Chapter 6: Dark Obsession: Chapter 6

“You boys better start talking unless you want a bullet to go with those beers.”

My gun is leveled at their chests.

I’ve got the two dealers cornered in the back room of a filthy dive bar. The stink of spilled beer and sweat clings to the walls, the low hum of shitty music vibrates through the floor. They’re both low-level—skinny, twitchy, the kind of guys who only know what they’re told.

One’s got a shaved head and shaky hands covered in tattoos, his eyes darting between me and the exit like he’s calculating how fast he can run. The other’s a little bigger, with greasy black hair and a face that looks like it’s been busted more than once.

The greasy-haired one scoffs, trying to play tough. “We don’t know shit, man. You think waving that piece around scares us?”

I move the gun a bit upward and pull the trigger, the gunshot ringing out in the cramped room. The bullet flies just above the dealer’s head, punching a hole in the wall behind him. Plaster rains down, and the greasy-haired bastard flinches, his bravado evaporating in an instant.

“Fuck! Okay, okay, man, shit!” he stammers, hands flying up in surrender. “We’ve been getting new stuff, alright? Good shit. From south of the border.”

His partner nods quickly, eyes wide with fear. “Yeah, man, straight from the cartel in Mexico.”

I lower the gun slightly, my eyes narrowing. “Which cartel?”

They both swallow hard, glancing at each other. I already know the answer, but I need to hear them say it.

“Molina,” the greasy one mutters quietly.

That’s exactly what I was expecting to hear. Molina. The name rings in my head like a warning bell, but I keep my face neutral. The last thing I need is for these two to get more skittish than they already are.

The smaller dealer, the one with the shaved head, starts to panic. “Don’t say anything, man,” he pleads, his voice cracking. “The Molina Cartel, they’re trying to keep their move into Chicago low key. You don’t want to fuck with them.”

His fear is obvious. I keep my gun steady, eyes flicking back and forth between the two of them. I could tear into these guys, drag the information out of them, but I know better. Not only would it be unprofessional, but it would also be counterproductive. Push too hard, and they’ll be too scared to talk. That’s not how you get what you need in this game.

“I’m not going to run my mouth,” I say calmly, “but you are going to give me every scrap of information you have. Right now.”

Greasy exchanges a look with his partner before nodding frantically. “Alright, alright. Look, we don’t know much, okay? Just what we hear on the street.”

I keep my gaze locked on him, waiting.

“There’s a guy,” he continues. “Big deal in the city. Goes by the name Dollar.”

Dollar. I know him. A mid-level player who’s been pushing weight in the city for years. If he’s involved with the Molina Cartel, this is bigger than I thought.

“Where can I find him?” I ask.

Greasy swallows hard. “Dollar runs a strip club called The Velvet Den,” he says, his voice shaky. “It’s in Little Village, near 26th. He’s there most of the time when he’s not moving product.”

Little Village. It makes sense. It’s one of the grimier parts of the city, perfect for Dollar’s kind of business. I keep my gun pointed at them a moment longer, letting their fear linger.

The two of them are barely holding it together, their eyes wide, waiting to see if I’m going to pull the trigger or let them walk out of here breathing.

Finally, I lower the gun, clicking the safety back on and tucking it into my jacket. The visible relief on their faces is nearly comical.

I pull out a small roll of bills and toss it onto the table in front of them. “Your next few rounds are on me,” I say. “But remember—I was never here.”

They nod eagerly, grabbing the cash like it’s their lifeline. “Yeah, man. Whatever you say. We won’t say a word.”

I give them a final nod and turn to leave. I know I played this just right—enough fear to keep them in line, but not so much that they won’t be willing to talk again. They’ll be scared, sure. But they’ll also remember that the Ivanov Bratva rewards loyalty. That’s how to manipulate them.

I step out of the back room and into the cold Chicago air, already thinking about my next move.

Time to pay Dollar a visit.

I hop into the car and fire up the engine, the low growl of it cutting through the quiet. The sky’s gray, the streets slick with morning rain, and I know I don’t have time to waste. It’s early afternoon, but the day’s already slipping away.

I need answers before nightfall.

