I Saved the Mafia Boss—Now I'm His Obsession. novel Chapter 35

Adriano

⫘☠︎︎⫘

The thing about war is... it never starts with a bang. It starts with a decision. A second where you stop caring about consequence and start listening to that animal in your chest that’s been hungry for too long.

Tonight, I fed it.

We rolled up to the South Side Chicago at 2:03 AM, straight to the Lombardi warehouse in an unmarked black van, windows tinted darker.

Luca sat across from me, silent like always, cleaning the barrel of his hk-416 with the devotion of a priest blessing a cross.

Raphael tapped away on a burner phone like he was texting a lover. In a way, I guess he was, except her name was Code, and she always said yes.

“Security feed?” I asked.

Raphael didn’t look up, “Dead, we're ghost.”

I smiled, “Let’s haunt.”

The cold hit me first when I stepped out. The warehouse stood in front of us, this squat, concrete hulk of a building trying too hard to look invisible. Floodlights buzzed weakly overhead. One guard at the back, bald, six-foot-something, chewing on a bubblegum.

He turned just as I stepped out of the shadows.

“Hey—”

That’s all he got out before my garrote slid around his throat. I felt his windpipe crunch like a cheap soda can as I yanked it tight. He clawed at my gloves, legs kicking, eyes bulging, making those little whimper sounds that always remind me of a choked faucet.

I leaned in close.

“You chew with your mouth open,” I whispered into his ear. “It’s disgusting.”

You ever watched a man die with a question in his eyes?

They always look confused, like death should’ve called first and booked an appointment. Said “Sir, your expiration date is tonight at two-oh-eight in a freezing-ass warehouse, courtesy of the Capones.”

But that’s not how this works.

I simply watched as he went limp.

I lowered him gently. I’m not a savage. Manners matter, even in murder.

Inside the warehouse, Lombardi dogs were loading crates like good little pack mules. Russian hardware—AKs, Dragunovs, probably a few RPGs tucked under false panels. Five workers. One boss. Amadeo Romano, mid-fifties, receding hairline, stomach shaped like a wine barrel, and a gold chain thick enough to tow a car.

He stood on the catwalk above them, barking orders, looking proud of himself. As if he had built this operation with his own two sausage fingers instead of sucking on Rino Lombardi’s ring for ten years.

I lit the Molotov with Raphael’s lighter and lobbed it through the skylight like a wedding bouquet.

It shattered, and a second later, fire kissed the ceiling.

The entire space filled with shouts, madness, men scattering, eyes wide, guns unholstered.

And then Luca started shooting.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

Clean three shots, hitting their marks in a single attempt.

The first one dropped face-first into a crate, blood spilling like someone knocked over a bottle of wine. The second tried to run and took one through the spine, dropped like a puppet with cut strings. The third fired blindly and hit nothing but air. The bullet went through his neck. He spun, gurgled, collapsed in a puddle of himself.

I strolled in through the east door, like I was arriving for a dinner reservation instead of a bloodbath. Smoke curled around my feet.

And there was Amadeo, still on the catwalk, completely frozen with a gun in his hands, pissing fear.

“Romano!” I called.

He turned, tried to raise the pistol, but his hands were shaking like he was trying to jerk off a demon.

I shot him in the thigh.

The crack of bone was beautiful.

He screamed like a stuck pig, collapsed to one knee, and dropped the gun. Blood poured down his pants, pooling beneath him.

I climbed the stairs two at a time and stood over him. He tried to crawl away, leaving a red smear behind him.

“Come on, Deo,” I said, crouching beside him while he bled like a stuck pig, “I thought we were friends. You invited me into your home... sat me next to your daughter. She was what, twenty? Nineteen? All dolled up in that tight little dress, laughing at my jokes. She wanted me.”

I smiled when his face twisted.

“And now, maybe I’ll let her find out what the Capone name really tastes like. I’ll send her home after... or maybe I won’t. Depends if she begs pretty enough.”

“F–fuck you, Capone,” he gasped, clutching his leg.

