Dark Romance: A Cruel Obsession

Joseph stood triumphantly amidst the mess on the ground, as if he had Alajos beneath his feet. He extended a devilish invitation to Alajos, “Do you want your wife to live? Do you want your child to live? Alajos, cooperate with me and submit to my commands.”

Alajos sat up, supporting himself on his arms, the pain in his abdomen making his breath heavy. He nonchalantly lifted his eyelids, seemingly uninterested in Joseph’s offer, “What if I refuse?”

Joseph seized a guard’s gun and aimed at Luzia’s thigh, pulling the trigger.

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The silenced gun was supposed to be noiseless, yet Alajos felt as though a thunderous explosion resounded in his ears before Luzia’s agonizing scream followed.

Joseph grinned cruelly and bloodthirsty at Alajos, excitement gleaming in his brown eyes, “The next shot will be aimed at Vivian’s stomach.”

“Bang!” Joseph mimicked the sound of a bullet fired from the chamber, his smile chilling, “Guess who will die first, the child or Vivian?”

“Joseph!” If looks could kill, Joseph would have died a thousand deaths by now. “You will pay for your actions today!”

Joseph was a deranged gambler; indeed, a mature Capo would never gamble all their chips on kidnapping another man’s wife in such a trivial move. His actions proved he was desperate.

Alajos’s rationality told him victory was within reach, having pressured Joseph to make such a foolish move. Yet, he despised himself for falling into Joseph’s trap, unwilling to let Vivian suffer even a bit, despite being on the brink of victory.

Joseph raised the gun, passionately kissing it, as if the gun were his wife, his lover, “Before making me pay the price, you must first learn to obey, Alajos.”

Joseph didn’t conceal his ambitions; he had long prepared for this day. “Give me the power in Houston, help me subdue Barron and the Bratva behind him, this is your destiny’s ultimate pinnacle.”

“I, Joseph Jones, am the ultimate victor in this war!”

Vivian awoke from her daze, struggling to open her heavy eyelids in the dimly lit room. She tried to move her arm, seeking relief for her pounding head, only to discover her hands bound behind her, lying not on the soft bed in the villa but on hard, cold wooden boards.

A pungent scent of cleaner filled the air, overwhelming Vivian’s sensitive senses, making her nauseous. The unpleasant odor triggered her disoriented memories from before she passed out – armed thugs bursting into the supposedly secure villa, shooting the staff indiscriminately with machine guns, drugging her into unconsciousness after Yoshiye’s death, and subsequently kidnapping her.

Her last sight before losing consciousness was Loomis being shot, clutching Mare as they tumbled down the stairs, leaving her in the dark about what followed.

Residual effects of the drugs slowed Vivian’s mind, rendering her incapable of immediate, rational judgment. While she felt she should panic, emotions dulled, turning her into a passive, indifferent mannequin lying in bed, enveloped by the darkness.

The sudden flicker of a bright light above her startled Vivian, forcing her shut her eyes as footsteps approached. The echoing clacks on the concrete floor resembled the hard soles of men’s boots.

Was it Tabdon?

Upon adjusting to the light, Vivian surveyed her surroundings, recognizing the warehouse-like setting and the solitary incandescent bulb casting harsh light on the filth-stained environment. The tattered blanket in the corner bore dark stains, matching those on the wooden boards where she lay.

Her stomach turned, suspecting the stains were blood left by others.

Instead of screaming or pleading like a helpless sheep, Vivian’s calm demeanor surprised the man, evoking both astonishment and bewilderment.

“You truly surprise me, Vivian,” the man sighed, his voice akin to a relieved elder witnessing a wayward junior coming of age. “You’ve finally grown up, unfortunately, your parents won’t see it.”

Wide-eyed, Vivian recognized the familiar face, despite the lapse of time. “Chaquille…”

“I’m glad you remember me, Vivian. It’s been a while,” Chaquille maintained his friendly smile, ever gracious and approachable in public, embodying benevolence and tolerance towards juniors and subordinates.

However, the tightly bound Vivian lying on the dirty bed felt a chill creep over her, even Chaquille’s smile turning repulsive.

“Is my father behind this kidnapping?” Vivian clung to a flicker of hope. It seemed apparent, wouldn’t it? Chaquille was her father’s right-hand man, acting solely on his orders!

“No,” Chaquille denied.

Through gritted teeth, Vivian inquired angrily, “What’s there to hide? Your presence here is evidence enough! Or do you want to tell me you’ve betrayed my father and now serve under Joseph?”

“Not quite,” Chaquille’s gaze held pity as he spoke, “Concealing the kidnapping from you does Bryson no favors. Whether you realize it or not, your abduction does not affect our plans; you are in our grasp, Vivian.”

The truth stung, still, Vivian felt humiliation for her helplessness, learning to silence her screams and tears, knowing they would only infuriate the captors.

Her priority shifted to safeguarding herself, her child, and finding a way out to reunite with Alajos.

Where was Alajos? Did he know about her abduction by Chaquille? And what did Chaquille intend with her?

Chaquille obeyed father’s orders, yet denied involvement with her kidnapping. Who else could command him?

Joseph?

Vivian leaned towards this answer; after all, Joseph was the heir apparent, unrivaled in Los Angeles by Vilem. Joseph seemed the most likely to coerce Chaquille.

However, Chaquille’s recent denial left Vivian with doubts. If not Joseph, who else in LA held the power and leverage to command Chaquille?

Suddenly, a name popped in Vivian’s mind – Mark, Bryson’s right-hand man.