If the Molina Cartel is moving into Chicago and targeting me, I’m in a tight spot. But deep down, I always knew this was coming. You don’t do what I did and expect not be hunted down. It was only a matter of time before they came after me.

But last night changed things. Elena being in danger is a fucking problem. The cartel will use her again, no doubt about it. Hell, it’s exactly what they did at the club. They went after her first, knowing it’d draw me in. And it worked.

They know my weakness now.

There’s not a chance in hell I’m letting them get anywhere near her again. If they try to, I’ll take all of them out myself.

My fingers tighten on the steering wheel as I think about her. I can still feel the curve of her hips beneath my hands, the way her body fit against mine, the taste of her mouth when I kissed her. The memory of last night rushes in, and it’s distracting.

I can’t afford to be distracted.

I shake my head, trying to focus. I don’t have time for this right now. I need to keep my head clear. But fuck, it’s hard when she’s all I can think about.

I can’t get the image of her out of my head—her body curled up against mine as she slept last night. The soft rise and fall of her chest, the way she looked so peaceful, so fucking beautiful. I’ve wanted her for as long as I can remember, but I never thought last night would be the night it finally happened.

And now, all I want is more of her—her taste, her warmth, her body pressed against mine. The way she came undone underneath me, how she moaned my name. I want to bury myself inside her again, to make her come over and over until she forgets everything but us.

I force the thoughts away as I drive. I can’t afford to let my mind wander like this. Not when there’s so much at stake.

I think about Luk, Yuri, and Lev—her brothers, my friends. They’ve always been protective of Elena, watching over her like hawks. If they knew what happened between us… Christ, they’d lose it. Luk would break my jaw. Yuri and Lev wouldn’t be far behind, maybe breaking my arms and legs.

No way in hell would they be okay with what went down.

I tighten my grip on the steering wheel. It can’t happen. They can’t know. I won’t let that break loose, not while the Molina Cartel’s breathing down my neck. Whatever happened between Elena and me stays between us. For now.

I pull into Little Village, and it’s exactly what I expect: gritty streets, lined with aging buildings and faded storefronts. The neighborhood’s rough, but it’s alive in that way only a place on the edge can be—hustle, grind, and desperation all mixed together. It’s the perfect place for someone like Dollar to hide in plain sight.

I park outside The Velvet Den, a strip club whose glory days are long gone. The neon sign flickers, half the lights burned out, the exterior paint is peeling, revealing grime underneath. It looks like a place people go to disappear. Fitting. Strip clubs have never been my thing, and the thought of being in one on a Saturday afternoon is depressing as hell. But I’ve got business here.

I step inside and pay the cover without making a scene. Keeping a low profile is key right now. Inside, the place is dark, lit mostly by dim, flashing lights meant to distract you from how rundown it really is. At one point, it might’ve been high-end, but those days are over. The carpet’s sticky, the tables worn, and the strippers look bored, going through the motions for an audience that’s barely paying attention.

I make my way to the bar, ignoring the grinding bodies on stage. The bartender gives me a glance, pretending he doesn’t know who I am.

“I want to see Dollar,” I say, leaning in close.

“Don’t know who you’re talking about,” the bartender grunts.

I give him a cold look. “You know who I am?”

That gets his attention. His face goes pale, and he nods quickly, understanding the implication. “Yeah, sure. I’ll let him know you’re here.”

The bartender leads me through the back halls of The Velvet Den, the thumping bass vibrating through the walls. The stench of stale booze and sweat lingers in the air, and the whole place makes my skin crawl.

We head upstairs, the noise below muffled as we approach a door. The bartender knocks, and after a second, I hear a voice call out.

“Come in.”

The door opens, and I step inside. The room overlooks the main floor, giving Dollar a view of the entire place. It’s decked out in faux-leather furniture that’s seen better days, stacks of money and lines of powder are spread across the table in front of him. A couple of strung-out strippers lounge nearby, their eyes glazed over, barely aware of what’s going on. It doesn’t take a detective to know what Dollar’s been up to.

Dollar is a heavyset guy, mid-40s, with a gold chain around his neck and a gut spilling out over his pants. His hair’s slicked back. It’s got a greasy sheen that matches his overall vibe. The second he lays eyes on me, his face falls. He knows I’m not here for a friendly chat.

