Page 2 of Lord of Obsession

He's younger than I expected. Maybe a year older than me, but there's something ageless about the way he holds himself, something that speaks of violence witnessed and dealt. While I've spent years in libraries learning to interpret laws, he's been learning to break them in increasingly brutal ways. The Greco family's attack dog, unleashed on their enemies. What hell is he doing here?

"Last cup of the day," the barista says, sliding my coffee across the counter. Her smile falters as she glances past me, and I know without looking that Dario has moved closer.

I pay in cash—I always pay in cash—and wrap my hands around the cup. The heat burns my palms, but I welcome it. A tangible sensation to focus on. The barista hurries to finish her cleaning, clearly unsettled by something she can't quite name. She's picking up on Dario's energy, the coiled violence he doesn't bother to hide.

When I turn, he's examining the café's bulletin board with apparent interest, but his attention is still on me. I can feel it like a physical touch. The coffee shop suddenly feels too small, too exposed. But returning to my study spot means passing him again, closer this time in the narrow passage between café tables.

I start walking, forcing myself to move at the same measured pace as before. Three steps. Two. One. As I draw even with him, he shifts his weight slightly, and every muscle in my body tenses for an attack that doesn't come. Instead, he just smiles, slow and deliberate, letting me see the predator behind his casual pose.

"Careful with that coffee," he says softly. "Be a shame to stain such a nice shirt."

The threat is clear, though wrapped in mundane words. I keep walking, even as my mind catalogs the possible meanings. A warning? A promise? Or just a Greco playing games with a Valenti who dares to pretend he's nothing more than a law student?

Back at my table, I set the coffee down with steady hands, but I can't stop my eyes from tracking his reflection in the windows. He's made no move to follow, stilllounging against the shelves like he has every right to be here. Like he hasn't just shattered the carefully maintained boundary between my two worlds.

The coffee burns my tongue as I sip it, bitter and familiar. My notes swim before my eyes. Constitutional law suddenly seems absurd in the face of family law, the ancient rules of power and revenge that govern our world. I straighten my papers again, a futile attempt to impose order on a night that's spinning rapidly out of control.

In the window's reflection, Dario finally moves, sliding into a seat with a clear view of my table. Settling in. Watching. Waiting. My sanctuary has become a cage, and we both know it.

Ten minutes. I've reread the same paragraph on judicial precedent ten times, absorbing nothing. Dario hasn't moved from his chosen spot, but his presence fills the library like smoke, choking out my concentration. My carefully organized notes mock me with their color-coded tabs and highlighted passages, as if legal knowledge could protect me from someone like him.

I maintain the pretense of studying, butmy mind races through possibilities. The Greco family hasn't directly moved against the Valentis in three years, not since the warehouse incident that left four dead. Uncle Salvatore's détente with Antonio Greco is supposed to be holding. Unless something's changed. Unless I've missed something in my self-imposed exile from family politics.

The redhead from earlier hurries past my table, shooting nervous glances at Dario. Smart girl. Even without knowing who he is, she senses the danger. Within minutes, the remaining students follow her lead, gathering their things with poorly concealed urgency. The library empties like a beach before a storm.

Only Mrs. Keating seems immune, moving between the shelves with the same unhurried precision she's shown for the past three years. Her cart squeaks slightly as she shelves returns, the sound unnaturally loud in the tense silence. I should leave too. Pack up my notes, retreat to my secured apartment, make some calls. But that would mean letting him win. Showing weakness.

"Library closes in fifteen minutes," Mrs. Keating announces, her voice echoingagainst the vaulted ceiling. She doesn't seem to notice—or chooses to ignore—the tension radiating between me and my unwanted observer.

I begin my usual end-of-session routine, but everything feels off-balance. My movements are too stiff, too controlled. My notes slide into their folders with sharp, angry sounds that betray my fraying composure. Dario watches it all with dark amusement, like a cat studying a particularly entertaining mouse.

When he finally stands, the movement is liquid grace, dangerous and deliberate. He stretches, his jacket riding up just enough to reveal the gun holstered at his hip. He’s not trying to hide it and making sure I see it. My hands clench around my textbook, knuckles white with tension.

He takes his time walking past my table, close enough that I catch another whiff of that expensive cologne mixed with leather and something metallic. Gun oil, maybe. His fingers trail across the polished wood of my table, a casual violation of my space that sets my teeth on edge.

"You've got good taste in study spots," he says, voice pitched low enough that Mrs.Keating won't hear. "Nice and quiet. Private." His smile shows too many teeth. "We should talk sometime. About law. I've got some questions about…criminal procedure."

The threat hangs in the air between us, wrapped in a veneer of collegiate friendliness. I focus on packing my bag, each book and folder placed with precise movements that take every ounce of control I possess. "The writing center offers tutoring services."

He laughs, the sound rich and dangerous. "But they're not Valentis, are they? Not like you." He leans closer, dropping his voice further. "No matter how hard you try to hide it."

My pulse jumps, but I keep my face blank as I stand, shrugging my bag onto my shoulder. The weight of my books is reassuring, even as I calculate whether they'd make an effective weapon if needed. Three years of law school, of maintaining perfect control, of building a life outside the family's reach—all of it crumbling under the weight of his predatory gaze.

"Have a good night," I say, the bland politeness of my tone a deliberate choice. I head for the exit, measuring each step carefully.His soft laughter follows me, sliding under my skin like a blade.

"Sweet dreams, Rafael," he calls after me, my name in his mouth a promise and a threat.

I don't look back. Don't acknowledge the way my hands shake slightly as I push through the library's heavy doors. Don't think about how he knew my name, or what his presence here means for my carefully constructed future. The night air hits my face, cold and sharp, but it does nothing to dispel the feeling that everything has shifted. My sanctuary is compromised. My control is slipping.

And Dario Greco is watching me walk away, his interest a tangible weight between my shoulder blades, heavy as a target.

TWO

DARIO

I arrive at the gym twenty minutes before Rafael Valenti. Always twenty minutes early—enough time to secure the ideal vantage point and watch him try not to notice me. His schedule is a masterpiece of precision: Monday, Wednesday, Friday, 6:45 AM. Like fucking clockwork. The kind of routine that makes stalking him almost too easy, though no less entertaining.

The early morning crew barely glances my way as I claim the bench press near the mirror wall. They know better. Three weeks of showing up here, and even the meathead regulars have learned to give me space. Smart boys. Wish I could say the same for mysecurity detail, hovering by the smoothie bar like a pair of obvious assholes. I catch Marco's eye in the mirror and jerk my chin toward the door. He hesitates—Dad's orders and all that shit—but eventually leads his partner outside. Good. I don't need babysitters for this.

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