I reached into my coat and pulled out my knife. A beautiful thing. Italian steel. Black hilt. Engraved with my initials.

“Now that’s just rude,” I muttered, and drove the blade through his hand.

He howled and it echoed.

I crouched lower, smiling as he writhed. “I’m not gonna kill you yet, Deo.”

I gripped the hilt, gave it a playful little twist, just to hear him cry again.

“What I need... is for you to scream loud enough to bring Rino Lombardi to his fucking knees.”

Down below, the warehouse was emptying out. Raphael signaled from the corner, waving toward the loaded van. I nodded, then grabbed Deo by the collar and started dragging him down the metal steps. His screams scraped against the walls. I hummed to cover them.

Something romantic. Sinatra, Fly Me to the Moon.

We shoved him into the back of the van, zip-tied, gagged, still bleeding all over my floor. Luca slammed the doors shut.

The fire got bigger behind us, catching the roof. The entire building was going up in smoke, Lombardi inventory roasting like a pig on a spit.

I lit a cigarette with the tip of a burning scrap and leaned against the van, watching it all burn.

Luca stood beside me, arms crossed, “The Lombardis won’t take this lying down.”

“They never do,” I said, exhaling smoke through a smile. “But that’s the fun part.”

I looked back at the warehouse, now fully ablaze. The sky above us glowed orange.

War doesn’t start with a bang.

But we'll make sure it ends with one.

𓎢𓎠𓎟☠︎︎𓎟𓎠𓎡

The van rumbled down Lower Wacker Drive, headlights off. Raphael was at the wheel, and Luca sat next to him, reloading calmly, like he was brushing crumbs off a suit.

I sat in the rear with the prize, legs crossed, watching Deo bleed. He was pale now, lips twitching, eyes unfocused. Still breathing. The smell in the van was copper and piss. I opened a window.

“You’re leaking on my leather,” I muttered, nudging his foot with mine.

Click.

One photo. Rino’s underboss, hanging like pork, chest flayed open with CAPONE scorched into his flesh.

I walked over to Vincenzo, who hadn't moved once.

“Think it’ll get his attention?” I asked.

Vincenzo didn’t even look at me. “Send it. No message. Just the image.”

I nodded, still smiling.

Rino would see it. And Rino would come.

Right into the fire.

I walked back out, the door groaned shut behind me with a hydraulic hiss, locking the screams inside.

I dragged in a long breath through my nose and exhaled slow, like I’d just finished a good fuck but I hadn't. My shirt was damp, some sweat, mostly blood.

I ran a hand through my hair, slicked it back. Lit a cigarette with the same fingers I’d used to carve up a man’s chest. The nicotine hit hard. God bless the little things.

And I was in a good fucking mood.

The kind of mood that made you want to take a girl home just to see how loud she could scream.

I cracked my neck and stepped off the curb, boots hitting puddles, blood drying on my skin as I pulled my phone from my pocket with one blood-slick hand.

I opened up my photos and my heart went dead quiet. I tapped. And for a second—just one perfect fucking second—I forgot about the blood on my hands, the screams echoing behind steel doors.

And fuck... she was. My cock twitched, my fingers flexed.

She’d taken this for him... for me. And I can't believe that I was so fucking jealous of my own self, the version she thought she was sending this to.

Fuck, sunshine.

You shouldn’t have sent this but thank God you did.

I breathed out, my hand gripped the phone tighter. I wanted to taste her, frame by fucking frame.

I wanted her on her knees in that same pose but crying, begging, wearing nothing but my fingerprints on her sun kissed skin.

I wanted to make her take another picture but next time, with my fingers inside her, tears on her cheeks, whispering thank you.

She was purity, warm, open, fucking glowing and every time she smiled at me like I was safe, I wanted to drag her into my hell and make her beg to stay.

I didn't want to ruin her. No. I wanted to rewire her until even her kindness bent to me. Until her softness curled up in my lap with a collar, a leash, and my name stitched down her spine.

And I’d still kiss her forehead afterward.

Because that’s the kind of man I am.

And she—God help her—was made for someone like me.