Page 24 of Lord of Obsession

His breath catches, a tiny tell that feeds my cravings. The temperature increase has done its work. He slips out of his suit jacket, discarding it across his chair, and rolls up his sleeves, exposing dozens of faint scars on his forearm. Each one tells a story he's trying to forget. My fingers itch to map them, to make him remember how he earned each line.

"I'm not hiding." His voice turns gritty, his accent thick as wine. "I'm just choosing a different path."

"But are you really?" I move closer, forcing him to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact. "Then why do your hands keep twitching? Why does your body shift into a fighting stance every time I step closer?"

The conference room feels smaller suddenly, heavy with possibility. Rain hammersagainst the windows, matching the rhythm of his pulse visible on the side of his neck. His tie—loosened now, silk twisted from constant adjustment—draws my eye like a target.

"You're in my space." Challenge flares in his eyes, dark and hungry.

I laugh, the sound sharp enough to cut. "I'm in all your spaces, Rafael. Your gym, your library, your carefully constructed world of legal bullshit." My hand finds his shoulder, feeling heat through expensive cotton. "I live in your head now. Admit it."

He surges up from the chair, turning our positions so I'm the one crowded against the table. The countermove is pure soldier, pure killer, pure truth. "You think you know me so well?"

"I know you're counting exits." My smile feels wild as I lean into his space instead of away. "I know you've mapped every weapon in this room, even the hidden ones. I know your pulse is racing not from fear, but from how badly you want to show me exactly what you can do."

His fingers curl into my shirt, the gesture caught between pushing me away and pulling me closer. "You have no idea what I want."

"No?" I drop my voice lower, feeling him strain to hear. "I think you want to stop pretending. Stop playing student. Stop denying the fire in your blood that makes you track my movements like you're planning where to strike first."

The grip on my shirt tightens, knuckles white with restraint. This close, I catch every micro-expression crossing his face: fury and want and recognition. His carefully constructed walls crack further with each passing second.

Thunder crashes overhead as he shoves me away, putting distance between us. But I catch the tremor in his hands, the way his chest rises too fast with each breath. Beautiful. The perfect lawyer's composure splinters like safety glass, revealing sharp edges underneath.

"We're done here." He reaches for his jacket, movements tight with suppressed energy.

"Are we?" I tap the stack of surveillance photos. "Or are you running again? Just like you ran from your family, from your heritage, and from everything that makes you who you really are?"

His hand freezes on his jacket. "You don't know anything about who I really am."

"I know you better than anyone in your shiny new world." I close the distance he tried to create. "Better than your study group. Better than your professors. Better than you even know yourself."

The rain traces patterns down the bulletproof glass windows as he turns to face me. Lightning catches in his eyes, transforming them to amber fire. For a moment, I think he'll finally snap, finally show me everything he's kept caged.

Instead, he steps back. One precise, fluid movement. "This was a mistake."

"The only mistake is thinking you can walk away from what's in your blood." I let him see my smile, sharp as the blade strapped to my ankle. "Go back to your books, Rafael. Pretend this never happened. But remember"—I pause as thunder punctuates my words—"I'm not done with you yet."

He doesn't respond, just turns and strides toward the door. But I catch his reflection in rain-streaked windows—the way his hands shake, how his steps carry the weight of combat training rather than classroomlectures. The perfect mask has cracked. It's only a matter of time before it shatters completely.

The door closes softly behind him, and I remain still, listening to his footsteps fade down the marble halls. Around me, the safehouse settles into silence broken only by rain and distant thunder. Evidence of his presence lingers: discarded photos, the scent of his cologne, heat hanging in the air like promises waiting to be kept.

Soon. Soon he'll stop running. Soon he'll admit what burns between us is the same fire that lives in both our bloodlines. Soon he'll realize there's no escape from who he is.

Who we both are.

NINE

RAFAEL

The iron gates of the Valenti estate part silently, sensors recognizing my car's approach. Old money whispers through every acre: manicured gardens, classical fountains, and limestone facades that have witnessed generations of power changing hands. I grip the steering wheel tighter, trying to ignore how naturally I fall back into family rhythms—the specific route that avoids surveillance blind spots and the way my eyes automatically scan for signs of intrusion.

The circular driveway curves past ancient oaks, their branches casting afternoon shadows across my windshield. Each tree holds childhood memories: learning to climb,to hide, to watch without being seen. My father's voice, teaching me how to move through darkness. My uncle's hands, correcting my stance as I learned to shoot. I push the memories away, but they cling like fallen leaves to wet pavement.

Mediterranean cypress trees line the drive, their dark columns stretching toward a sky heavy with approaching rain. The gardens spread out in calculated elegance: rose bushes imported from Tuscany, herb beds that my mother tends with religious devotion, and marble statues positioned to mark defensive positions disguised as artistic choice. A stone cherub watches my approach, its innocent face belying the cameras hidden in its hand-carved curls.

Two security guards patrol the perimeter, moving with the practiced nonchalance that marks family soldiers. They nod as I pass, respect mingled with curiosity. The prodigal nephew, returning to the fold. I wonder what stories circulate about my absence, about my choice of law school over family business. Their eyes follow my car until I park in my usual spot; some habits refuse to die, even after three years away.

The mansion looms ahead, its limestone walls washed with gold by the setting sun. Eight bedrooms, three studies, a wine cellar that doubles as a panic room, and enough hidden passages to evacuate the entire family in under five minutes. I know every inch of this place: which floorboards creak, which walls contain weapon caches, which windows offer the clearest shot at approaching vehicles. Knowledge I've tried to bury beneath details of my new life.

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