Collateral obsession, p.1
Collateral Obsession, page 1
Copyright © 2026 by Valeriia Miller
All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Cover design: Vi Design
Formatting: Brady Moller
Contents
Important Note
Playlist
Author’s Note
Prologue
1. Dante
2. Estella
3. Dante
4. Dante
5. Estella
6. Dante
7. Estella
8. Estella
9. Dante
10. Estella
11. Estella
12. Dante
13. Dante
14. Estella
15. Dante
16. Estella
17. Estella
18. Dante
19. Dante
20. Estella
21. Dante
22. Dante
23. Dante
24. Estella
25. Dante
26. Estella
27. Estella
28. Estella
29. Estella
30. Dante
31. Dante
32. Dante
33. Estella
34. Estella
35. Dante
36. Estella
37. Dante
38. Estella
39. Dante
40. Dante
41. Estella
More Books By Valeriia Miller
Acknowledgments
About the Author
This book is about characters who don’t have a moral compass.
The content in here is very dark and features triggering situations, such as psychopathic characters, graphic death, graphic violence, blood, gore, murder, mentions of child abuse and neglect, mentions of abuse, (both physical and mental) narcissistic characters, mentions of parental abuse, (physical and mental) kidnapping, mentions of rape (not graphic), mentions of pedophilia (not graphic), mentions of human trafficking, grooming, self-harm, dissociative amnesia, suicidal thoughts and ideations, stalking, and PTSD.
There are also a lot of explicit sexual situations that include various kinks, such as elements of BDSM, blood play, spit play, power play, knife play, bondage, somnophilia, dub-con, and degradation.
Your mental health matters.
Angel - Massive Attack, Horace Andy
Devils Angels - Unloved
Gauze - Deftones
Ptolemaea - Ethel Cain
Pink Maggit - Deftones
Kiss - London After Midnight, Sean Brennan
House Of Balloons / Glass Table Girls - The Weeknd
Love You to Death - Type O Negative
Spotify Link
For the women who crave chaos—who want a man just as twisted, one who’ll burn down the world for them and fuck them like it’s war and worship at once.
In this book, both characters are villains.
They are narcissistic creatures who do exactly what they want, how they want, without caring how it affects others.
If you don’t enjoy reading about villains, this book isn’t for you.
But if it sounds right up your alley, then please,
Enjoy,
Valeriia Miller
For those who hunger for true villains more than heroes, and who feel no fear when their darkness answers back.
The window shudders as thunder rolls over the crowded street, the relentless downpour turning its glass into a chaotic, amateur masterpiece. Despite the storm, the city hums with life—people dart across slick pavement, their dark umbrellas useless against the water splashing up from the puddles.
“So,” he starts, flipping through my file as if he doesn’t already know everything about me. “Dante,” he draws out my name with a mocking lilt, his fingers curling around his glass before he lifts it to his lips, taking a slow sip of whiskey.
The air in the restaurant is thick with tension—acidic, heavy, like a venomous cloud that sinks into the pit of my stomach. My gaze snaps to one of the staff members standing stiffly in the corner, looking like a high-schooler caught in the act, too afraid to make a sound.
“Don’t worry about it,” Cane says, his attempt at nonchalance falling flat. He doesn’t even try to hide it. Not when every word, every action, screams that he doesn’t trust me or my abilities. “I just love privacy, that’s all. To him, it probably seems like… something darker,” he adds with a gruff laugh.
I shift my focus back to his face, but all I find is the same lazy ease. He wants me to remember that he booked the entire restaurant—to feel the weight of his money, power, and status—especially with his seven-foot-tall guards stationed near the entrance, their eyes never leaving my face.
Cane flicks his tongue over his stained lips, wiping away the last traces of strong alcohol before setting his glass down. He tilts his head, examining me like a puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit.
To him, I am nothing but a clueless puppy, a desperate drifter with no understanding of how the real world works, playing with fire without realizing I’ll get burned. It’s the image I’ve spent years refining, crafting a backstory convincing enough to hold up under scrutiny. Every nervous glance, every restless shift in my seat, is deliberate.
I wear fear like a second skin—wide eyes, shaky breaths, the perfect mask of confusion and disorientation, a performance so convincing it swallows the truth whole. Beneath it, my real emotions simmer in silence.
Rage. A hunger to crash and burn.
I let my fingers fidget, my gaze dart around, feeding him every sign of anxiety. I need him to believe I’m unsure—that guilt and fear are twisting inside me, knotting into something so suffocating it makes me want to vomit.
“You’re a troubled orphan who left your home at an early age after killing your parents. You fought the guys and girls who bullied you at school, killed one of your peers, got into countless fights in a center for troubled kids…” Cane says, his fingers gliding over the surface of my file. It all feels almost meaningless, like none of it really matters—as if even a life that fractured still isn’t enough to make someone an assassin.
