novelxo Dark Obsession: Chapter 26
‘Where the hell is Claudio Sanchez? And don’t try playing dumb. I’ve already heard he’s got eyes here.’
My fists are wrapped tightly around the collar of some low-level cartel jackass, pinning him up against the wall of a back room in a rundown bodega. He’s sweating, eyes darting around, looking for some miracle that isn’t coming.
The guy coughs and tries to shift away but I slam him back against the wall.
He groans, sputtering, “I’m telling you, man, I don’t know anything, I swear! The cartel’s just a skeleton crew here. Since that den explosion years ago, there’s barely anyone left in the city.”
I tighten my grip, getting in close so he can see every dark promise behind my eyes. “You expect me to believe that? Since when does Oscar Molina run skeleton crews?”
His eyes go wide at the mention of Molina’s name, but the fear isn’t enough to crack him. “He’s not here, I swear it. No one’s seen the man in years.”
Damn it. As much as I want to take another shot at him, there’s something about his pleading that rings true. I throw him to the ground.
“Get out of here.”
He scrambles to his feet, shoving his way out the back door like I’d just pardoned him from death row. I watch him scamper away, knowing I’ve hit another dead end.
I leave the back room and head next door to a bar. The interior is as dark and smells as bad as I feel. I sit down, nodding to the bartender who slides me a glass of something strong without a word. The place is quiet, the kind of spot where the regulars don’t ask questions, and it’s exactly what I need.
No more dead ends, no more false leads. Just the next damn step forward.
I take a sip, appreciating the burn in my throat and stomach. Every part of me wants to tear apart this city until I find Sanchez and Molina, and I can’t be wasting time on small fish. They know something I don’t, or I’d have flushed them out by now.
Then it hits—Molina’s not after me. He’s after the Ivanovs, after Elena.
I grind my teeth, barely resisting the urge to shatter the glass in my hand. I’ve got to think smarter and there’s only one place I haven’t looked yet.
I pull out my phone, scrolling through an old list of locations and cross-referencing them with anything the Ivanovs have flagged over the years. My eyes land on an address in Brooklyn—the old den I torched to the ground years ago. Last I knew, it was nothing but charred debris.
I punch it into Google Maps and nearly laugh.
An upscale wine bar now sits in its place, with some boutique shops next door and a yoga studio down the block. I almost feel out of place looking at it, remembering the violence and destruction that went down that night.
They’ve scrubbed away the blood and paved over the bodies. New York’s memory is short, always covering up yesterday’s nightmares with tomorrow’s promises.
But if I know Molina, he wouldn’t let go of that place completely. He’s sentimental like that, keeps his roots close. It’s worth checking, if only for a lead on where he might be setting up. I make a plan to scope it out, see if anything’s left of the old life that could lead me to him.
I drain my glass, considering my next move. The address still sits open on my screen.
The guy might be clever but he’s not a ghost. I’ve got his trail now.
Yet, a heavy and unshakable feeling eats away at me. Elena’s image flashes through my mind, specifically her eyes from the last night we spent together. I told her I wouldn’t leave, promised her she was safe. Yet here I am, ready to chase this threat down to its source, leaving her behind to face things alone.
I had no choice; I have to do this.
I order an Uber then get up, tossing a few bills on the bar and nodding to the bartender. I head out into the cool air, pulling my collar up and steeling myself against the wind. One last lead, one last chance to find Molina and end this for good.
The Uber pulls up in front of what used to be the old drug den, now in the heart of a fully gentrified part of Brooklyn—Williamsburg. The place has transformed since the last time I was here. Gone are the charred remains and shattered windows, trendy brownstones, coffee shops, and little boutiques have replaced them.
As I step out of the car, families stroll by, kids on scooters and bikes, not a hint of fear in sight. It’s as if the past has been erased, like it never happened. I can’t decide how I feel about it.
