Page 25 of Lord of Obsession

Music drifts from somewhere inside. Classical, probably my mother's piano. The sound draws me back to Sunday dinners and family meetings, to lessons learned in blood and loyalty. My hands shake slightly as I cut the engine. I didn't want to come here, but after the safehouse... after Dario... I needed somewhere familiar. Somewhere protected.

I scoff at myself. What a joke. As if any place could protect me from what burns beneath my skin, from the truth he keeps dragging into the light.

The front steps rise in graceful curves, Italian marble imported by my grandfather. Small chips in the stone mark where bullets struck during a rival family's failed attackfifteen years ago. The damage remains. A reminder, my uncle says, of the price of poor security. Bronze handles gleam on massive oak doors, the wood carved with vineyard scenes that hide reinforced steel cores.

The door opens before I reach it. Maria, our housekeeper since before I was born, greets me with a knowing smile. Her simple black dress and silver hair project maternal warmth, but the slight bulge at her hip betrays the weapon she's carried for thirty years. "Your mother's in the conservatory. She'll want to see you."

Of course she will. Nothing happens in this house without my mother knowing. I follow familiar hallways, each step echoing against marble floors that have witnessed decades of family politics. Oil paintings of stern-faced ancestors watch my passage, their eyes holding the same calculation I see in Uncle Salvatore's gaze. The air carries notes of lemon polish and old wood, the scent of meticulously maintained power.

Crystal chandeliers cast rainbow shadows across damask wallpaper chosen to disguise the reinforced walls beneath. A Monet hangs above a hand-carved sideboard—real, unlikethe fakes in most wealthy homes. The frame conceals a wall safe containing enough documents to destroy three political careers. Every surface holds dual purpose: beauty masking function, art concealing arsenal.

The conservatory glows with late afternoon light filtering through Victorian glass. Wrought iron and crystal create a cage of elegance, filled with rare orchids and climbing vines that my mother tends between negotiating territory disputes. She sits at her piano, fingers dancing across ivory keys. She doesn't look up as I enter, but her playing shifts to something darker, minor chords that match the storm building in my chest. The roses climbing the conservatory walls cast thorned shadows across her face, highlighting how much we share: the same sharp features, the same ability to hide violence behind beauty.

"I wondered when you'd come home." Her fingers still linger on the keys as she turns to face me. Light catches the diamond ring that once belonged to her mother—the same ring she used to blind an assassin at a charity gala. "After that incident at the warehouse."

Ice fills my veins. Of course she knows. Nothing happens in this citywithout the families knowing. I force my face to remain neutral, years of training serving me even now. "I needed somewhere quiet to study."

Her laugh holds more warmth than it should. "Is that what we're calling it now?" She rises from the piano bench with fluid grace, her designer dress whispering against the marble floors. The fabric catches light like water, but I know it's lined with ceramic plates, protection disguised as fashion. "Come. Your uncle will want to see you before dinner."

My chest tightens at the thought of facing Salvatore, of maintaining my careful facade while he picks apart my defenses. But refusing would show weakness. It would prove everything Dario said about who I really am. I follow my mother deeper into the Valenti family’s mansion, into the heart of everything I've tried to escape.

Into the trap I've laid for myself.

The family dining room stretches vast and cold, dominated by a table that could seat thirty but rarely hosts more than ten. Tonight, only four places are set. Heavy silver gleams against French linen, crystal sparkles in candlelight, and bone china displays the familycrest in hand-painted gold. The table's mahogany surface reflects centuries of deals made and broken, each ring and scratch telling stories of power exchanged over exquisitely cooked meals.

Uncle Salvatore sits at the head of the table, his white hair and tailored suit a study in calculated authority. Three bodyguards stand at strategic points around the room, their faces blank but eyes alert. One tests each dish before it's served, an old custom that feels less archaic after last month's attempted poisoning at the Romano wedding.

I take a seat next to my mother, and Maria serves us the first course. We eat in silence, though I don’t allow myself to relax. I have to be prepared for anything.

Finally, Salvatore speaks between bites. "Law school agrees with you." Salvatore's voice carries the weight of unspoken expectations. He cuts into perfectly seared veal, the knife's soft scraping setting my teeth on edge. "Professor Harrison speaks highly of your work. Particularly your research into financial regulations."

My mother's fork pauses halfway to her lips. The slight tell screams warning; Harrisonshouldn't have been speaking to anyone about my work. I maintain my expression, years of practice keeping my face neutral as I calculate how much my uncle knows, how deeply he's been watching.

"The Martinez case has interesting implications for banking law." I choose each word with care, aware of invisible lines being drawn. The veal turns to ash in my mouth.

"Banking law." Salvatore's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Is that what they're calling it now?" He gestures, and a server appears with a bottle of wine older than I am. "Tell me about the Greco boy."

My chest constricts, but I don't let it show. Can't let it show. "You'll have to be more specific. I try not to keep track of rival families."

"Don't you?" He studies me over the rim of his wine glass. "Strange. He seems to keep very close track of you."

Heat crawls up my neck. I focus on cutting my meat into precise squares, the way my mother taught me. Each slice measures exactly one inch, the same way she taught me to measure powder charges for different calibers. The steak knife feels too light in my hand, too delicate compared to other blades I've held.

"Salvatore." My mother's voice carries gentle warning. "Let the boy eat."

"The boy?" His laugh scrapes against my skin. "He's old enough to make his own choices. Isn't that right, Rafael? Old enough to choose dusty law books over family business. Old enough to catch a Greco's attention."

Thunder rolls outside, and rain begins to patter against leaded glass windows. The storm's arrival feels staged, like everything else in this room. Even the candles seem purposefully placed to cast specific shadows, to highlight certain faces while obscuring others.

"The Greco situation is handled." I sip water, wishing it were something stronger. "Nothing worth discussing."

"Nothing worth discussing?" Salvatore sets down his fork. The soft clink against the china echoes like a hammer strike. "The youngest Greco son stalking my nephew through Valmont's halls? Making appearances at your study spots, your gym, that warehouse by the harbor? That’s not worth discussing?"

Ice fills my veins. Of course he knows about the warehouse. He probably has photos, surveillance reports, and detailed accounts ofevery moment I've tried to forget. Every touch that burned through my careful control.

"You've been watching me." The accusation slips out before I can stop it.

"Always." He doesn't bother denying it. "Did you think that law degree would change what you are? Who you belong to?"

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