Collateral obsession, p.4
Collateral Obsession, page 4
Cane’s done this before—tossed someone under my nose and hoped for the best. Maybe he forgot how that ended.
The bastard never learns.
“ You’re always so harsh on everybody,” Cane cuts in, amusement curling at the edge of his voice like smoke. “Come on, Estella. He’s a good tech. Maybe you’ll even learn something from him.”
That familiar murderous heat spikes in my chest as I shoot him a look sharp enough to kill. He only shrugs.
“Did you not hear what I just said?”
“I heard you,” he says casually. “I’m just saying… maybe it’s not that big of a deal.”
A sharp jolt of betrayal cuts clean through my thoughts, fast and merciless. For a heartbeat, the urge to stomp my foot like some furious, wronged child strikes me—absurd, humiliating, painfully real. Disappointment simmers under my skin, bubbling up and fusing with anger until it thickens into something bitter, raw, and all-consuming.
Cane always has my back. I’m his favorite for a reason.
So why the fuck is he turning on me now?
“I’m not saying I was perfect—”
“Is that it? You’re trying to be perfect now?” I demand sharply.
“There’s only one person perfect for this job,” Cane begins as he steps in, closing the distance with that quiet, unshakeable certainty he wears like a second skin. His hand settles on my shoulder, and despite everything simmering inside me, despite the feel of betrayal still burning hot beneath my ribs, I don’t pull away.
“That’s you,” he says softly. “And you’ve always been a solo bird, Estella. Nothing’s changing that. I’m just asking you to help. That’s all.”
The tension bleeds out of my body in slow, reluctant waves. I pull in a breath, lips parting to speak, when his phone cuts through the room with a sharp, insistent ring. He mutters a quick apology and slips away, disappearing down the hall, leaving us stranded in the sudden quiet.
I watch Cane until the hallway swallows him whole. The second he’s gone, my focus snaps back to Dante, and something in me ignites. Before I can trace the thought, before I can name the impulse, I’m already moving. I close the distance in a breath, my hands locking onto his shoulders. It isn’t hesitation that drives me forward—it’s instinct: pure, sharp, immediate, like a strike waiting for permission.
“Oh, thank God he left,” I breathe, whipping my head around just to confirm Cane is truly out of sight. Then, I seize Dante’s arms, fingers sinking into the heat and rough tension of muscle beneath his shirt. “You have to help me,” I whisper-shout, urgency cutting clean through my voice. “Please.”
“W-what?” he stammers, wide-eyed, those dark irises blown wide like full moons. Worry flares bright in his eyes as he reaches up, his fingers wrapping carefully around mine. The barely-there brush of contact skates over my skin, sending a strange, electric shiver spiraling down my spine. “Are you—”
“I don’t want to keep doing this,” I cut in, the words tumbling out too fast, my breath hitching as I deliberately let them trip over each other. “He keeps forcing me—he says he’ll kill me if I don’t, and I… I can’t do it anymore!”
I’m close enough to feel his heartbeat drumming against his chest—steady at first, then faltering under my proximity. The sound fills my ears, a living rhythm begging to be touched. One move is all it would take to end it. To silence everything.
Bloodlust curls behind my eyes, warm and thrilling. “Let’s run away together,” I whisper, watching his pupils dilate, watching confusion twist into panic. “I know you didn’t choose this life either. I see it in you. Please…”
His lips part, then seal themselves again, as if the words he wants to say evaporate on contact with the air. He drags his tongue across them—dry, nervous—just as his gaze jerks toward the hallway at the faint echo of approaching footsteps.
The fear in him sharpens into something almost heartbreaking. He looks disoriented, unmoored, as every inch of my fabricated words sinks in. His fingers curl more firmly around mine with a growing urgency. And there it is—a subtle, involuntary flinch running through his body, like a man bracing to whisk me away, to haul me out of here and sprint straight into some imagined safety, some impossible sunset.
And that’s when the storm finally tears itself open.
