man who moves in the filth of black markets and blood trades. His house is marble and symmetry, all show, no soul. Through the long dining room window, Ricci sits at the head of the table, glass of wine in hand, pretending to be civilised. His men flank him like overfed dogs, suits too tight across shoulders, knives hidden where manners should be. They talk business, though calling it that feels generous. Guns. Routes. Shipment delays. It’s dall background noise in a world where every deal bleeds the same. I’m almost ready to leave when she walks in.

White blouse. Black pants, Heels that click against the marble like punctuation. She doesn’t move like she belongs there; she moves like she owns it. Her hair’s short, chin–length, dark brown, the kind of cut that says she’s too busy to care about being anyone’s accessory. She’s holding a folder, flipping through it as she walks, and she doesn’t glance at Ricci when she speaks. She doesn’t need to. Even from here, through glass and shadow, I can tell he listens to her.

Charlotte Ricci. Half–sister. The quiet scandal of the family. The child of an affair was buried under decades of money and silence. Ricci’s father brought her in before he died, and somehow, she’s still here, kept close, but never equal. Nico’s files didn’t say much, but they didn’t have to. Her existence alone says

enough. She lays the folder on the table, opens it, and points at something with a pen. Ricci laughs, too loud, too forced, and she just stares at him until it

dies in his throat.

I feel my lips curve. That’s power. Real power. Not the kind you scream for or buy with fear. The kind that makes men straighten their spines and shut their

mouths without realising they’ve done it. She keeps talking, efficiently and calmly. He’s nodding along now, pretending it’s his idea. For a moment, I forget

the camera in my hand. The job. The fact that I’m supposed to be tracking Ricci, not her. But there’s something about her that tugs at me. Something that

tells me to watch her, that she’s special. Charlotte’s the kind of woman who hides knives behind spreadsheets. She’s…dangerous, but none of the men in the

room with her even realise it. I shift my stance, adjust the focus on my scope. The camera hums softly as I zoom in on her face, those sharp cheekbones,

that steady expression. Not afraid. Not impressed. She’s a Ricci, sure. But she’s also something else entirely. She speaks again – I can’t hear her, but I watch the way her mouth moves. Controlled, deliberate, like she measures every word before letting it out. Ricci nods again, slower this time, and she closes the folder, tucking it under her arm. The meeting’s done. She turns toward the door, pausing just long enough to glance toward the window.

I go still.

For a heartbeat, her gaze locks right where I’m standing. The glass between us might as well not exist. She can’t see me, not really, but it feels like she does.

Like she knows. Then she’s gone, disappearing down the hall, the sound of her heels fading into silence. I let out a slow breath, muscles easing. My pulse is steady, but something is crawling under my skin. Not fear. Not excitement. Just awareness. She’s interesting. And in my world, interesting is definitely dangerous. I stay another twenty minutes, watching Ricci drink and rant and gesture like he didn’t just get outmaneuvered by a woman half his size. The men around him nod and laugh, pretending they didn’t notice either. Typical. When he finally stumbles out, the room empty behind him, I move. The shadows are familiar. They bend for me now. I make my way around the house, past the trimmed hedges, across the back garden until I find her room again. The curtains are half–drawn; she seems to like them that way. I wait an hour before climbing up. I pull myself up, silent as ever, until I’m crouched just beyond the curtains. Through the gap, I can see her. Charlotte’s in a silk robe now, hair loose, shoulders bare. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, flipping through the same folder from before. There’s a glass of wine on the nightstand, a pistol beside it, safety off.

Good girl.

She pauses once, glancing toward the balcony, not long, just a flicker of attention, a whisper of instinct. Then she dismisses it, turning back to her work. I stay there, half in shadow, half in light, watching. It’s not about what she looks like. It’s about the way she moves. The rhythm. The precision. There’s something about her that hums on the same frequency as me – the same quiet calculation that could turn violence into art. I shouldn’t care. But I do. And the thing about interest is that it always turns into action.

–

I pull out my phone, type a message into a blank thread, one that only Nico will see.

I want five micro cameras.

1/2

How He Hunts.

1 hesitate for half a second, then add:

Don’t tell Connor. Or Sage.

Send

1 pocket the phone and take one last look through the glass. She sets her papers aside, stretches, and turns out the lamp. The room goes dark, and I smile to myself. She’s not Ricci’s problem anymore. She’s mine.

Comments

3