Page 15 of Lord of Obsession

"Shut up," I snarl, but the words emerge in Italian, raw and hungry. My control splinters as his thigh slides between mine, the movement deliberate and claiming.

"Make me." His challenge comes out rough with want. One hand slides up my back underneath my shirt, his nails scraping against my skin, to grip my neck, pulling me closer until our breaths mingle. "Show me exactly what you are."

The space between us disappears entirely. His mouth hovers a breath away from mine, promising something I've refused to let myself want. My hands fist in his jacket, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer. The scent of his cologne fills my lungs, makingme dizzy with need.

Then he smiles, sharp and knowing, and pulls back just enough to deny contact. "Not yet," he murmurs, voice dark with promise. "Not until you admit what you really want."

The loss of his heat hits me like a physical blow. I stumble back, my carefully ordered world tilting dangerously on its axis. My body burns with frustrated desire, every nerve ending screaming for contact that's suddenly gone.

Dario straightens his jacket with deliberate slowness, satisfaction radiating from every movement. "Sweet dreams, Rafael," he says, then slips away into the shadows of my apartment.

The metal front door clicks shut behind him, leaving me in heavy silence. I remain frozen, breathing hard, my body humming with needs I've denied for years. The cool glass of the window presses against my forehead as I lean there, trying to regain the control that's slipped so completely from my grasp.

But there's no going back now. No pretending I don't feel this hunger burning through my veins. No denying what Dariosaw when he looked at me—the violence and desire twisted together in my DNA.

The city stretches vast beyond my windows, but I see only my reflection: flushed, disheveled, all my masks finally cracking. Everything I've built, every wall I've constructed, every pretense of normalcy—all of it disintegrating to dust under the weight of what just happened. What almost happened.

My security system reactivates with a soft chime, protocols resetting one by one. But it's too late for protection now. The real threat isn't outside anymore; it's under my skin, in my blood, in the way my body still yearns deeply for his touch.

God help me, I want more.

SIX

DARIO

The warehouse's metal walls trap Montcove's autumn chill, turning my breath to fog as I inspect our latest shipment. Salt and rust perfume the air, mixing with motor oil and gunpowder—the signature scent of our family's business. Wooden crates line the loading bay, their contents worth more than most people make in a lifetime. Stenciled warnings in multiple languages hint at what's inside, though half are deliberate misdirects.

Not that the value matters; this is about something else entirely. It’s about creating the perfect stage for what comes next.

Industrial fans spin lazily overhead, their rhythmic creaking a counterpoint to wavesslapping against the harbor's concrete walls outside. Everything here tells a story of power wrapped in decay: water stains tracing patterns down corrugated steel, bullet holes patched with fresh paint, bloodstains scrubbed from concrete but still visible if you know where to look. It's exactly the kind of place that will make Rafael's careful mask fracture.

"West entrance is secured," Marco reports, his footsteps echoing against concrete. "Perimeter team's in position. No sign of Valenti surveillance."

I wave him off without looking. The security arrangements were finalized hours ago, every detail planned with the same precision I use for hits. The difference is, tonight I'm not looking to end a life. I'm looking to crack one open and see what spills out.

My office overlooks the warehouse floor from behind bulletproof glass. I've spent the past week transforming it from a basic industrial command center into something more fitting: Italian leather furniture, antique weapons mounted on exposed brick, a bar stocked with liquor that costs more than a college education.

The perfect mix of luxury and menace.

"The package arrived," one of my newer guys announces from the doorway. Smart enough not to enter without permission. "Special delivery, like you asked."

A smile tugs at my lips as I examine the final piece of tonight's tableau. Rafael's notebook, stolen from his gym locker this morning, rests on my desk like a trophy. Its pages hold his precise handwriting, legal arguments laid out with military efficiency. The same way he was taught to document kills, once upon a time.

The warehouse's shadows deepen as sunset approaches, stretching like clawing fingers across stained concrete. Metal groans and settles around us, the building's bones adjusting to temperature changes that turn every surface into a frozen threat. Rain starts to fall outside, droplets hammering against the metal roof in a rhythm like distant gunfire. Every sound carries meaning here: the whisper of my security team's movements, the hum of surveillance equipment, and the hollow echo of footsteps against steel catwalks overhead. A symphony of power and control that Rafael won't be able to ignore. One thatwill reach past all his carefully constructed defenses and touch the inner assassin he's tried to bury.

Chains suspended from overhead cranes sway in drafts, their links catching dying sunlight and flicking in something that looks like Morse code. The warehouse keeps its own secrets and holds its own horrors. How many bodies have passed through here, wrapped in plastic and weighted down with concrete or fishing wire? How many deals gone wrong have ended in copper-scented lessons about respect?

It’s the perfect backdrop for making a Valenti remember his heritage.

My phone buzzes with another update from the team watching his apartment. Right on schedule. He's reviewing the "evidence" I arranged to be sent to him: photographs suggesting Greco family involvement in a case he's studying, documents that hint at corruption in Valmont's criminal justice program, and, most importantly, a trail of breadcrumbs leading straight to my door.

The perfect trap needs the perfect bait.

"Sir." It's Marco again, hovering at the threshold. "The professor made the call. ToldValenti he needs to verify some sources tonight. Said it was urgent."

I dismiss him with a nod, satisfaction curling through my chest. Professor Harrison's gambling debts made him particularly receptive to persuasion. One phone call to Rafael about "urgent concerns" with his legal research, and the hook is set.

A security camera feed shows the warehouse's exterior floodlights cutting through gathering darkness and guards positioned with calculated casualness. Everything designed to look just threatening enough to make Rafael's training kick in, but not enough to make him bolt. The razor's edge between fear and fascination that I've been dancing on since that first night in the library.

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