Obsession by Lena Little
3
Carlito
“Boss, we haven’t been able to—”
“Find her or find yourself new employment!” I slam my fist on the desk and my captain shows himself the exit of my home office.
He understands my words. It’s not like you can put out your resume when you want to leave the mafia. You either give me your best effort, your blood and sweat, or your new line of “work” is becoming worm food.
I pace my office, shaking my head as a tick in my eye causes me to squeeze my eyes shut, but then the annoyance just transfers to a twitch in my cheek.
Damn, I’ve never been so alert, so focused, so obsessed in my entire life. I’ve got all of my men, all of them, trying to find this once in a lifetime girl but we’re still coming up short. I’ve got guys at all the places she might flee town, all the places where runaways and vagabonds might hideout for the night. She will not get away if that’s what she’s planning.
I snatch my phone off my desk, gripping it so hard the screen starts to crack. My fingers ease up as best they can as I pull up the number to a high-ranking member of the police department…a man who’s been on my payroll for years. A man who can make things happen.
But I can’t do it. I won’t let him set up a meeting with a police sketch artist, or have them try and hunt her down. Even if I did know her name, and I will, I wouldn’t order a background check on her. I won’t let a hacker do it either.
Because I’m going to find her myself.
Jealous as fuck doesn’t even begin to describe how I’d feel if someone else knew things about her I didn’t. And that’s not going to happen.
I chuck my phone against the wall, the damn thing shattering in hundreds of pieces.
Almost immediately there’s a knock on my door.
“Boss, you okay?”
“Quit talking to me and find the girl!”
The heavy footfalls of the body attached to the voice quickly trail off as he moves down the hallway.
Moving quickly to my desk I throw myself into the oversized leather chair behind it and log in to my backdoor to the Italian immigration office, scrolling through the pictures, quickly realizing just how many people enter Italy each day through Rome’s international airport. Too many. I wish they’d all just go home and leave the place to me and her.
Digging in my heels I slide my chair backward, exhaling a breath. It’s only then, with more distance between the computer screen and my weary eyes that I see the program has newly added search parameters.
I can’t belly up to the desk fast enough, selecting black for the hair color, hazel for the eyes, and based on her accent select American for her nationality.
The list narrows like an accordion being flattened from both sides.
“Not her,” I mumble.
“Not my fucking princess,” I growl as I scroll.
“There!” I pause, my eyes expanding. “That’s her. That’s my fucking princess right fucking there!”
I scan the page like a hawk, seeing that she’s been in Rome just less than twenty-four hours…and nobody from the airport alerted me to her presence. I make a mental note to cut my donations to them going forward and pay the top dog there a visit since he conveniently forgot to tell me when a real life angel, and not a Michelangelo painted one on the Sistine Chapel, arrived in my city. Yeah, my fucking city. It’s my “contributions” and tax dollars that keep the lights on in Rome, making the millions that tourists spend look like pocket change in the process. But I don’t have time to worry about any of that now, not now that I’m this much closer to tracking her down. Now that I have a name, her name, which is…
Carolina West.
Perfect. Not attention-seeking at all. I knew she was exactly the kind of woman I needed.
I slap both hands on my desk and lean back in my chair. “Carolina West. Carolina West,” I repeat, before correcting myself. “Carolina…Carminati.” A smirk engulfs my face. Yeah, that’s right. “You are cordially invited to the union of Carolina West and Carlito Carminati, this Saturday…”
I can’t believe I’m thinking this, let alone saying it out loud. But I don’t question it any longer, knowing this is right…knowing it’s been the only thing in my life I’ve ever been absolutely sure of since the first second it happened, or in this case, since the nanosecond, I laid eyes on her. My heart rate rapidly accelerating from just saying her name and stating our very soon-to-be future, confirming what I already know.
She. Is. The. One.
And there’s no need to waste time thinking about it any longer or delaying the inevitable...or at least in any other circumstance but to keep from scaring her to death when I have her in my arms again and tell her how the rest of her life is going to play out and who she belongs to now.
It has to be her decision too. The most beautiful, rarest bird in the world in captivity is still caged. And how can she spread her wings and fly if I clip them before she even gets the chance?
Moving back toward my computer I enlarge her passport photo and the photo that was taken of her when she was at the immigration booth at the airport. In rapid succession, I hit the print-screen on each one and quickly tape them to the wall, only to carefully take them back down, making sure not to rip them or damage any part that contains her picture, before printing them out again and gluing them to the wall, their home permanently secured, not temporarily as would be the best that tape could offer.
