Page 152 of Maddening Fixation

Women weren’t trusted with that kind of authority.

But he had made certain that if danger ever found us...

We wouldn’t be helpless.

Standing beneath the harsh security lights with a loaded gun tucked against my back, I silently thanked him for every painful lesson I’d once resented.

Romeo strode toward the building without a single glance over his shoulder, as though he never questioned whether I would follow.

I did.

Keeping pace a few steps behind him, I crossed the concrete yard in silence, the cool night air brushing against my bare legs.

Every instinct told me I didn’t belong here. Yet somehow, walking behind him felt safer than waiting alone in that empty bungalow.

The massive steel doors groaned open.

The moment we stepped inside, the atmosphere changed.

The cavernous hall resembled the hollow shell of an abandoned factory, its iron walls stretching high above us.

Thick steel beams crisscrossed the ceiling while aging machinery, wooden crates, and stacked shipping pallets created narrow lanes and pockets of shadow.

This wasn’t just a meeting place.

It was a battlefield waiting for permission to erupt.

On one side of the hall stood a crew that was unmistakably not Irish.

They carried themselves with a different kind of menace — sharper suits, heavier gold, and the kind of quiet arrogance I had learned to recognize long ago.

They looked like men from the Chicago outfit.

Growing up in the Bratva and attending those annual underground mafia balls had taught me how to read the room.

You could tell who was who by the way they dressed, the way they moved, the way they carried their weapons — subtle tells that most people missed, but I never did.

There were fewer of them, but every man carried himself with the quiet confidence of someone accustomed to violence.

Assault rifles rested casually against their chests, fingers never far from the triggers.

And right now, every instinct screamed that these were the men Romeo had come to meet.

The tension in the air was thick enough to choke on.

Across from them stood Romeo’s men.

There were considerably more Irish soldiers, their tailored dark suits giving them the appearance of businessmen rather than killers.

Yet the slight bulges beneath their jackets made it obvious every one of them was armed.

Their hands rested loosely near concealed pistols, their expressions unreadable as they watched the visitors.

No one smiled. No one spoke.

The silence itself felt dangerous.

I tightened my grip behind my back, where the handgun rested securely against my waistband.