His Reluctant Obsession

Mrs.Moretti

Under the heavy watch of the two hefty bodyguards beside her, Elena moved along the corridors, down the hall, her fingertips grazing the cool marble as she explored. The mansion was a study in restraint and power—vaulted ceilings, shadowed alcoves, gilded edges where they didn’t belong. It felt less like a home and more like a kingdom carved from silence.

She admired the architectural detail with the eyes of someone who had grown up around wealth but never this kind. Everything here whispered of old money and older secrets.

A part of her wandered for the sake of distraction. The other part searched—for something, for anything—that might tell her who Nikolai Moretti truly was when no one was watching

They went further through the house and her steps slowed as she turned a corner into a dim corridor, the air colder here, the walls narrower—as if the house itself held its breath.

She stopped.

A single spotlight illuminated the far end of the hall, casting long shadows over ornate paneling. And there, mounted between two towering bookshelves, was a head.

At first, her mind refused to register it. A sculpture, she told herself. Art. Some grotesque antique Nikolai thought impressive. But as she stepped closer, the truth came into focus.

Skin, too pale. Eyes, vacant. Lips parted, as if frozen mid-scream.

Her breath caught.

It was real. A human’s bloodied head.

Stuffed. Preserved. Displayed.

Not like a trophy. No animal had been hunted here.

This was a message.

Her stomach churned, but she didn’t move. She couldn’t—not yet. Not until her mind caught up with her body.

It wasn’t someone she knew. That should have brought relief. It didn’t.

Because the horror wasn’t in the identity—it was in the fact of it. That this was the kind of house where such a thing could exist. Quiet. Unapologetic. Hung like a portrait.

What kind of man beheads a human being and have his head hung on the wall for all to see?

Although her father was also a powerful Don who killed people, it wasn't this ruthless or so she thought.

She backed away, pulse pounding in her ears. Not from fear.

From understanding.

Nikolai Moretti didn’t hide what he was.

He curated it.

She hadn’t seen the devil yet… but she could feel him in the walls.

She shivered.

“Oh my God! Why on earth will you both bring her to this wing?” an elderly woman snapped at the guards as she hurried over, her voice laced with concern.

“Are you okay my dear?”

Elena nodded, eyes still fixated on the bloodied head as she remained rooted in her spot in shock.

“Let's go to your room. Am so sorry you had to see that.” the woman said gently, casting a sharp glare at the guards as she led Elena away from the scene.

“It's okay. Just.. take me to my room please.” Elena yawned, obviously from the journey's fatigue.

“Sure. Your room and the Master's are in the East Wing.”

Elena did not reply her, she simply nodded and looked around, taking in the sight of her surroundings as they left the shadows of the West wing behind.

When they arrived, the woman led her in and began drawing a warm bath.

“His name was Hallan. He tried to poison the Master. Fortunately, Nikolai caught wind of it, had him tortured until he confessed... then beheaded him and ordered his head mounted as a warning to anyone who might try the same.” Her voice was calm, as if recounting the weather. “His remains were sent to his senders to also warn them to back off.”

Elena remained mute, trying to grasp the kind of person she was now bound to.

“What kind of person is he though?” She finally replied, her eyes excuding weariness as they roamed around the room.

“There's a whole lot to say but I think it's best you figure out and learn more about your husband as time goes on.. Mrs. Moretti”

She got up and headed for the door, “My name is Clara, Nikolai's nanny and the Head of staff around here. Let me know if you need anything.”

Elena shivered, reality dawning on her that she's now the wife of a dreadful Don. She trembled as she tried to imagine a baldie who treats girls like rags, beheads people and lick their blood off the knives. She snapped her eyes shut as she fought very hard to stop imagining how worse her life had just become.

⸻ Blood. Rage. Power. ⸻

“f**k! I told you to f*****g destroy that bastard's territory.”

With a frustrated roar, Massimo flipped the coffee table, sending the bottles and glasses shattering in shards against the wall. The room trembled with the weight of his fury.

Two of his men flinched but said nothing. No one dared speak when Massimo was like this—when the storm inside him surged past the point of control.

An informant scurried into the room like a rainbeaten cat to approach Massimo. He whispered something in his ears which irritated him the more.

Massimo’s jaw clenched as he poured himself a drink with shaking hands, the amber liquid sloshing over the rim. He didn’t bother wiping it.

“He’s getting sloppy,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Thinking with his c**k instead of his head.”

“He thinks marrying some Sinclair doll will protect him?” he spat, pacing the length of the room like a caged animal. “He thinks that f*****g name gives him immunity?”

The informant lingered awkwardly by the door, unsure whether to speak or vanish.

Massimo turned to him, eyes burning. “What else?”

“She… she just arrived at the estate, sir. Under heavy guard. Looks like the Sinclairs are playing nice..for now.”

Massimo sneered, tossing back the drink in one swallow. “Of course they are. They’d sell their souls for power.”

He moved to the window, staring out at the gray sky above the city that once knelt for his family name. His reflection glared back—haunted, hollow, and furious.

One of the men, Luca, brave or foolish, maybe both, cleared his throat. “We didn’t anticipate the Antonellis pullback. The port was supposed to go dark.”

Massimo’s eyes snapped to him, dark and wild. “You think I give a damn about your excuses? This was supposed to be the first blow. The beginning of the end.”

He grabbed a bottle from the shelf, smashed it against the floor, and stared at the broken glass like it had betrayed him.

“Nikolai took everything,” he growled. “My birthright. My power. My place. I built the foundation he's standing on. And now he’s parading around and playing house like some f*****g untouchable king.”

A beat of silence.

“Let him enjoy his little honeymoon,” Massimo said, voice dropping into something cold. “Let him believe this is a victory. Then we remind him. Crowns can be broken. Kings can bleed.”

He turned, eyes gleaming like a wolf’s.

“Because when I strike, he won’t just lose his crown.”

He smiled then, sharp and joyless.

“He’ll lose her too.”