Chapter 22: Dark Obsession: Chapter 22

I’m not one to sit back and let things unfold. So, after listening in on Grigori and Barnes’ conversation earlier, I knew what I had to do.

There was something off about the way Barnes was talking about this new cartel leader. A ghost, no name, nothing? It didn’t sit right with me.

I’m at my desk, the glow of my laptop illuminating the room. I’ve got my headphones on, drowning out the world as I dig deep into my usual resources. CPD databases, Bratva’s private channels, and some darker corners of the internet that no one else in this family could navigate.

If there’s anything to find, I’ll find it.

I try every angle, searching for anything that links Claudio Sanchez to this mysterious new leader. But all I keep hitting are dead ends, encrypted files, or vague rumors. It’s frustrating, but this is how it always is. Sometimes it takes hours—days, even—but I don’t give up.

I lean back in my chair, eyes narrowing. There’s something I’m missing. I start digging deeper into the Molina Cartel, thinking that maybe I overlooked a critical piece of information.

That’s when I find something strange. Records show he died years ago, but—

I freeze, my fingers hovering above the keyboard. A fresh source, one of my darker, more encrypted channels, just updated. My heart skips a beat as the name flashes across the screen.

Oscar Molina.

My eyes widen in disbelief, and I quickly click through the new intel, scanning it with sharp focus. This can’t be right. Molina’s name is popping up again, but not as an historical footnote—he’s being linked to a handful of recent, high-level cartel moves. Drug shipments. Assassinations. Targeted attacks, just like the one at the hospital.

What the hell?

I scroll faster, heart pounding. It’s not just vague whispers or rumors. It’s official—Molina’s reappearance is being whispered about in all the right places. Police intel, border patrol alerts, even international watchlists. The connections are clear—his name is being tied to Chicago’s recent uptick in cartel violence, to a surge in activity across several cities.

There are photos, grainy as hell, but unmistakable. Meetings in Mexico, deals in Colombia, and encrypted communiques sent to trusted lieutenants.

It’s him.

He’s alive, and he’s moving pieces on the board like he never left.

But how?

I cross-reference dates and events, pulling from cartel watch lists and other encrypted channels. And then it hits me—the timelines match perfectly. Oscar Molina ‘died’ not long after Grigori took his revenge in New York.

But what if he didn’t really die? What if he was laying low all these years, biding his time?

It would explain the silence from the Molina Cartel after Grigori’s massacre. And it sure as hell explains why Claudio Sanchez, who’s nothing more than a mid-level thug, suddenly had so much power.

He wasn’t running things on his own, he was merely a puppet. The real leader has been in the shadows this whole time, pulling the strings.

I take a deep breath, adrenaline spiking. If Oscar Molina’s alive, then everything is about to get a hell of a lot worse. This war just got a lot more personal.

But why come back now? What changed?

I sit back, staring at the screen, the pieces starting to fall into place.

I crack my knuckles and dive back into my search. If Molina’s alive, there has to be more here—some sort of proof, a direct link. I push deeper, hacking into a few more secure sources.

I find what I’m looking for buried deep in a report from an intelligence network that Grigori and my brothers pay handsomely to keep tabs on cartel activity. There’s a photo, a man matching Oscar Molina’s profile, walking out of a high-level cartel meeting in Mexico.

My heart pounds in my chest as I zoom in. His face is half-hidden, but I know it’s him. Looks like Oscar Molina has risen from the dead.

I stare at the screen for a few moments, trying to figure out my next move. Grigori needs to be made aware of this new information. I pace the room, trying to figure out how to break it to him.

I grab my phone, fingers hovering over his name. I’m about to text him when I hear the sound of footsteps behind me. I spin around, my heart leaping into my throat. Grigori stands in the doorway, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

“Something you want to share with me, princess?”

He knows. I can see it in his eyes. He’s always been super tuned in to everything happening around him.

I swallow hard, the weight of what I’ve just discovered pressing down on me.

“I found something.”

He steps into the room, closing the door behind him, his dark eyes locking onto mine. “Go on.”

I motion to the screen, turning the laptop so he can see the report I’ve pulled up.

“Oscar Molina’s alive.”

Grigori’s face remains stone-cold and expressionless, but I see a flicker of shock in his eyes. It’s subtle, but it’s there. He walks over, staring at the screen for a long moment, anger radiating off him in waves.

“He’s the one behind all of this.”

Grigori remains silent, his jaw clenched, working from side to side.

I wait, watching him as the realization sinks in. I know Grigori, and I can see the storm brewing behind his eyes, the rage he’s trying to contain. Oscar Molina isn’t just any enemy—he’s the man who ruined his life, the one responsible for all the bloodshed, all the pain.

He finally speaks, his voice low and dangerous. “How long have you known?”

“I literally just found it,” I say, gesturing toward the laptop. “It’s all there—reports, photos—everything points to Molina being alive and still in charge. Claudio’s just a front, his lackey.”

He steps back, cracks his knuckles, and starts pacing the room like a caged animal. I’ve never seen him like this before, so on edge.

“I killed that bastard’s daughters,” he mutters, almost to himself. “He’s coming for revenge.”

I don’t know what to say, so I let the silence hang between us for a moment. I can feel the weight of it, the gravity of what this means.

“We need to tell the others,” I finally say, standing up. “They need to know what we’re up against.”

Grigori stops pacing and looks at me, his eyes dark and intense. “No.”

I blink. “No?”

He steps closer. “Not yet. Let me handle this, Elena. Molina’s mine.”