A wide grin stretches across my face as I spring back, the sudden loss of his warmth sending a strange ache through me. But it’s drowned out by the laugh that tears from my throat—raw, sharp, and so loud it burns.
“Jesus,” Cane mutters as he comes closer, standing beside me. “What the fuck did you say to him?”
It takes me a moment to catch my breath, still dizzy from the chaos I’ve stirred, drunk on the beautiful wreckage of it. “Nothing,” I answer, all sugar and innocence, my gaze glued to the way Dante’s expression continues to crumble. “I just played a little.”
And oh, what a gorgeous canvas his face becomes—shame smudging into fear, fear bleeding into the first hints of fury—each emotion layering over the next until they fuse into a single, perfect storm.
It always fascinates me—how drastically humans transform when emotions swallow them whole. It’s mesmerizing, almost artful, from the ugly little spasms that tug at their features to the involuntary tremors that ripple through their bodies. Everything raw, exposed, unguarded. And it’s always so easy to get what I want when I press the right buttons and watch them unravel.
A pressure in my chest pulls me back from my thoughts, and I glance down, spotting a red apple in Cane’s hand. Slowly, I reach out to grab it.
“Where did you find it?” I ask skeptically. The thought of even holding something he discovered in this place sends a shiver down my spine.
“Don’t worry, it’s not from here. You need some energy.”
I scoff, twisting and rotating the apple in my hand. “You think this will give me the energy I need? What about real food?”
“That’s where Dante comes in,” he says, his confidence sharp and unwavering, and I can tell the bastard’s had this mapped out from the start. He flicks a glance at him. “Go grab dinner somewhere. It’s been a long day—you both earned it.”
“Go out like this?” I ask, tilting my head toward Dante’s sweat-stained uniform before sweeping a hand toward my own disheveled state.
Cane lets a smirk curl across his face. “Luckily for you, this place has two bathrooms. Don’t let the hallway fool you—the rest of the apartment is actually functional, and all set up just for you.” He gestures vaguely, then adds, “Clothes are already laid out for both of you.” Pulling a phone from his pocket, he glances at it and shakes his head before tucking it away. “I’ve got to go. But promise me one thing—no more mischief, okay?”
“Fine,” I reply through clenched teeth, handing the apple back to him. “Take this atrocity with you. Dante’s taking me out.”
I pivot toward Dante, a mischievous sparkle igniting in my eyes, hinting at thoughts I’m barely holding back. “Isn’t that right, Dante?”
He holds a short pause. “That’s right, Estella.”
She’s insufferable. Incredibly active—like she’s got a damn propeller stuck right up her ass. Always twitching, shifting, her eyes darting around the space like she’s hunting for something she doesn’t even know exists.
And yet… there’s this strange ache in my chest as I watch her. A quiet warmth. A sense of comfort, like I’m sitting across the table from an old friend, not a deadly assassin I’m trying to fool. The atmosphere doesn’t match the danger of the situation, and I find myself clinging to that dissonance like it might make this easier.
She’s transformed now—clad in a black T-shirt and matching bicycle shorts. Damp strands of hair cling to her face and neck, darkened from the shower, framing the subtle tension in her features. She carries an air of ease, but the bruises marring her skin scream of the torment she endured in that prison. A sharp spike of worry lances through me, twisting into a strange, spiraling sensation that tightens in my chest.
Before I can get too lost in that feeling, Estella reaches for a camembert bite, lifting the golden-crusted piece and dunking it into a small bowl of cheese sauce.
“Double cheese,” I mutter before I can stop myself. “You’re a psychopath.”
She raises an eyebrow, and I can’t tell if she’s offended or just surprised by how lame that was.
“Your sense of humor is terrible, Dante,” she says, shoving a bite of food into her mouth with complete disregard, the sauce smearing the corners of her lips as if daring anyone to care.
My name on her tongue sends a sudden twinge through me. Ever since she found it out, she’s been saying it again and again, drawing out each syllable as though she’s rolling a secret across her palate. And I don’t know why, but it twists something deep in me every time.
