Page 9 of Lord of Obsession

The thought terrifies me more than anything else.

FOUR

DARIO

The bass rattles the VIP section's crystal glasses, sending ripples through hundred-dollar vodka no one's drinking. College kids pack the dance floor below, all designer labels and trust fund swagger, but my attention fixes on the entrance. Any minute now, Rafael's study group will drag him through those doors, thinking they've finally convinced their perfect classmate to "relax" for once.

They have no idea I've spent two weeks laying this trap.

A whisper in the right ear about the constitutional law study group planning to celebrate here. A few subtle threats to ensure the bouncers won't give him trouble about hisname. Even the DJ's playlist is calculated: nothing too obvious, just enough old-school Italian songs mixed in to keep him on edge.

"Mr. Greco." The waitress appears with another bottle of sparkling water. Smart girl. She noticed I haven't touched the alcohol. "Will anyone be joining you?"

I smile, enjoying how she flinches. "Soon."

The VIP section offers a perfect view of the entire club. Mirror-backed bar along the west wall, emergency exits on either end, private rooms in back for more…discrete entertainment. But the real value is in the sight lines. Rafael won't be able to move without my eyes on him.

My phone lights up with a text from Marco, stationed outside: "Target approaching with group of 5. ETA 2 min."

I dismiss him with a quick reply. My own security detail blends with the crowd below, watching without being obvious about it. Unlike Rafael's cousins, my people know how to disappear in plain sight.

The door swings open, and there he is. Beautiful in his discomfort, shoulders rigid as his study group pulls him inside. Even from here, I see him cataloging exits andscanning faces, his shoulders tensing at the Italian lyrics floating through the speakers. He's wearing dark jeans and a blue button-down, trying so hard to look casual while every movement screams training and control.

"Your entrance fee's been covered," the bouncer tells him, just like I arranged. Rafael stiffens, that perfect jaw clenching as understanding hits. He looks up, straight at the VIP section, but the strobing lights mask me in shadows. Still, he knows. I made sure he would.

His study group clusters around him: three guys, two girls, all children playing at adulthood. They're celebrating something. Midterms, maybe, or a mock trial victory. It doesn't matter. What matters is how Rafael stands slightly apart from them, maintaining that careful distance he always keeps between himself and anything that might taint his precious legitimate life.

One of the girls touches his arm, leaning close to be heard over the music. He smiles politely, but I catch the way he shifts his weight, refusing to be boxed in. Always aware. Always ready. It would be impressiveif it wasn't so goddamn entertaining to dismantle.

The bartender has their orders ready before they reach the bar—another piece in my choreography. Rafael's coffee order duplicated in an espresso martini, a detail that makes his shoulders tighten further. The group claims a high-top table with a clear vantage point to see all exits. His choice, though his friends probably think it's random.

I take a slow sip of water, savoring the anticipation. The night stretches ahead like a chess board, every piece positioned exactly where I want it. The private room in the back is ready. The regular college security guards have been replaced with my people. Even the temperature in here is perfect, just warm enough to make that buttoned-up shirt uncomfortable.

Time to see what it takes to make Rafael Valenti lose control in public.

One text sends the DJ transitioning into a Sicilian folk song, something old enough to hit bone-deep memory. Rafael's hand tightens around his glass, and I lean forward, hungry for every micro-expression that crosses his face.

Let the game begin.

The music shifts again, something modern but with an underlying Italian melody. Rafael might not consciously recognize it, but his body does. I watch his fingers tap against his glass, matching a rhythm bred into both our bones. His study group chatters around him, oblivious to the tension coiling through his frame.

The club itself is mine tonight, though none of these trust fund kids realize it. The owner—officially a respected Valmont alumnus, unofficially neck-deep in Greco family debt—was eager to accommodate my requests. Extra security, specific staff, particular bottles behind the bar. Every detail designed to dig under Rafael's skin.

A freshman stumbles near their table, splashing her drink. Not one of mine—just drunk college luck—but Rafael's reaction is perfect. He shifts his stance subtly, positioning himself between the potential threat and his group. Still playing protector even while pretending he's not what we both know he is.

The girl from his study group—Laura, according to my research, daughter of a statejudge—keeps finding excuses to touch him. Her hand on his arm, her body angling toward him as she laughs at something. She has no idea she's flirting with a weapon, a killer wrapped in expensive cotton and careful manners. The thought makes me bare my teeth in something like a smile.

My phone vibrates: another update from my people watching the perimeter. No sign of Valenti surveillance, which means Rafael hasn't called for backup. His pride won't let him admit he needs help, not even after our rooftop encounter. That same pride keeps him here now, refusing to show weakness by leaving early.

I signal the waitress. She appears instantly, fear and attraction warring in her expression. "Send a round of shots to that table," I tell her, nodding toward Rafael's group. "Sambuca. The bottle from behind the office bar." The one I had imported specifically for tonight, from the same region as Rafael's mother's family.

The song changes again. The DJ's good, weaving Italian undertones through modern beats, building a web of cultural triggers Rafael can't quite ignore. I see tensionclimbing his spine, the perfect lines of his posture going rigid as bone-deep memory fights with practiced control.

One of his study group—a wannabe prosecutor with more ambition than sense—raises the first shot in a toast. Rafael lifts his glass automatically, but I catch his nostrils flaring as the scent hits him. That specific anise sweetness that probably fills his earliest memories of family gatherings. Of power wrapped in tradition.

He doesn't drink, but his grip on the glass is white-knuckled now. Every element of this trap is closing in: the music, the liquor, the heat, the press of bodies. Chaos engineered to crack that perfect control.

Below, the dance floor writhes like a living thing, all grinding bodies and flashing lights. The bass vibrates through the leather of my booth, a heartbeat in sync with the pulse I can almost see hammering in Rafael's throat. He's a statue of tension in the midst of it, trying so hard to maintain his calculated distance while everything I've orchestrated pulls him back toward his true nature.

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