Dark Romance: A Cruel Obsession

“What’s going on?” The smell of blood made Vivian very uncomfortable. The nauseating sourness was about to surge up from her stomach again. Vivian swallowed several mouthfuls of saliva to barely restrain the urge to rush into the bathroom.

Alajos was lying on the spacious sofa, his abdomen heaving violently as fresh blood gushed from the wound. A stranger, sweating profusely, held a medical kit, while Simpson, holding a scalpel, looked uncertain.

“He’s been shot,” Simpson said as he rummaged through the medical kit. “I need help getting the bullet out.”

Enduring intense pain, Alajos propped himself up on the sofa, barely preventing himself from collapsing. “Go downstairs, Vivian,” he insisted.

“No,” Vivian shook her head. “You should go to the hospital.”

Simpson looked at Alajos, evidently agreeing with Vivian’s viewpoint.

Only Alajos stubbornly shook his head, his attitude resolute. “It’s not possible.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m the Capo,” Alajos emphasized. “A Capo cannot be injured. Being injured means becoming weak, and weakness will attract countless enemies, putting the entire Houston Mafia in danger.”

Alajos’s gaze was stern, leaving no room for negotiation. “I can’t.”

Vivian understood. Alajos’s concerns were valid. Everyone was watching the Capo-Bratva, followers, and even Joseph, whom Vivian reluctantly had to admit was also watching him.

His health, his strength, his continued youthful vigor-all of these were crucial factors for maintaining stability in Houston.

Vivian understood, she understood it all.

But…

“Then let Felise come,” Vivian suggested again.

Alajos shook his head once more, rejecting the proposal. “Simpson can do it.” Even as the family doctor, he wasn’t entirely trustworthy. At least when he became weak, there was no one he could trust.

“Stubborn!” Vivian was furious. Simpson’s actions seemed unfamiliar, he might not even know how to treat a gunshot wound.

But Vivian couldn’t change Alajos’s mind. She could only endure the discomfort in her stomach and step forward to take Simpson’s place.

Alajos frowned at her. She held the scalpel in a standard manner. “You…”

“Although I might not be better than a real doctor, I’m definitely better than Simpson,” Vivian pretended to be calm.

She poured alcohol onto a hurriedly grabbed towel. “It’s going to sting a bit,” she warned Alajos before using the towel to wipe away the blood around the wound and disinfect it.

A sharp stinging sensation ensued. Alajos gritted his teeth as a low growl forced its way from his throat. His fingers clutched the leather edge of the sofa, the veins on the back of his hand standing out from the exertion.

Vivian disinfected the scalpel and forceps in the same way. She glanced at Alajos. She needed to use the scalpel to cut open the flesh near the wound, then use the forceps to extract the bullet from inside the wound. It would be painful, but they had no anesthetic at the moment.

“Go ahead,” Alajos closed his eyes, indicating that Vivian could begin.

Vivian pursed her lips. Her hands were steady. In truth, she had no experience. When she was in Los Angeles, her father and brothers never brought business matters, including bloody wounds, back to their residence, including gunshot wounds.

Vivian only remembered one occasion, the most intense battle between Los Angeles and Bratva. Her grandfather lost his life in that battle, and her father was shot twice. The old Capo had already passed away, and news of the heir being injured would have spelled the end for the Los Angeles Mafia.

So her father retreated to their residence, and her mother tended to his wounds. A young Vivian stood by, wide-eyed, trying to help.

To explore the bullet inside Alajos’s body more accurately, Vivian crouched down, pressing her body as low as possible so that her line of sight was parallel to the wound.

The scalpel cut through the flesh, and blood almost instantly welled up. Vivian could feel Alajos’s body trembling, but she dared not look at his expression, nor did she dare to stop.

Alajos, however, kept watching Vivian, watching her restrained face, her trembling eyelashes, her furrowed brow and the beads of sweat on her forehead. Focus, endurance, resilience-this was a side of Vivian that Alajos had never seen before.

The icy forceps probing into the flesh didn’t feel good. Alajos almost gnashed his teeth, barely preventing himself from screaming in agony.

With a “clink,” the bullet fell into the tray. Vivian felt her hands trembling, but she didn’t stop. She took the sterilized needle from Simpson and began to stitch Alajos’s wound.

Truly, Alajos was a resilient and powerful man. Throughout the entire procedure of bullet extraction and stitching without anesthesia, he only let out a couple of involuntary cries, but never let himself lose control. When Vivian finished treating the wound, he remained alert.This material belongs to NôvelDrama.Org.

After crouching for so long, Vivian’s feet had gone numb. When she stood up, she nearly stumbled backward, but Mare, who had been keeping an eye on her, steadied her just in time.

“I’m fine,” Vivian said as she moved to sit on a nearby armchair. “Alajos should go back to his room.”

Vivian learned from Simpson that the unfamiliar man was named Festus, also one of Alajos’s men.

Assisted by Simpson and Festus, Alajos made his way upstairs, supported on both sides.

Once Alajos’s figure disappeared up the staircase, Vivian’s tense nerves slowly relaxed. Her right hand held the scalpel and the needle, both stained with Alajos’s blood, damp and sticky, heavy with the smell of blood.

“Ugh!” Vivian couldn’t hold it in any longer. She brushed off Mare’s attempt to assist her and rushed into the downstairs bathroom, leaning over the toilet to vomit.

Dinner was with the Luzia family, and Joseph was there too. Faced with Joseph’s terrifying presence, Vivian had no appetite at all.

She hadn’t eaten much, so there wasn’t much to vomit, and in the end, she dry-heaved. Mare helped her heat up a kettle of water. “Do you need to drink some?”

Vivian couldn’t speak. She gestured with her hand and then leaned over the toilet for a while before slowly recovering.

Mare helped her up-Vivian’s weight was inconsequential to him-and brought her to the washbasin. Vivian turned on the tap, splashing cold water on her face, gradually reviving.

At the same time, her dizzy head began to clear.

Festus?

“What’s the name of Alajos’s bodyguard?” Vivian asked.

Mare answered, “Festus.”

Vivian remembered Shirley. “Is his full name Festus Roscente?”

“Yes,” Mare replied. “Festus’s brother is the heir of the Roscente family. Both brothers are elite members groomed by the Houston Mafia. The older brother, Emmert, specializes in ambushes, while Festus is a hacker. They are both valuable assistants to Alajos.”

Because the heir was Emmert, the Roscente family agreed to the marriage proposal from Shirley’s father and allowed Shirley’s future children to become heirs of the Benoist family?

Vivian realized that she truly didn’t understand the power structure in Houston. Before, she didn’t want to understand, and now, when she wanted to, there seemed to be no way to learn.

Perhaps she could ask Alajos? But would he tell her?