“Things started off a little weird between us,” I offer, trying to steer the mood somewhere safer. If I want to reset the dynamic, this might be the time. “First day on the job, and all of the—”
“I don’t care,” she cuts in, the sharpness of her voice startling me. I swallow hard, my body tensing like a pulled chord. That earns me a wicked smirk from her as she reaches for a handful of fries and shoves them into her mouth, her brown eyes never leaving mine.
It still feels like a test. Like she’s assessing how much I can take—how long I’ll last under the pressure she applies without mercy.
“Why are you here?” she asks once she finishes chewing, her tone laced with both curiosity and mockery. She leans to the side, wiping her greasy fingers with a napkin before balling it up in her hands.
“Let me guess… Mommy and Daddy didn’t love you. You got dumped in some shitty orphanage, abused mentally and physically. One day, you snapped, killed someone by accident, and ran off. You survived the streets somehow. And now you’re here, chasing this job because the high you got from your first kill never really left you?”
The mere mention of my parents sends a sharp, icy pulse rattling through me. She studies me like a predator circling its prey, her eyes narrowed and sharp, dissecting every subtle flicker of emotion that passes across my face.
“Is that how it looks?” I ask, managing to keep the tremor out of my voice. “Do I really give off that impression?”
Estella leans back in her chair, her sneakers scraping loudly against the wooden floor. “Cliché,” she replies coolly. “But ninety-nine percent of people in this line of work have the same tragic backstory.”
“It is kind of tragic,” I parry. “Don’t you feel it?”
She tilts her head, a faint half-smile curving her lips. “Every day, thousands of people are abused, mocked, and humiliated. If you let yourself feel for all of them, you’ll go insane. Probably end up blowing your brains out.”
I part my lips, a soundless gasp caught in my throat. Words refuse to form, and for once, I can’t argue. She isn’t entirely wrong. Harsh as it may sound, there’s a thread of raw truth tangled in her words.
“That’s not exactly my story,” I murmur, forcing the words past my lips. My gaze sharpens, cutting through the air between us. “You haven’t been told anything about me, have you?”
“That’s a stupid question. I was in prison, remember?”
I nod quickly. “Right. Just thought maybe—”
“You can’t just assume things if you want to survive here,” she interrupts again. I bite my lower lip, holding back a surge of frustration. When I said she was insufferable, I meant every goddamn word.
“Rule number one,” she begins, eyes locked on mine. “Pay attention. You snooze, you lose—and if you lose, you die.”
She lifts a glass of Coke to her lips, taking a sip of the dark liquid before setting it back on the table. Her other hand rises almost absentmindedly, index finger pointed skyward as her brows draw together, lost in a swirl of thought. “Actually, scratch that. There are no rules. You dying might be the best-case scenario.”
Somehow, that makes me laugh. A dry, involuntary sound bursts from my chest as I lean forward and grab a few French fries. Food won’t fix the tension pulsing through me, but I need something to ground myself.
“So,” I begin, voice low, “do you want to hear my backstory or not?”
“Nice try.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I question.
“It means,” she begins, fingers threading through her messy, half-dried hair, tugging at stray strands as if each motion helps her gather her thoughts, “that you’re trying to use it as leverage. But it won’t work on me. I’m not going to chase you for some tragic confession.”
She leans in and snatches the fries straight from my hand. “Because I don’t care,” she states, popping them into her mouth one by one, chewing slowly, all the while holding my gaze.
My breath catches in my throat, stuttering like a broken engine. Heat races up my neck and spreads across my cheeks in a fiery flush I can’t stop. Her wicked little smile forms and stretches, and in that moment, I realize exactly why.
She craves this reaction. She’s savoring it, every flicker of my discomfort feeding her amusement.
“I killed my parents,” I blurt out. It’s a lie, but for her, it’s going to be the only truth she ever gets. “They were good people,” I add, my voice evening out, emotion crafted just right. “Kind. Caring.”
