His Crimson Obsession

Chapter five — Want

Nigel’s POV

“Colombians are late again,” my man muttered, shifting uneasily as he held out the ledger. His hands shook slightly, though he tried to steady them against the table. “Shipment was supposed to dock at midnight. But It’s two hours past.”

I exhaled a slow stream of smoke, leaning back in the chair. The Palacito’s backroom smelled of stale liquor and old leather, the dim light casting shadows across the scarred table between us.

“Two hours is an inconvenience. Four becomes disrespect. If they don’t show by dawn, I’ll assume betrayal.”

He swallowed. “What should we do if someone tries to skim—”

“Cut off their hands,” I said smoothly, tapping cigarette ash into the crystal tray. “Send them back with the invoice.”

His eyes widened. “Y-yes, boss.”

I stood, brushing an invisible speck of dust from my suit. “Keep me updated.”

I didn’t wait for his reply. Business bored me when it dragged. I needed silence—or at least whiskey. Something to quiet the noise in my head.

---

The lounge at the Palacito was half-shadow, half-decadence—velvet curtains, the hum of low jazz, smoke curling in golden lamplight. As I crossed toward the bar, a flicker of movement caught my eye.

Luke.

He slipped out of the hallway, collar loose, hair mussed. He froze when he saw me, like a thief caught mid-act. His hand twitched at his side, then he forced a weak smile.

“Nigel.”

Behind him, a door closed—the door to Vato’s private suite. Interesting.

Not that I was going to pry. Some words weren’t worth spoken .

“Did you deliver the money to the waitress?” I asked.

Luke blinked, visibly relieved. “Yes. She got it.”

I gave a faint nod, brushing past him.

---

At the bar, Vato leaned back, grinning like a wolf who knew too much. “You’re late,” he teased. “Chasing ghosts again?”

I poured bourbon into a glass. “Not really. But I did run into Luke on my way here.”

He nearly choked on his drink. That told me everything.

“Not that I mind if you two are f*****g,” I said flatly, “but if you’re just going to toy with him, drop it.”

“And when did you become so caring?” Vato scoffed. “You usually don’t give a damn about romance—much less about who I sleep with.”

My glare hardened. “I care if the person you’re screwing is my cousin. Do what you want, but don’t let it come between you and his job. Or I’ll get involved.” The last thing I wanted was to kill my right hand because he couldn’t keep his d**k out of trouble.

Vato smirked. “Speaking of romance—standing up for people isn’t really your thing.”

I arched a brow.

He chuckled. “That waitress at the gala—she rattled you. Haven’t seen a woman do that before. You even made sure she got paid.”

I turned the glass in my hand, the amber catching the lamplight. “She was a curiosity. Nothing more. Women like her don’t belong in my world. She’s beneath me.”

Vato’s grin widened. “Beneath you, huh? You sound like a man trying to convince himself.”

“Careful,” I warned, voice low.

“Relax, princy. I’m just saying what we’re all thinking. That girl—what’s her name? I think her friend called her Gaby. She’s been living rent-free in your head ever since she marched out on you.”

The whiskey burned down my throat as I snapped, “Stop trying to dissect me. I said she’s nothing. That means she’s nothing. Know your boundaries, Vato.”

He lifted his hands in mock surrender. “Of course, Prince.” But the gleam in his eyes told me he wasn’t done.

“I’m going for a drive. No guards.”

“Prince, that’s dangerous. What if you’re attacked—”

I silenced him with a glare.

---

I changed into something simple yet commanding: a black turtleneck, tailored black trousers, leather shoes that caught the light. Not a suit, but power clung to the fabric like a second skin.

The Maserati roared to life, the sound a balm against the gnawing silence. I drove with no destination, neon lights bleeding against the glass, the city reduced to rhythm and control. Driving was my sanctuary—the one place my thoughts didn’t claw me apart.

Until a scooter swerved in front of me at a green light.

The brakes screamed, my car jerking as groceries scattered across the asphalt.

Rage ignited. Who dared step in front of me? Whoever it was would bleed.

I shoved the door open, fury boiling.

And then I saw her.

The waitress.

She stumbled, brushing dirt from her dress, chin lifted in defiance. Not fear. Fury.

“Are you insane?” she snapped, storming toward me. “Do you drive like this for fun, or is nearly killing people some kind of rich-boy hobby?”

My anger stalled. She wasn’t trembling, wasn’t begging. She was glaring at me—me—as if I were the one in the wrong.

“Watch your tongue,” I said, my voice a quiet blade.

She crossed her arms. “No. You watch your driving. You almost killed me. Can’t you read traffic signs? Even kids know red means stop.”

Then her eyes sharpened. Recognition.

“Wait—you’re that blue-eyed bastard from the gala.”

My eyes widened—not because she recognized me, but because she cursed me without hesitation.

She jabbed a finger into my chest. “Don’t just stand there, rich boy. How are you going to compensate me for this?”

Compensate?

I almost laughed. No one demanded from me. No one. But her eyes—stubborn, blazing, unwilling to lower—shifted something in me.

I pulled a stack of bills from the car console and held it out. “This should cover your dramatics.”

She snatched it without hesitation. “Unbelievable. Typical rich-people behavior. You think money fixes everything.”

“Doesn’t it?” I murmured.

Her silence was answer enough.

The words slipped out of my mouth before I could stop them. “Where do you live?”

Suspicion flickered instantly in her gaze. “Why?”

“I’ll take you home.” My tone left no room for argument.

She sighed, exasperated. “Fine. But not because I want your help. I need to get home before my meat spoils. And for the record—I’m not telling you where I live. Drop me at the next street.”

I studied her. Most would’ve begged to be escorted. She demanded distance. Interesting. Very interesting.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

She glared like she’d spit in my face if she could. “None of your business. Are you driving me or not?”

Something about the way she stood there—defiant, chin raised like a soldier before execution—was… endearing. Cute, even. Against my will, a corner of my mouth twitched.

I opened the passenger door. She slid in stiffly, arms crossed like a shield.

The ride was silent, except for the steady hum of the engine. Every few seconds, I caught her reflection in the window—jaw tight, gaze locked outside. Not once did she look at me.

At the next street corner, she said, “Here. Stop.”

I pulled over. She stepped out without hesitation, disappearing into the glow of a flickering streetlight. She didn’t look back.

The Maserati purred into the night, but my hand was already on my phone.

“Luke,” I said when he answered.

“Yes, Nigel?”

“Find out everything about her. Name, family, where she sleeps at night. Everything.”

A pause. Then: “The waitress?”

My grip tightened on the wheel. “Yes. The waitress.”

I hung up before he could say more.

The city blurred outside my windows, but for once, the drive didn’t clear my head. It only sharpened one truth—

I wanted her.

I wanted her in ways beyond logic, beyond reason.

And she was going to be mine.