Page 22 of Lord of Obsession

He'll come. His pride won't let him run, even though his instincts probably scream trap. The thought sends a smile curling across my lips. His resistance only makes this sweeter, this slow dismantling of everything he pretends to be.

The autumn sun slants through windows, painting gold bars across dark wood and making dust motes dance like stars. I've set the climate control to maintain exactly seventy-eight degrees. Warm enough to make formal clothes uncomfortable and force small beads of sweat to form beneath his starched collar. Every element I set serves a purpose in thiscareful choreography. The leather chairs are positioned so the light catches his eyes no matter where he sits. The slight scent of gun oil I've let linger in the air. The way sound carries in here, bouncing off marble and hardwood to create subtle echoes that will keep him on edge.

My phone buzzes—another update from the surveillance team. The video feed shows Rafael at his desk, reference books spread around him like paper shields. Even through the grainy footage, tension radiates from his shoulders. Three years of watching him maintain that perfect posture, that careful distance. The memory of him in that study room floods back: both of our bodies pressed against the glass wall, his mask finally cracking beneath my hands. Each encounter strips away another layer of his defenses, reveals more of the beast he cages beneath designer suits and legal terms.

Ice clinks against hand-cut crystal as I pour water from the bar cart. No alcohol tonight; I need every sense sharp, every nerve ending alive to catch his smallest reactions. My reflection multiplies across polished surfaces: my jacket falling just right to show thegun at my hip and Italian wool cut to accommodate other hidden weapons while maintaining perfect lines.

The safehouse's previous occupants left their mark in brass fixtures and imported tiles, in hidden safes behind oil paintings and emergency exits disguised as pantry doors. Now I'm adding my own touches, marking my territory in ways that will make Rafael’s soldier's instincts scream.

The ventilation system purrs, pushing warm air through the hidden vents. Fresh paint masks old bloodstains, but I've left just enough evidence of conflict to keep him off balance. A scratch in the wood here, a bullet hole patched there—little reminders of what this place has witnessed. What it will witness again.

A security alert flashes: Rafael's car passed the first checkpoint. He’s earlier than expected. Heat blooms in my chest. He's as hungry for this as I am, even if he tries to bury that truth beneath tailored suits and legal jargon. That knowledge feeds something dark and hungry in my chest. I signal Marco to begin final preparations, and he nods once before melting into the shadows with his teamtrailing behind them. Their training shows in how they disappear: present enough to maintain security, absent enough to maintain the illusion of privacy.

The safehouse settles around me, creaking like an old predator waiting to strike. Each camera feed shows a different angle of Rafael's approach through manicured grounds that hide state-of-the-art security. He moves like liquid across my screens, checking sight lines, noting exits, betraying the training he can't erase. The suits and law books might fool his professors, but beneath that costume, a soldier lives and breathes. A killer through and through, just like me.

The BMW's engine ticks as it cools in the circular drive, the sound carrying through hidden microphones that catch everything. He steps out into fading sunlight, all crisp lines and careful composure. But I catch every tell: eyes scanning rooflines, hand twitching toward a non-existent weapon, spine straight with combat readiness he can't quite hide. Even from here, I see the slight tremor in his fingers as he straightens his tie, another crack in his perfect facade.

Bruises from our last encounter throbbeneath my shirt as I adjust my position. Each mark tells a story of control slipping, of violence breaking through his careful walls. Cool metal presses against my skin—a backup piece strapped to my ankle, a blade hidden against my back. Not that I'll need them. The only weapons that matter tonight are the ones that live in our blood, in our bones, in the heritage he tries so hard to deny.

The last ray of sun disappears behind heavy clouds, plunging the room into darkness. Perfect timing. I adjust my cuffs, platinum links catching the dim light, and inhale the scent of power and promise that fills this space. My pulse quickens as the front door opens, carrying him across the threshold into a world he can't pretend doesn't exist. Into my world. Our world.

