Twisted Obsession (Editing)

66 - Dinner Date

Athena Luciana BIanchi

The skyline of Manhattan stretched around us like a jagged crown of steel and light—glittering, cold, and indifferent. From up here—the rooftop of the Municipal Government Building—the heartbeat of the city felt distant, muffled beneath the hum of traffic and the faint wail of a siren several blocks away. The air smelled like rain on concrete and smoke. Quiet. Almost reverent.

But silence in this city was always a lie.

Just like the man standing in front of us: Senator Malcolm Crane.

He adjusted the cuffs of his pristine suit, hands steady even though the pavement behind him was only a few inches away from becoming his grave. The glow of the rooftop aviation beacon pulsed red against his skin, casting shadows across his aging face, making him look less like a politician and more like something rotting behind a mask of power.

"I've done a lot for this city," he said, smooth as ever, his voice crawling between us like a greasy hand. His eyes darted between me and Lorenzo, calculating, pleading. "You think it's easy to keep order? To manage people? You have no idea what it's like in my position... especially with Allister breathing down my neck. His threats aren't—aren't empty."

Lorenzo let out a short, sharp laugh, eyes gleaming with disdain. "Allister's threats?" he repeated, tilting his head slightly. "You were scared of that joke of a fuck?"

He stood like a marble statue, hands in the pockets of his black coat, posture relaxed but ready—always ready. The wind tugged at the hem of his jacket and ruffled his curls, casting him in that effortless elegance he always wore before doing something monstrous. If you didn't know who he was, you'd think he was heading to some high-society gala instead of deciding whether or not to end a man's life.

Crane took a hesitant step back, glancing over his shoulder at the street lights far, far below. His throat bobbed. "Let's talk about this," he said quickly, his voice losing its polish. "In my office. I'll explain everything. We can make a deal. Lorenzo, come on—this isn't really your style, is it? You're a man of precision. You like power, not chaos. Throwing me off a building?" He gave a humorless laugh. "A government building, no less. That's not you."

Lorenzo's lips curved in a quiet, almost sympathetic smile. The kind of smile someone might give a child before taking away the last thing they care about.

"You're right," he murmured. "It's not my style.

And for a heartbeat, I watched Crane actually relax, the fear in his shoulders loosening like he thought he'd been granted mercy.

Then Lorenzo turned to me, eyes hard, voice darker.

"But it sure as hell is hers."

He stepped aside, parting the way like a curtain unveiling the final act.

My heels clicked against the rooftop as I approached him—slow, deliberate. Each step was a sentence in the verdict he already knew was coming. Crane lifted his hands, palms out, lips trembling.

"Luciana, please—whatever you think I've done—"

"It's Ms. Bianchi, motherfucker," I snapped, my voice slicing through the night like a whip.

His mouth hung open, stunned.

"You rerouted federal relief into shell companies and offshore accounts linked to the Allister's while children starved two blocks from your motorcade" I continued, my voice cold, each word a nail in his coffin. "You let neighborhoods rot while you smiled on camera and kissed babies for the press."