I pull out my gun and nod to the bartender. “Sit.”

The bartender doesn’t argue, dropping into a nearby chair without a word.

I turn to Dollar, my voice low and dangerous. “Don’t move unless you want to die in this shithole.”

Dollar freezes, sweat already starting to bead on his forehead.

The strippers glance at me, their eyes wide, panic starting to flicker beneath the surface. I raise my hand, a wordless signal that I’m not here to hurt them. They catch on quick, staying put, frozen in their drugged haze. The bartender slumps in his chair, realizing what deep shit he’s in.

Dollar, on the other hand, tries to put on a show. He leans back, crossing his arms over his gut, trying to project some kind of bravado. “You think you can just come in here, point a gun, and start barking orders? You’re in my place. I’ve got people—”

I let him run his mouth for a moment, listening as he talks big, watching his eyes dart to the door, calculating some kind of escape plan. But he’s not getting out of this, and he knows it. I wait until the words hang in the air, giving him enough rope to hang himself with.

Then I move. Fast.

I’m on him in a heartbeat, grabbing his wrist and twisting his arm behind his back. Dollar lets out a yelp, but I’m not done. I slam his face down into the table, right into the pile of cocaine scattered across it. The drugs explode in the air, and Dollar’s nose grinds into the wood as he struggles beneath me.

“You got any other smartass comments to make?” I ask. “You gonna keep testing my patience?”

Dollar sputters, his breath ragged, trying to get a word out through the pain. He knows he’s out of his league now, and I’m done playing nice.

I press harder on Dollar’s twisted arm, feeling the resistance of bone and muscle. He squirms beneath me, his face grinding further into the table, smearing the coke across his nose and lips. He struggles, trying to free himself, but it’s no use. When the pain becomes too much, the tough-guy act drops, and the pleading begins.

“Please, man, just let me—” he starts, voice desperate.

“Shut the fuck up and give me what I want,” I growl, twisting his arm a little more for good measure. The sharp whimper that escapes him tells me he’s ready to spill.

“What do you want?” Dollar pants, face streaked with white powder, eyes wide with fear.

“You know what I want.” My voice is ice. “I want to know what the cartel’s planning.”

Dollar swallows hard, realizing this is his only way out. “Okay, okay! I’ll give it to you straight.”

“I’m not playing,” I say, my grip tightening just enough to remind him that I’m in control here.

“The Molina Cartel… they’re planning to take over the whole city,” Dollar says, his voice strained. “They’re gonna torch Ivanov’s business to the ground. A warning, you know? Make a statement.”

“And me?” I ask, already knowing the answer but wanting to hear it from him.

“They’ve got you in their crosshairs,” Dollar gasps. “They want to make a special example out of you.”

“Who’s running the show? Oscar Molina’s dead.”

Dollar’s face twists in pain. “I don’t know, man! I swear! All I know is a guy named Claudio Sanchez is making moves here in Chicago. That’s all I’ve heard.”

Claudio Sanchez. The name hangs in the air. It’s a start.

I release my grip slightly, letting Dollar catch his breath.

I keep him pinned down for a little longer, pressing just enough to make sure the fear sticks. His shallow breaths come in ragged bursts, and I can feel the tremor running through his body. He needs to understand that his life is hanging by a thread—and I’m the one holding the scissors.

Finally, I release him, shoving him off the table. He stumbles, wiping his face with the back of his hand, smearing the coke even more. He sniffs the remnants off his fingers, desperate to regain some composure.

“I’ll be back,” I say coldly, “if I need more info. And when I come back, I expect you to clear your fucking schedule.”

Dollar nods quickly, rubbing his sore arm, still shaking like a kicked dog. “Yeah, yeah, man. Whatever you say. But listen, there’s a war coming. The Molina Cartel—man, they’re not like anything you’ve dealt with before. You and your family, you’re gonna face a real enemy this time.”

I smirk, the challenge stirring something dark inside me. ‘Good. I could use the thrill.’

Dollar stares at me. I take a step toward the door but stop long enough to look back over my shoulder. “Choose your side wisely,” I warn. “You don’t want to be on the wrong one when this all goes down.”

With that, I leave the room, my mind racing. The pieces are starting to come together, and it’s clear now—everyone I care about is in danger.