Rafael's footsteps echo through marble halls—Italian leather against stone, measured and precise. Each step carries the weight of training he can't forget, no matter how hard he tries to bury it. He pauses in the foyer, and I picture him running threat assessment, mapping exits, and calculating angles of attack. The cameras catch his minutegestures: fingers flexing and eyes scanning corners where shadows run deep.

The marble absorbs the afternoon light, casting long streams through arched windows. The perfect backdrop for this little drama. My pulse quickens as I watch him through the security feed, noting how his shoulders set with familiar tension. Always the soldier, even dressed in a lawyer's skin.

"You wanted to discuss a case." His voice carries that slight accent he can't quite hide when he's on edge. Not a question, a challenge. Even here, surrounded by evidence of my power, he maintains that delicious resistance.

I step from the shadows, drinking in how his shoulders tighten at my appearance. The suit he wears probably costs more than most people make in a month, but it can't hide the warrior's grace in his movements. "Thought you might want to review some sensitive documents." I gesture toward the conference room, keeping my movements deliberately casual. "After you."

He follows me through the doorway, his focus burning between my shoulder blades. The safehouse wraps us in old money andolder sins. We pass gilt frames and hidden panels, every surface designed to remind him of the world he's trying to escape. A world that lives in his blood, no matter how many college classes he takes.

Cigar smoke lingers in the air from my earlier meeting, the notes mixing with leather and aged wood. The scent seems to affect him. I catch the slight flare of his nostrils, the way his fingers twitch. Memories of family meetings and decisions made in rooms just like this one, maybe.

"I thought you would’ve preferred office buildings." His eyes catch on a painting that conceals enough artillery to start a small war. "Or is this what passes for a conference room in your world?"

"In my world?" I turn, letting him see my smile. Heat burns in my chest at how his eyes darken in response. "You mean our world. The one you're pretending doesn't exist while you hide behind legal briefs and class rankings."

A muscle jumps in his jaw as I pull out a chair. The leather creaks, another voice in this symphony of power I've orchestrated. Late afternoon sun slants through bulletproof glass,painting gold bars across the conference table. He sits with contained grace, every movement screaming combat training he can't erase.

I take my time claiming my own seat, letting tension build in the space between us. The ventilation system hums, pushing warm air that carries traces of gun oil from the arsenal behind the walls. His tie—blue silk, perfectly knotted—shifts with each careful breath.

"How's the Martinez case? That's the one you've been researching, right?" I tap my fingers against documents spread across mahogany. "All those interesting notes about money laundering and offshore accounts. Getting tips from Uncle Salvatore?"

"If you have actual business to discuss—" His words clip short as I lean forward, elbows on polished wood.

"Oh, I do." The chair's leather whispers as I shift closer. "Let's discuss how much time you spend studying criminal enterprises. All those hours in the library researching how families like ours operate. Are you getting nostalgic for the family business?"

Color stains his throat above that perfect Windsor knot. A bead of sweat traces hiscollar—a product of the carefully calibrated temperature or something else entirely? "I'm here as a professional courtesy. Nothing more."

"Really?" I'm out of my chair before he can blink, circling to his side of the table. The movement sends papers scattering, crime scene photos and bank statements spelling out secrets he's been chasing. He stiffens but doesn't turn, instead maintaining that brittle control as I lean in close enough to catch his scent of expensive cologne barely masking raw adrenaline. "Then why check the room for weapons? Why track my security team's positions? Face it, baby, you're not here for legal consultation."

His cologne fills my lungs—expensive and sharp, like everything about his carefully constructed image. But underneath, I catch the familiar tang of gun oil. Some habits die hard, some instincts run too deep to deny. His pulse jumps visibly at his throat, a telltale sign of the war between what he is and what he pretends to be.

"You're delusional."

The words come rough, that perfectaccent slipping further into pure Sicily. Music to my ears.

"Am I?" I let my hands settle on his shoulders, feeling coiled muscle beneath Italian wool. The fabric is soft against my palms, but the tension underneath feels like a steel cable ready to snap. "Tell me you're not counting the ways you could take me down right now. Tell me you don't feel it—the pull of who you really are."

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