I carefully place the original prints in a drawer in my desk, and lock it.
Opening up Facebook on a fake account I use for surveillance, my feed, and apparently, everyone else’s judging by the number of likes and shares it’s received, reports that a prominent Roman businessman has been reported missing. I recognize his face immediately, and underneath it, the plea to find him begins “Loving husband.” I can smell bullshit when I see it. And based on the way Carolina was running, and the physical size of her, and how big he was, I can easily put two and two together…especially when I see the part about that a recently hired nanny who didn’t show up for her first day of work might be involved.
Let me get this straight…I reopen the immigrations tab to see her age. Eight-fucking-teen. Good lord, she’s barely legal. But the point is an eighteen-year-old waif who didn’t show up for a job at this man’s house is thought to be a person of interest? It doesn’t take a forensic specialist to know that if you dust that prick’s house you’re going to find Carolina’s prints there somewhere. Not to mention if I call over to one of the other families, I bet they’ll have a record of him visiting brothels. These guys are easy to spot, once you know what to look for, and he’s got all the makings of anything but a “loving husband.”
But there’s no time for the departed. I need to get to Carolina and keep her safe from whatever onslaught might be coming her way.
I drop her name into Facebook, trying to come up with any clues which might help me locate her. There aren’t many people with her name, and in my opinion, there’s only one, so I’m able to quickly locate her. Clicking on her avatar the first thing I see is some pencil-necked pimple-faced geek liked her photo. And the bastard had the balls to put a heart shape by it. My eyes narrow and I hear the computer mouse under my hand creak. I click on the fucker’s face, wishing it was my knuckles on his actual face. Reading his profile I see he works at “North Carolina Outreach for Troubled Teens.”
Troubled teens? What kind of trouble is Carolina in? And she better believe I can help her a lot quicker than this sack of shit.
I click the back button and enlarge her profile picture, printing it out and gluing it to the wall next to the others.
I darken my screen and turn off the lights in my office if any of my men walk by they’ll think I’m taking a nap, but more importantly, they’ll know not to disturb me.
Turning my computer monitor toward the pictures on the wall, my screen does a perfect job of illuminating them, and only them. I lean back in my chair and admire the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, and ever will see because no one could ever top her. Never.
Eighteen years old, and barely that. Part of me feels like a dirty old man, especially knowing I’m more than twice her age. But I’ve never had a thing for young girls or women at all for that matter. I’ve always been focused and self-reliant, thinking of women as a weakness, a part of me that could be used as a weakness and attacked, used for leverage or worse. That’s why it was always best to fly solo, stay light and nimble, even though those two words have never been used to describe me physically.
Talking to women, being around them, anything to do with them just never gave me the buzz that ruling the underworld does. Until now.
Until her.
I laughably try to put myself in her shoes, wondering what in the hell I know about being an eighteen-year-old American girl. But surprisingly she’s more like me than it might seem on the surface.
Troubled youth. Making a big change in her life the day the courts see her as legal, as if she was waiting for that moment, as if she was on the run from something or someone. On the run from people you thought you could trust. It’s all there. We’re very much alike. Very much.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and think back to my life, and the similar events in it. But I’m not about to drown in the negativity of what did happen when this ray of light is almost in my grasp promising to be that sunshine to all the darkness that came before her.
My hand slides from my nose and I look at those three pictures of her affixed to the wall as it slides my hand down the front of my pants and then quickly unlatches my belt buckle.
As much as I want to save this first climax for her, conceiving her with this special spend, I can’t. Her pull is too great, even when it’s just some pixels on a sheet of paper. Her grasp is that tight around my mind, and in this case, my balls.
“Boss!” Three knocks on the door follow. “We found the girl. She’s at the train station.”
Frustrated for a split second and then immediately excited beyond comprehension, I pull myself, and my pants, together and dart from my chair as I flip the light on and yank the door open.
Without even asking my captain shows me a security camera photo of her.
“It’s her,” I say in disbelief.
“We’ve got a foot soldier there now, boss. He can extract her and bring her—“
“No one touches her!” I roar. “Except me.”
My captain takes a step back, giving me the space I need…to blow past him and beeline it to my car.
“Don’t let her leave, but don’t let anyone touch her either!” I order, my booming command echoing through the entire house.
I have no idea if, or what, anything is said in response. I don’t have time to care, because I’m not wasting another second. It’s time for me to go get my woman. My woman.
Right. Fucking. Now.