“Doesn’t make any sense,” she mutters, her words dripping with disinterest. “Why’d you kill them, then?”
A bitter lump climbs up my throat, dense enough to choke me. My fingers twitch, desperate to curl into fists and slam into something solid—maybe the wall, maybe the table between us. That kind of release usually steadies me, a violent reset that drags me back from the edge.
But not this time. Cracking isn’t an option. Not in front of her. Not when every breath feels like another test I’m not allowed to fail. In Estella’s version of me—and in everyone else’s I’ll have to fool—I hate my parents. I am the son who killed them and never looked back.
“Sometimes people are just too fake,” I say, forcing a scoff into my voice like it’s second nature. Inside, my stomach twists. Every word out of my mouth slanders their memory, but it’s the only way.
“So fake with their kindness,” I continue, “you can feel it splitting at the seams. Every time I had a problem, they smiled, told me to be a better person. To fight hate with compassion. But when everyone’s grinding you down with their boots, when the whole world is against you—how the fuck can you stay blind and composed?”
The smile vanishes from her face, fading as if it had never existed. Her features soften just enough for me to strike. I lean into the script I’ve rehearsed countless times, repeating every word and gesture etched into me.
“I did love them,” I admit, my voice low, raw. “In my own way. The kind of love that didn’t fit their pristine, nauseating vision of goodness. So they tried to change me. Reprogram me. Force me into a performance for the world, so I could hide the darkness that burned inside.”
I make a small pause. “So I killed them and ran off. Stole some cash. Made it thanks to my tech skills. Without those, I’d have been dead years ago.”
She studies me intently, eyes scanning every detail. After a long moment, she finally speaks, her voice quiet, her expression carefully unreadable. “Interesting,” she says.
I can’t tell whether she believes me or sees straight through the façade. Probably the latter. But that’s fine. The more I spin this story, the more it solidifies, hardening into something tangible. The mask I wear will only grow heavier, sharper, and all the more real.
She tilts her head ever so slightly, and I feel the spark of curiosity in her eyes. I don’t fit the usual pattern, and it shows—her gaze lingers, drawn to the unfamiliar, the unexpected, as if anything new and sharp could captivate her attention. “How many people have you killed since then?”
I’ve lost count. Over the years, I’ve taken out more people than I can remember—mostly assassins like Estella, but others, too. Innocents—people who were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.
All of that to end up here.
“Um…” I stall, letting my gaze wander around the dining area. The place is worn-down—warm tones smudged across the floors and ceilings, furniture that’s scratched and half-torn. Still, the food’s unbelievably good. “Not many,” I say eventually. “That’s where I was hoping you’d come in.”
She laughs, a dry, raspy sound cutting through the mostly empty restaurant. The only waiter shoots another concerned glance our way, and I understand why. Her face is a mosaic of bruises and swelling, her ribs probably cracked, and I’m the man sitting across from her. He likely thinks I did it.
“You want me to do what?” she asks, tone steeped in sarcasm. “Teach you how to kill? Or maybe train you up so you won’t end up with another scar like the one on your chest?”
Caught off guard, I blink, my breath hitching in jagged bursts—not just that she saw it, but that I let my guard drop enough for her to notice. For a fleeting, absurd second, a part of me feels… flattered.
Because she saw it? Ridiculous.
The scar is massive, thick, impossible to miss, and visible even through decent fabric. But it isn’t just a scar—it’s a warning carved into my skin, a constant reminder of what’s at stake and how little time I have to finish what I started.
I push myself upright, forcing my shoulders back and my spine straight. Then, I shake off the flicker of surprise that still lingers on my face, masking it with a controlled calm. “No,” I say firmly. “I’m hoping you’ll help me learn to control my emotions. Sharpen the rough edges so I can operate in this world better.”
I lean forward slightly, lowering my voice. “I’m not your enemy, Estella. I’m here to learn.”