I open my mouth to argue, but something in his expression stops me. There’s no reasoning with him right now.

He stares at the screen for another second, his jaw ticking, before turning away from me and walking across the room. “I have to go,” he mutters, mostly to himself.

“Go? Where?” I ask, my voice rising with alarm.

He turns back to me, his eyes hard. “New York. If Molina’s making his way back into the states, it’ll be through his old connections there. I need to find out who’s backing him, where he’s operating from. This has to end.”

My stomach tightens. ‘You’re leaving? What about me? I’m your charge, remember?’

Grigori lets out a heavy breath, his gaze softening as it lands on me. ‘This is the only way to keep you safe, Elena. This won’t end until I take Molina out. I can’t let him get any closer.’

I shake my head, my chest tightening with frustration. “No. I’m not staying behind while you run off to play the lone wolf again. You’re supposed to protect me.”

“I am protecting you,” Grigori snaps, his voice hardening. “By taking out the man who’s put a target on your back.”

“And what if you get yourself killed?” The words come out sharper than I intend, and I immediately regret them.

“I’ve been in worse situations.”

“That doesn’t make this any easier, Grigori! I don’t care how many times you’ve danced with death. You think I’m just going to sit here and wait for some phone call telling me you’re gone?”

He mops his brow with his hand, frustration simmering beneath his calm exterior. ‘I’ve trained for this my entire life. This is what I do. You can’t come with me.’

“I’m not asking to come with you,” I shoot back. “I’m asking you not to leave me alone in the middle of this war zone!”

As he opens his mouth to reply, I feel tears prickling at the corners of my eyes. Shit. The last thing I want to do is cry. I bite my lip, trying to hold it back, but it’s too late.

“I don’t want to lose you,” I whisper, hating how weak I sound, how exposed I feel.

Grigori’s face softens instantly, and before I can pull myself together, he’s in front of me, wrapping his arms around me. I try to push him away, angry at myself for crying, but he holds me tight.

“Elena,” he murmurs, his voice low and soothing. “I’m not going anywhere. Not for good.”

I press my face into his chest, gripping his shirt. “But you are going somewhere,” I say, my voice muffled against him. “What if you don’t come back? What if… what if I never see you again?”

He pulls back just enough to cup my face in his hands, forcing me to meet his gaze. “Listen to me. I’m coming back. I promise. But I have to do this. I have to finish what I started. I have to end this for good.”

I nod, the fear still heavy in my heart. But there’s something in his eyes, something raw and determined that makes me believe him.

“I’m scared,” I admit, hating how vulnerable I sound.

His thumb brushes over my cheek, wiping away a stray tear. “I know,” he says softly. “But I’ll be safe. I swear.”

His words and his touch calm something deep inside me. I take a deep breath, letting my sadness dissolve. Before I know it, I’m leaning up, pressing my lips to his.

The kiss is soft at first, a tentative meeting of lips that quickly deepens into something more, something raw. Grigori pulls me close, his hands slipping down my back as he kisses me with a fierce tenderness that sends shivers through my body.

We’re moving before I can think—his hands under my thighs, lifting me effortlessly as he carries me toward the bed. I don’t resist. I need him. I need to feel him, to lose myself in him.

He lays me down gently, like I’m something precious, and the way he looks at me makes my heart race. There’s no rush this time, no frantic tearing of clothes. He takes his time, his hands gliding over my skin as he undresses me slowly, as if he’s engraving the image of my body into his brain.

When he finally settles between my legs, his body pressing against mine, I gasp. He enters me slowly, filling me with a tenderness I didn’t expect. It’s nothing like the heated passion we’ve shared before— it’s deeper, more intimate. He moves gently, his eyes locked on mine as he thrusts into me, over and over, until I’m completely lost in the moment.

The rhythm of his body moving against mine builds slowly, a steady climb that brings me closer and closer to the edge. My breath hitches, my fingers digging into his back as he thrusts deeply, filling me in ways I never imagined.

“Grigori…” I whisper, my voice breathless as I teeter on the brink.

He leans down, his lips brushing against my ear. “Let go, Elena. I’ve got you.”

That’s all it takes. My body tenses, pleasure exploding inside me as I come hard around him, my nails raking down his back. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up, drawing out every wave of ecstasy until I’m trembling beneath him.

As the pleasure fades, I feel him begin to move faster, his breath heavy in my ear as he chases his own release. And when he comes, it’s with a deep groan, his body stilling as he buries himself inside me one last time.

We stay like that for a moment, tangled together, our bodies still connected. He pulls back slightly, his lips brushing against my forehead in a tender kiss.

I stare up at him, my heart still racing. The words are there, sitting on the edge of my lips, but I can’t get them out. I want to tell him everything, how he makes me feel, what I’m feeling for him, all of it. But I can’t.

Instead, I reach up, touching his face, feeling the roughness of his stubble beneath my fingertips. “Don’t leave me,” I whisper, my voice barely audible. It’s a plea, a desperate one, and I hate how defenseless it makes me feel. “Please don’t go.”

He looks down at me, his expression softening. For a moment, I think he’s going to argue, tell me he has to go, that he has to finish what he started. But he doesn’t. Instead, he leans down.

“I won’t,” he murmurs against my skin. “I’m right here.”

As I drift off to sleep, a strange, gnawing feeling settles in the pit of my stomach. It’s irrational, I know. He promised he wouldn’t leave.

But somehow, deep down, I can’t shake the fear that this might be the last time I ever see him.