“That’s correct,” I say, clearing my throat to shake off the rasp. I blink repeatedly before adding, “And I can do so much more. I can—”
“You really think you can kill someone?” he interrupts, skepticism lacing his tone. His lips twitch, a smirk threatening to form as he gestures for the waiter without once breaking eye contact. “End a life in cold blood, even if they’ve done nothing to you? Kill a person who has a family, a life, someone who’s truly done nothing wrong? It’s different from your early-years rage.”
The waiter rushes over, his hand trembling as he tilts the bottle and pours Cane another glass of whiskey. When he finishes, he exhales—barely audible, but telling. His ocean-colored eyes dart to mine, panic swimming in them, while beads of sweat form along his forehead. I press my lips together and give the smallest shake of my head, silently telling him I don’t need a drink. He turns away, his shoes squeaking against the polished floor as he hurries off.
I expected Cane to choose something extravagant and ostentatious, so I can’t say I’m surprised. The restaurant radiates opulence, every detail meticulously crafted to exude sophistication and exclusivity. Velvet-upholstered chairs surround tables draped in pristine white linen, while crystal chandeliers dangle overhead. There’s no need for artificial lighting—the floor-to-ceiling windows flood the space with the perfect amount of natural daylight.
Soft jazz hums from hidden speakers, the singer’s gentle words ironically at odds with our conversation.
“I know I can kill a person,” I finally say, building confidence into every word.
He laughs, louder and stronger than before. I bite my tongue, resisting the urge to lunge across the table and land a few punches to his smug face. Instead, I rest my arms on the surface, leaning in slightly, just enough to show him the sliver of courage I’m willing to reveal.
“I’m serious. I don’t care how innocent they are,” I continue, letting a small smile twist my face—one that matches the insanity of what I’m about to say. “I don’t care how much money they have or if they have a family, a life. These aren’t things a person like me ever thought about.”
He nods, but his expression tells me everything—I haven’t earned his trust, and I won’t for a long time. My test begins today. I’ll take whatever shit jobs he throws my way, prove myself, and force him to see I’m capable.
“These are strong words,” he muses, fingers curling around a freshly filled glass as he carelessly tosses my file to the side with his other hand. The pages dangle off the edge of the table, and I have to fight the urge to reach out and fix them.
“So many people have told me the same thing,” he continues, eyes rolling toward the ceiling, lost in thought. “And do you know how they acted when the time came?”
Not everyone has the guts to back up the words they spit out. Most people who talk—or even fantasize—about killing freeze the moment they actually get the chance. Taking a life isn’t as easy as they think, and I can only imagine how man y people Cane has put down because of that hesitation.
The same fate awaits me if I back out of whatever task he’s about to give me. It would cost him nothing. He’d move on, find another candidate, and eventually, someone would get the job done.
But what Cane doesn’t know is that I’ve killed far more people than my file suggests. Assassins, ironically enough.
And now, to find and dismantle the organization that operates in the shadows—playing God with human lives and pulling the strings of a vast network of killers—I must become the very thing I despise.
“You can count on me,” I say, holding his stare with deliberate calm.
Something dark flickers in his eyes as he rakes his fingers through his hair, leaving it wild and jagged, like blackened thorns.
“I want this,” I insist, pushing forward like any eager rookie—blinded by possibilities and too naive to grasp the weight of the job. “And I can do much more than you think. I just need a chance.”
He studies me for a moment longer, his silence dragging on, heavy with thoughts he doesn’t voice. My impatience coils inside me like a gathering storm, one far fiercer than the rain and wind that batter the world outside.
Then, without a word, Cane slips his hand into the inner pocket of his black coat and pulls out a folded piece of paper. He lifts it just enough to catch the light, giving it a subtle shake as if emphasizing its importance, before sliding it across the table toward me. My fingers inch forward, tentative, hovering over it before finally brushing against the paper. But the moment I unfold it, a sharp knot of confusion tightens around my chest, constricting my breath.
It’s a mugshot of a young woman. Honey-colored hair sticks in disarray to the sides of her round face, as if caught mid-motion and never tamed. Her large brown eyes stare straight into the camera, dark and unsettling, hinting at something hidden deep within, yet her expression remains unnervingly blank, a mask that refuses to give anything away. I can sense there’s more lurking behind those eyes, a story or a storm, but the absence of emotion makes it impossible to read, leaving me grasping at shadows that refuse to materialize.
“Your first task,” Cane says, his voice smooth and detached, as if nothing could ruffle him. “I need you to get her out of a prison in Mexico.”
I glance up, but he’s already drumming a finger against the table, a subtle command to pull my eyes away from the mugshot. “She’s one of us,” he says. “She was on a mission to take out a snitch—an idiot who thought he was smarter than everyone else. Thought landing a job in a prison on the other side of the world would make him untouchable.” He scoffs, the sound sharp and dismissive. “Job gets done, and that’s it. Nothing else to discuss.”