I scan the block, wondering if there’s anyone still around who remembers Molina. If he’d been there recently, someone had to have noticed something. Across the street, I spot a small, faded townhouse, one of the few untouched by renovation.
Outside, a woman sweeps the sidewalk, her hair pulled back in a tight bun. Mrs. Lopez—I still recognize her after all these years. I met her before the den attack, when I was spending days and nights casing the place. Her eyes meet mine, narrowing slightly, then widening in recognition.
I walk over, hands in my pockets, trying not to look like trouble. She stops sweeping and leans on her broom as she sizes me up; then she nods.
‘I thought you’d left for good, Grigori,’ she says with a grin.
‘Life has a way of pulling you back to the past, Mrs. Lopez,’ I say, glancing down the street as a group of hipsters saunter by with iced coffees, oblivious. ‘What about you? Thought you’d have sold the place by now.”
She shrugs, looking almost insulted. “I won’t let anyone drive me out of my home,” she replies. “Not the thugs back then, and not the real estate people now.” She smiles before her expression grows dark. “You here for Oscar?”
I nod curtly. ‘You know if he’s been around?”
She hesitates, then glances over her shoulder. “Come inside. People don’t talk much about those things out here anymore.”
Inside, the smell of homemade food and incense fills the air, reminding me of the nights I’d stop by on a quick errand or to hide out when things got too heated. Mrs. Lopez moves with careful purpose as she closes the blinds, then she gestures to an old wooden chair across from her small couch.
‘He’s been here,’ she says. “Wasn’t for very long, but it was him, alright.”
“How often?” I ask, leaning forward.
She frowns, fingers running over the cross around her neck. “Few times a year, I suppose. He was quiet at first, but then it seems he got comfortable. Even put some people in place, men I didn’t recognize.” She looks at me, her eyes hard. “He wants the city back, Grigori. And if he’s here, you can bet he’s not leaving until he’s got it.”
I watch her carefully as I say, “He has designs on Chicago, too. Do you know where he might be staying?”
She nods slightly, glancing around as if someone might hear. “Down by the docks. Old warehouse, same one his father used to work out of back in the day. Place never really left the family.”
I thank her, slipping her a few bills for old times’ sake. She waves them off, but I leave them on the table anyway as I head to the door. “Be careful, Grigori. They’re not the same men they were before. This Molina… he’s meaner than his father ever was.”
Stepping outside, I look down the street at the glossy new shops and quiet, tree-lined blocks. Hard to believe that a monster like Molina is lurking in the same city as these families, hiding in plain sight. But that’s always been his way—keeping out of the spotlight, letting the world change around him while he stays in the shadows.
Back in another Uber, I pull up Google Maps, finding the docks. The old warehouse she’s talking about… I know it. If he’s there, he’s close to bringing in his cartel soldiers.
I punch in the location and tell the driver where to go, grateful to Mrs. Lopez for being one of the few who remembers and isn’t scared to talk about it.
I step out of the car once we arrive, pulling my jacket tight as the breeze from the East River cuts through the docks. The sun sinks lower, casting long shadows across the grimy lot. In the distance, Manhattan’s skyscrapers gleam against the dying light. The scene would be picturesque under any other circumstance.
The cars parked up ahead—SUVs with blacked-out windows and sleek, way-too-flashy sports cars—make it clear I’m in the right place.. Anyone watching could guess they owners of said cars are not here for a family reunion. They make a typical cartel show, loud and proud, not bothering to keep it quiet in a place like Brooklyn, where people know when to look the other way.
I step to the side, pulling out my pistol and clicking off the safety. This’ll be up-close, no time for mistakes, not with Molina and his dogs.
A warehouse door creaks open, and two men step out, talking low and glancing around as if expecting trouble. They’re cartel through and through—muscular, arrogant, and without an ounce of subtlety.
I move forward, every nerve on edge. One wrong move, and it’s all over.
I’m about to do something I should’ve finished a long time ago.