His Dangerous Obsession

The Watcher

(Lisa’s POV)

The alarm clock buzzed like an angry hornet, and I groaned, slapping it off before it woke Emily. My entire body ached, my feet screaming from hours of carrying trays and dodging groping hands. I’d showered the smell of smoke and alcohol off last night, but I couldn’t scrub away the image of the man with the sharp gaze in the corner booth the one who’d made my chest tighten with just a look.

Dominic Moretti.

I didn’t know his name then, but I’d heard whispers after my shift ended. Whispers that the club belonged to him. Whispers that should have terrified me.

Instead, I couldn’t stop remembering the weight of his stare.

“Mom?”

Emily’s sleepy voice snapped me back. She stood in the doorway, her hair a mess of tangles, her stuffed rabbit clutched to her chest. Her big brown eyes scanned me, sharp for an eight year old.

“You look tired,” she said softly.

I forced a smile and patted the spot beside me. “Just stayed up too late, baby. Nothing a little coffee won’t fix.”

She climbed onto the bed, curling against me, her warmth both a comfort and a reminder of why I was doing this. Why I had to keep going back to that place, no matter how much my pride screamed at me to quit.

“Are you sure you like this new job?” she asked, her voice muffled against my arm.

I hesitated, brushing her hair back. “It’s… hard work. But it pays the bills. That’s what matters, right?”

She frowned, unconvinced. She was too perceptive, too aware. I hated that she had to see me this way.

When she drifted back to sleep, I sat there for a long time, staring at the ceiling. My chest ached with guilt. I couldn’t tell her where I worked. I couldn’t tell her about the smoke, the men, the way Dominic’s eyes had pinned me in place.

But tonight, I’d have to go back.

And the thought terrified me more than the rent overdue notice on the kitchen counter.

(Dominic’s POV)

The man’s screams echoed off the concrete walls, sharp and ragged, the sound bouncing back at me like a hymn I’d heard too many times to be moved by. He was tied to a steel chair in the center of the room, sweat and blood soaking through his shirt, the air heavy with the iron scent of it.

I dragged the blade slowly across his forearm, not deep enough to kill just enough to remind him who was in control. His whimpers turned to guttural cries, and I leaned back, watching him unravel piece by piece.

On the table beside me lay a spread of tools: knives, pliers, a hammer, even a blowtorch. Each one had its purpose. Each one told a story.

“You thought you could skim off my shipment?” I murmured, my voice low, calm, a quiet counterpoint to his panic. “You thought I wouldn’t notice?”

He shook his head violently, the chair clattering. “Please—I didn’t—I swear—”

I pressed the pliers against his hand, squeezing until bone threatened to snap. His scream tore through the room, high and desperate. My men stood at the edges, stone-faced. They’d seen worse.

I felt nothing but the steady rhythm of control. Torture wasn’t about rage it was about precision. About sending a message.

When the man’s resistance finally cracked, when he choked out the names I needed, I wiped the blood from my hands with a linen cloth and dismissed him with a nod to my men. They’d finish the rest.

I poured myself a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the dim light. For a moment, as I swirled it, an image surfaced

The clumsy waitress from last night. The way she’d nearly spilled a drink on me, her wide eyes flashing with nerves, her hands trembling as though she knew she didn’t belong in my world.

I took a slow sip, forcing the thought away. She was nothing. A distraction. My world had no place for distractions.

(Lisa’s POV)

The mirror in my cramped bathroom reflected a face I barely recognized dark circles under my eyes, lipstick smudged twice before I finally got it right. My daughter’s soft voice still echoed in my head from earlier.

“You look tired, Mommy.”

I’d lied. Told her it was just the laundry keeping me up, just the bills piling higher. She didn’t need to know about the smoke filled rooms, the heavy bass that rattled my chest, or the strange man whose dark eyes had pinned me in place last night.

I slipped on the cheap black heels I’d bought secondhand, adjusted the low cut blouse the manager insisted was “uniform,” and whispered a prayer under my breath. One more night. Just make it through one more night.

The club’s neon sign buzzed as I walked in, the bouncers giving me a once over before waving me inside. The air was thick with perfume, liquor, and lust. Everything felt too loud, too bright, too fast.

“Lisa,” one of the senior waitresses barked, pressing a tray into my hands before I could even greet her. “Table nine. Don’t screw it up this time.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat, balancing the drinks carefully as I weaved through the crowd. My nerves made me clumsy, but I held on tighter, willing my legs not to shake.

And then like a weight pressing against my skin I felt it.

Eyes. Watching me.

I didn’t have to search long.

Up in the private lounge, framed by shadows and smoke, he was there. The man from last night. Dominic Moretti.

He wasn’t even pretending not to look. His gaze was sharp, assessing, lingering just long enough to make my stomach knot. Like he could see every part of me I was trying to hide.

My heel caught on the edge of the carpet. The tray wobbled, glasses clinking dangerously before I steadied them with a gasp. A couple of men laughed crudely at my near-mistake, but I kept moving, heat flooding my cheeks.

When I dared glance back up at the lounge, he was still watching me. Still unblinking.

I tore my eyes away and hurried toward the table, reminding myself why I was here. For rent. For food. For my daughter.

Not for him. Never for him.