A small tremor runs through me as my eyes jerk back to the photo.
One of us. The words feel wrong, as though my mind is resisting the truth staring me in the face. There’s something in her gaze, something that unsettles me, a creeping discomfort that winds through my chest and stomach, coiling tight and insistent.
And still, I can’t look away.
My eyes roam over the contours of her face, noting the lingering softness that time and experience rarely preserve. Her full lips curl into the slightest hint of a smirk, subtle yet unmistakable, impossible to overlook even in its quiet.
I didn’t expect Cane to give me something so… unorthodox. Usually, when a recruit is being tested, the first task is simple: find a target and kill them.
Breaking someone out of prison? That had never crossed my mind as a real possibility. And yet, I can’t say no. Truthfully, I don’t even want to.
“Don’t be fooled by that pretty face,” his voice pierces the fog of my mind, laced with an emotion I can’t place. “She’s… unpredictable.”
I frown, the unspoken warning thick in the space between us, pressing down like a weight. A question smolders in my eyes as I set the mugshot on the table, turning my gaze toward him, searching for an answer—but he only shrugs, leaving the silence to speak for him.
“I’m sure you can handle it. Just remember—failure is not an option. If you fuck this up, that prison becomes your grave. Understood?”
I nod. “Yeah. I understand. But I have one question—”
He chuckles, cutting me off before I can finish. “Surprised it’s a woman?”
Yes and no. Over the years, as I’ve targeted assassins and dismantled various small organizations, I’ve come across many of them. Many women, too, but they all looked different. At least, they followed the same rules these groups clung to.
Cane talks about her with a certain lightness in his voice, maybe even pride. It catches me off guard and makes me more curious about who she really is. My gut tells me she’s not as simple as she seems, and for the sake of my mission, I need to know everything.
“You could say I’m a little surprised, yeah,” I admit after a short pause.
Cane stretches out, letting one arm drape over the back of the couch, sinking deeper as he settles into a casual ease. His eyes flick toward the window, and a faint, almost imperceptible smirk curls at the corner of his lips as he drifts once more into his thoughts, lost in whatever private world occupies him.
“She’s our most trusted and loyal worker. Years of service, not a single complaint, no regret or guilt,” he says, his voice calm and measured, carrying the faintest edge of pride. When he turns back to me, a quick flash of warning sparks in his eyes. “And my personal favorite. That’s all you need to know. If something happens to her, I’ll have my people chop you into pieces and send them through a meat grinder.”
That’s convincing.
“I’ll get her out,” I promise, the words soaked in confidence I can’t afford to second-guess. There’s no turning back now. I can feel the shift inside me, the quiet click of inevitability.
Years of planning, of waiting and watching, are finally ready to collide with reality.
Mexico
Sweat soaks every inch of my body, my prison-guard uniform sticking to me like a second skin. The sun blazes overhead, relentless and punishing, while my nerves coil tighter with each step I take. Unease slithers down my spine in sharp, electric jolts—a constant warning to remain vigilant. Cane’s words pulse in my mind as I cross the threshold of the prison gates, their weight pressing down with every heartbeat.
The woman I’m breaking out today waits in one of the most hellish corners of this prison, a place reserved for the worst of the worst, where even the barest necessities of life are stripped away. Cane didn’t bother giving me any details—not even her real name. Now my mind races, cycling through random possibilities, hunting for a name that might fit. It’s a futile, pointless exercise, but at least it keeps me from descending entirely into a spiral of rage-fueled frustration.
I’ve committed the prison’s layout to memory, studying every detail with obsessive precision—the tiniest cracks in the walls, the subtle shifts in the guards’ patrols, and the full rotation of the staff for today’s shift, mapped in my mind like clockwork.
Failure isn’t an option.
Not just because Cane would kill me if I fuck this up, but because I’ve spent years working toward this moment. This mission is my way into The Order—the syndicate he works for, the first step toward dismantling the network that has been poisoning society for years. A golden opportunity that will go straight to hell if I make one wrong move.
And despite my ego, I know I’m capable of catastrophic mistakes. I’ve honed my craft in the shadows, perfected the art of killing without leaving a trace. But this?
This is new—like stepping into a university lecture hall after years of homeschooling.
I shove the main doors open, replacing the relative silence of the outside with the chaos that thrives within these walls. The air is thick with stench—sweat, urine, and unspeakable filth—pressing down on me, making every breath a struggle to endure. One stray thought about it nearly turns my stomach, and vomiting right now would be anything but impressive.
The prison itself is falling apart. Paint peels from the walls, deep cracks stretch like veins across the structure, and grime-covered metal bars cage the windows. Just enough light filters through to illuminate the graffiti—gang symbols, crude messages, desperate prayers. Noise dominates the space: guards barking orders, inmates shouting and laughing, metal doors slamming shut, a relentless hum of voices blending into an oppressive roar.
