The Obsession (Stranger #5)

Chapter 1

Dominic

Three years ago …

I reach for my phone and squint against the brightness as I bring it closer to my face.

An unknown number flashes on the screen, which only makes me more annoyed.

I hate phone calls, even on a good day. Texting is more my style, or honestly, no contact at all.

But if I want any chance of getting back to sleep, I need to deal with this shit quickly.

I hit the accept button, bring it to my ear, and grumble, “What,” down the line.

“I-I … umm,” a woman’s voice stammers, clearly thrown off by my tone, but I couldn’t care less. I’m not a people person for good reason. I make no excuses for who I am. “I was hoping to speak with a Mr Dominic Rizzo,” she finally says.

“Speaking,” I reply, with about as much enthusiasm as I had when I answered the call.

“Oh, Mr Rizzo, hi. My name is Mary—”

“Get to the point, Mary,” I snap in an attempt to speed things up.

She clears her throat before continuing, “As I was saying, my name is Mary, and I’m calling from DOCS … the Department of Community Services. Are you familiar with—”

“Yes,” I interrupt again, sitting up and dragging a hand down my face.

I grew up in the system, so yeah, I know exactly who they are.

But that’s a part of my life I’m not interested in revisiting.

I left all that bullshit behind the second I aged out, so if this is some kind of courtesy call or a box she needs to tick, she can fuck the hell off.

I exhale slowly, trying to steady myself.

“What do you want, Mary? I work nights, and I’m trying to sleep. ”

“Oh, right. I’m sorry for waking you, Mr Rizzo. I guess that would explain your gruffness.”

“Gruffness?” I repeat, arching an eyebrow. It’s almost laughable. She hasn’t even seen my cunty side yet.

“I’m calling in relation to Violet … she’s your sister, right?”

The mere mention of that name immediately gets my attention. My sister and I might not be close anymore, but that protective-big-brother side of me never really went away.

Violet was only five when we got dumped into the system … I was eight. I may have been young, but I did my best to look out for her when no one else would. We bounced through a few foster homes before she finally got adopted, and after that, I lost contact with her.

When I turned eighteen, the first thing I did was go looking for her, and for a few years, it felt like we finally had a shot at being a real family.

When she turned eighteen, she moved in with me, but then she met that fucker Tray, the guy who dragged her into drugs and all kinds of shady shit, and everything fell apart.

She lied to me, stole from me, but despite it all, I stuck by her. I tried to pull her out of it more times than I can count. I even beat the shit out of that motherfucker for leading her astray, but in the end, she pushed me away, hard.

She eventually moved out, taking anything of mine that held value. We haven’t spoken in a long time—her doing, not mine—but hearing her name still hits like a gut punch. Despite everything she’s done to me, I still love her … I still care. She’s my little sister. The only family I have.

The fact that she’s an adult now has me wondering why they’d be calling me at all.

“Yes, she’s my sister. Has something happened?”

“She listed you as her next of kin when she was admitted to the hospital.”

Fuck. Those words make my stomach twist. “Hospital?”

With the way Violet’s been living these past few years, a part of me always knew it was only a matter of time before she overdosed or something worse happened.

I saw the bruises on her, so I know that fucker was heavy-handed with her; it’s another reason I beat him up.

Images of my poor mother flashed through my mind the moment I saw the marks on her skin, and I probably would’ve killed him if Violet hadn’t stopped me.

I was just a small boy when I had to witness my father slapping my mother around.

I was helpless then, but I’m not anymore.

I couldn’t save my mum, but I sure as hell tried to save my sister.

In the end, short of kidnapping her and locking her away until she saw some fucking sense, my hands were tied.

“Yes. She was admitted yesterday … she was in labour,” Mary replies.

“Labour. She’s pregnant?”

“She gave birth to a little girl late last night, but unfortunately, due to her addiction, the baby was born with drugs in her system.”

My heart stops for a second. I don’t even know what to say. Violet … a mother? The last time I saw her, she could barely take care of herself.

I swallow hard. “The baby … is she alright?”

“She’s stable,” Mary says gently, “but given the circumstances, Violet will be losing custody until she can get clean and prove she’s capable of providing a safe environment.

