Page 17 of Lord of Obsession

"Drink?" I pour two fingers of scotch older than both of us combined, letting him see the gun holstered at my hip as I turn. The crystal decanter catches light from recessed fixtures, throwing amber patterns across polished wood and exposed brick.

His eyes dart to the Japanese sword mounted above my desk. Original steel, still sharp enough to split hair—or other things.Beneath it, surveillance monitors paint his face in shifting blue light, each screen showing a different angle of our domain below.

"I have to admit"—I swirl the scotch, breathing in its smoky notes of cinnamon and pepper—"you're handling this better than expected. Most people see the blood spatter behind my desk and start asking questions."

He doesn't flinch, doesn't look at the stains I purposefully left visible. But a muscle ticks in his jaw. "You've made your point."

"Have I?" Setting down my glass, I circle behind him. His shoulders tighten as I pass, prey instinct warring with training. "Because I think you're still fighting it. You’re still pretending you're above all this. That somehow your law degree will wash away the blood from your hands."

The leather of my chair creaks as I settle behind the desk. Its surface holds carefully arranged evidence of what we are: brass knuckles posing as paperweights, a knife that's opened more throats than letters, and photographs of targets marked for discipline. Each item placed to chip away at his resistance.

"Tell me about the Martinez case." I open his stolen notebook, thumbing through pages of meticulous notes. "Fascinating research on how criminal enterprises launder money through legitimate businesses. The kind of details only someone with...personal experience would know."

"That's an academic analysis." But sweat darkens his collar, betraying the effort it takes to maintain his facade.

"No." Rising fluid and fast, I round the desk before he can retreat. "That'sfamilyknowledge. The kind bred into our bones." My fingers brush his tie—pure silk, another betrayal of his heritage. "You're not studying these organizations. You're documenting what you already know."

Harbor fog presses against the windows, turning the glass into mirrors that reflect our standoff. His pulse hammers visibly at the base of his throat as I step closer. The scotch sits untouched, but its scent fills the space between us, mixing with leather and gunmetal and the copper tang of old violence.

"Your hands." I catch his wrist before he can pull away. "Lawyer's hands now, all soft from typing and turning pages. But theyremember other work, don't they? The weight of a gun. The impact of a punch. The satisfaction of making someone bleed."

He tries to jerk free, but I hold tight. "You're delusional."

"Really?" My other hand finds his hip, exactly where his holster should sit. "Then why do you still stand like a shooter? Why does your body shift to protect vital organs when I move?" I press closer, feeling heat radiate through his expensive suit. "You can't unlearn what they bred into you. What they carved into your bones before you could walk."

The office feels smaller suddenly, heavy with the implications of threats. Above us, fluorescent lights hum an electric counterpoint to his ragged breathing. A security camera whirs as it tracks our movement, adding to the symphony of power and control I've orchestrated.

Footsteps echo on the warehouse floor below—my men maintaining their patrol pattern with military precision. Rafael's eyes track the sound automatically, calculating angles and distances just like he was taught. Just like we were both taught.

"Your research." I release him abruptly,moving to retrieve his notebook. "It's not about prosecuting these organizations. It's about understanding them from the inside." Anticipation coils in my chest as understanding dawns in his eyes. "You're trying to find a way out."

Color drains from his face. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I?" Pages rustle as I find the passage I've memorized. "Detailed notes on witness protection protocols. Immunity deals. Methods for dismantling criminal enterprises piece by piece." My laugh has a sharp, bitter edge to it. "You're not studying the law to prosecute, Rafael. You're looking for an escape route."

The exposed secret lands like a physical blow. He takes half a step back, hip bumping my desk. The impact sends a knife skittering across polished wood—another piece of carefully staged evidence that just became a potential weapon.

His hands clench at his sides, and raw hunger surges through me at the sight. Here it is: the moment his control starts to slip. The perfect combination of threat and exposure cracking his delicate composure.

Storm clouds gather beyond the windows,darkening the harbor. Lightning flashes, turning the office stark white for a heartbeat. In that frozen moment, I catch the murderous calculation in his eyes. The mask of civility finally starting to crack, revealing the true identity underneath.

Beautiful.

Lightning flashes again, and Rafael moves like Death given form. The knife spins off the desk as he lunges, but I'm already turning, catching his wrist before steel finds flesh. His attack flows seamlessly into a countermove, pure muscle memory taking over as his elbow drives toward my throat.

Perfect. Fucking perfect.

We crash against the wall hard enough to rattle the sword mount. The impact knocks papers flying, evidence of his planned escape scattering like autumn leaves. His civilized mask finally cracks completely, revealing the killer beneath. Up close, his eyes burn with everything he's tried to deny: violence and hunger and bone-deep recognition of what we are.

Blood fills my mouth as I laugh; his strike landed true. "Finally showing your teeth, Valenti."

He snarls something in Sicilian, all pretense of American education burned away. The knife clatters forgotten against the floor, its metal ringing against decades-old bloodstains that no amount of cleaning will ever lift. We grapple in the space between my desk and the wall, where rust bleeds through cheap paint and exposed pipes leak condensation. Each movement is a deadly dance we learned in childhood, and his technique is perfect despite years of disuse. Every strike and counter-strike flows like water, like poetry written in bruises and blood.

My back hits the desk, sending the crystal decanter crashing. Hundred-year-old scotch soaks into imported wool as I pin him there, one hand at his throat. Dim fluorescent lights flicker overhead, turning his perfect features harsh and shadowed. The position mirrors our moment in his apartment, but now he's not holding back. Now he's finally letting the darkness surface.

"You planned this." His accent bleeds through completely, turning the words into music. "You set this whole thing up to make me—" He cuts off as I twist, reversing our positions. His hip slams into the desk edge,and his sharp inhale carries equal parts pain and arousal.

The grimy windows frame the storm beyond, each lightning flash illuminating our reflection: two predators locked in combat or courtship—and at this point, they're the same thing. His perfect clothes are ruined now, stained with scotch and dirt and whatever industrial filth coats every surface in this place. But his eyes are alive with a fire no amount of legal education could extinguish.

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