Page 5 of Lord of Obsession

He doesn't answer, just starts methodically emptying his locker. Each movement is precise, controlled. But I see the tension running through him, the way his shoulders bunch under his sweat-damp shirt, ready for violence he won't let himself initiate.

"You know what I think?" I close the distance between us, slow and deliberate. "I think you like this. The chase. The tension." My voice drops lower, meant for his earsalone, even though we were the only ones in the locker room. "Makes you feel alive, doesn't it? More than all your precious law books ever could."

His hands are still on his towel, just for a moment, but it’s just long enough.

"You don't know what you're playing with," he says, that carefully concealed accent slipping again, pure Sicily bleeding through his Ivy League polish.

"Don't I?" I step closer, forcing him to turn and face me or show his back. He turns. Smart boy. "I know exactly what I'm playing with. The question is..." I reach past him, deliberately invading his space to grab something from his locker. His whole body goes rigid, combat-ready. "Do you?"

I examine the protein bar I've snagged, another piece of his perfect fitness routine. Another prop in his elaborate performance. "All this..." I gesture at his carefully packed gym bag, his pristine workout clothes. "It's not you. Not really. The real you? He's right there, right under the surface. Begging to come out and play."

"You need to leave." The words come outrough, hungry. His control is fraying at the edges.

"Make me." I step fully into his space now, close enough to feel the heat coming off his skin. "Come on, Rafael. Show me what you're really made of. Show me the Valenti blood running through those veins."

His breath catches. His pupils dilate. For one perfect moment, I think he might actually do it—might finally snap and show me the violence he keeps locked away. The steam wraps around us like a shroud, turning the moment thick and heavy with possibility.

Then his phone alarm chimes. Time for class. Always so fucking punctual.

"This was fun," I murmur, not backing away. "We should do it again sometime. Maybe get a little more…physical."

I let my gaze drag down his body, taking in every detail of his barely contained reaction. Every subtle tell that says he's not as immune to this as he pretends. His hands are steady as he grabs his bag, but his breathing—that's another story. Faster. Rougher. Beautiful.

"Stay away from me," he says, but there'sno conviction in it. We both know this is just the beginning.

I watch him leave, admiring the rigid line of his spine, the warrior's grace he can't quite hide. Steam curls around me, heavy with the scent of him—clean sweat and expensive soap and pure, delicious fury. His footsteps fade down the hallway, each one measured and precise. Still trying so hard to maintain that perfect control.

"Sweet dreams, Rafael," I call after him, just like last night in the library, just to watch him falter mid-stride before his control snaps back into place.

This is going to be so much fucking fun.

THREE

RAFAEL

The key to the rooftop door sticks like always, requiring just the right pressure to turn. I learned this trick months ago, along with the building supervisor's schedule and the blind spots in the security cameras. Old habits. Even in my quest for a legitimate life, I can't stop cataloging escape routes and secure locations.

The early afternoon sun washes over the garden planters that line the rooftop's perimeter, turning the scattered leaves golden. Up here, the constant hum of campus life fades to white noise. I discovered this spot during my first year—a forgotten study space with a panoramic view of Montcove's skyline. Thebusiness district gleams to the east, while the shadowy sprawl of Old Harbor stretches west, a perfect visual divide between the world I'm trying to build and the one I left behind.

My hands still burn from scrubbing them raw in the gym showers, trying to wash away the feeling of being watched. Of being hunted. Two encounters with Dario Greco in less than twenty-four hours. The coincidence rings false, setting off warning bells I've spent years trying to silence.

I begin my usual security sweep, checking the door's lock, testing the planters I've strategically relocated to create bottlenecks and cover. The maintenance door that leads to the electrical room is still sealed. I check it twice, remembering Uncle Salvatore's lessons about multiple exit strategies. Three years of legal studies, and I still can't shake the training bred into my bones.

Setting up my study space provides a familiar ritual. Laptop positioned to avoid screen glare, reference books arranged by relevance, coffee at precisely the right distance to avoid accidental spills. Every item placed with mechanical precision, as if perfect ordercould somehow ward off the chaos Dario represents.

The campus stretches below me, students crossing the quad like ants, oblivious to the predators walking among them. Somewhere down there, Dario is probably watching, waiting, planning his next move. My fingers itch for a weapon—any weapon—but I force them to remain steady on my laptop keyboard instead.

A shadow passes overhead—just a bird, but my pulse spikes anyway. I draw in a careful breath, tasting salt on the breeze from the harbor. Focus. Control. I have a constitutional law paper due next week, a mock trial to prepare for, and a future to build. I can't let Dario's games derail everything I've worked for.

But as I stare at my screen, his words from the gym echo in my head:"Blood always tells, doesn't it?"The cursor blinks accusingly, and I realize I've been typing the same sentence over and over, muscle memory operating on autopilot while my mind circles through combat scenarios and threat assessments.

My phone buzzes—another message from Luca, probably asking why I missed ourweekly coffee meetup. I silence it without looking. Luca would understand the threat Dario represents and would offer family resources and protection, but accepting help means admitting I can't handle this on my own. It means proving Dario right about who and what I really am.

The sun climbs higher, burning away the morning marine layer. I've added my own security measures up here over the months—subtle changes to the layout, strategic vantage points, and hidden cameras that feed to my phone. My sanctuary, fortified against threats I pretended no longer existed. Until now.

I pull up my research notes, trying to lose myself in the familiar rhythm of legal precedents and constitutional amendments. But between every line of text, I see Dario's predatory smile; I feel the weight of his gaze. My fingers hover over the keys, and I catch myself analyzing the rooftop's defensive possibilities instead of the Commerce Clause.

A group of law students passes below, their laughter carrying up to my perch. Their biggest worry is the upcoming midterms. Mine is the son of a rival crime family who's decided to make me his new hobby. Thedivide between their world and mine suddenly feels vast and unbridgeable. Maybe it always was.

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