In the meantime, we’re trying to place the child with a family member before considering foster care.

Are there any relatives who might be willing to take her? ”

The question rattles me, and for a moment, all I can do is stare at the wall. Family. I’m the only family Violet has, apart from her adoptive parents, but they fell out a few years ago due to my sister’s bad choices. Besides, they aren’t blood, so I wouldn’t even consider them.

I wouldn’t know the first thing about taking care of a kid, but the thought of my niece ending up in foster care, after some of the shit I went through growing up, has bile rising to the back of my throat. No kid deserves that.

Without even thinking this through properly, the words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, “I’ll take her.”

I’m wide awake now and buzzing with a nervous kind of energy when I arrive at the hospital.

I can’t remember the last time I felt this uneasy.

Maybe it was the day I found my mother floating facedown in the pool, and life as I knew it changed forever.

Or when my father took off, and my little sister and I were made wards of the state.

Or maybe it was when Violet was adopted by a couple who only wanted a girl … and not me.

I’ll never forget how gutted I was when we were separated, or the sheer desperation I felt in the months and years that followed, not knowing what had happened to her, or if she was even okay. I promised myself I’d protect her, and look where that got me.

Being passed from one fucked-up home to another, along with everything I’ve endured over the years, has hardened me. I barely recognise the person I used to be.

I roll my shoulders and crack my neck from side to side, trying to loosen the tension coiling in my muscles as I step off the lift and head down the long corridor towards the maternity ward, where Mary from DOCS agreed to meet me.

The air smells like bad memories. I hate hospitals. I hate pretty much everything these days. I’ve grown into a bitter fucking bastard … the kind of guy who snarls at everything and bites the hand that reaches out, because it feels safer that way. I stopped relying on others a long, long time ago.

My boots echo off the linoleum floor as I walk, earning a few curious glances from the hospital staff who clearly aren’t used to guys like me showing up here.

When I reach the waiting area, I spot a woman I presume is Mary sitting on a chair by the wall, clutching a folder tightly to her chest. She looks younger than I expected, mid-twenties maybe, with that clean, professional look that screams she still believes she can fix the world.

There’s a spark in her eyes, too, that kind of hopefulness people in her line of work start out with before the job grinds it out of them.

Give it a few years of dealing with junkies, broken families, and kids who never stood a chance, and that light will fade.

It always does. I’m living proof of what the system can do to you.

The anger and resentment I carry inside from my past is profound.

I clear my throat as I approach, making sure to announce my presence. My eyes stay locked on her, and I see the moment it clicks who I am because she suddenly looks quietly terrified.

Her gaze drags from my slicked-back dark hair and down my six-foot-four frame, over the muscle built from years of burning off rage in the gym, before stopping for a beat on the ink winding down my forearms.

I don’t miss the slight grimace when her eyes finally move back to lock on my face.

I’m used to that reaction. With my size, the ink covering most of my skin, and the permanent scowl I can’t seem to shake, I’ve got the kind of look that makes people cross the street or find a reason to walk the other way.

I stopped caring about that a long time ago.

If anything, it keeps people at a distance, which is how I like it.

“Mr Rizzo?” she asks, standing a little too quickly and speaking in a voice that resembles that of a frightened, squeaky mouse.

“Yeah,” I say, stopping in front of her. “That’s me.”

I tower over her, so she has to crane her neck to meet my gaze. For a moment, neither of us says anything, but I notice the way her eyes keep flicking towards the scar running down the length of my cheek.

It’s a constant reminder of the man I’ve become every time I look in the mirror. I got this when some fucker thought it would be a good idea to slash my face during a fight; so in return, I crushed his windpipe with my bare hands.

He was the first man I ever killed, and I still get flashbacks of the terror I saw in his eyes as I watched him choke to death on his own blood. I’m not the type to look for trouble, but I’ll sure as fuck finish it when it finds me. They don’t call me Dominic ‘Dead End’ Rizzo for no reason.

Mary clutches the folder tighter to her chest, and I can feel the weight of what brought me here settling heavily between us.