Page 16 of Lord of Obsession

The leather squeaks beneath me as I settle into my chair, remembering how he felt pinned underneath me against his apartment wall. The way his pulse raced under my fingers, violence and want warring in his eyes. Tonight, I'll push him further. Strip away more of his pretenses. Make him face exactly what he is, what we both are.

My reflection in the office window shows a smile that's all teeth and hunger.The criminal underworld's dark prince, Daddy's perfect attack dog, watching his domain like a spider in its web. But for the first time, the power I wield feels personal rather than borrowed. This obsession with Rafael is mine alone, not part of any family agenda.

The thought of this deep obsession should probably worry me. Instead, it feeds something hungry in my chest.

"Ten minutes," Marco's voice crackles through my earpiece. "Target's vehicle just passed the harbor checkpoint."

I straighten my jacket, fingers brushing the gun at my hip. The metal's warm from my body heat, a constant companion that Rafael's denied himself in his quest for legitimacy. Another weakness to exploit. Another crack to widen until his whole facade comes crumbling down until all that’s left is who he really is inside.

The warehouse holds its breath, waiting. Every shadow conceals a guard; every corner hides a camera. The stage is set, the trap perfectly baited. Time to see if the Valenti heir's legendary control can survive what I have planned.

Time to make him remember exactly what kind of blood runs in his veins.

Rafael's BMW slides through the security gate like a ghost, its black paint swallowing what's left of the daylight. Through the surveillance feed, I watch him park with mechanical precision—exactly parallel, perfectly centered between the lines. Even here, in the heart of everything he claims to hate, his control remains absolute.

That is, until I break it.

"Let him reach the loading bay before intercepting," I murmur into my comm unit. My security team melts deeper into shadows, becoming part of the warehouse's industrial anatomy. They know their roles in tonight's performance: stay visible enough to keep Rafael's combat instincts engaged, but invisible enough to maintain the illusion of privacy.

The heavy metal door groans open, admitting a blast of harbor wind that carries the scent of brine and diesel. Rafael steps inside, and my breath catches at the sight of him. He's still wearing his law student costume—charcoal suit and blue tie—every line screaming respectability.But his movements betray him. The way he scans the space, cataloging threats and exits. The precise rhythm of his footsteps, designed to avoid loose flooring and blind spots. Soldier instincts wrapped in lawyer's clothes.

"Professor Harrison said you had information about the Martinez case." His voice carries clearly through the cavernous space, steady despite the tension I can read in his shoulders. "This seems like an unusual meeting place for an academic discussion."

I emerge from behind a stack of crates, enjoying how his body tenses at my appearance. "Maybe we should discuss a different case." I hold up his stolen notebook, letting him see what's at stake. "Like the interesting notes you've been keeping on dismantling criminal enterprises from within. It’s detailed stuff. The kind that might interest certain families."

Color drains from his face, but his expression remains carved from ice. "That's private property."

"Nothing's private in our world." I circle him slowly, drinking in how he shifts to maintain optimal defensive positioning. "Come on.Let me give you the tour and show you what you're really studying."

The warehouse stretches around us like a maze of steel and shadow. Every few yards, evidence of our true business bleeds through the polite society facade: hidden panels in shipping containers, false bottoms in crates, spots where blood has soaked too deep into concrete to ever fully clean. Rafael catalogs each detail with sharp eyes that miss nothing, no matter how he tries to hide his understanding.

"Top floor is surveillance and planning," I explain, gesturing toward the catwalks above. "Middle level's processing and storage. Down here..." I kick open a hidden trapdoor, revealing stairs descending into darkness. "This is where we handle special problems."

"I'm not interested in your family’s operation." But his voice carries that slight Silician accent again, bleeding through his careful pronunciation.

"No?" I step closer, into his personal space. "Then why do your eyes keep tracking my men's positions? Why does your hand keep twitching toward where you used to carry?"I reach out, letting my fingers brush his hip where a holster should be. "Old habits die hard, don't they?"

He jerks away from my touch, but I catch the way his pupils dilate. "I have a paper due tomorrow."

"Always the perfect student." I laugh, the sound echoing off metal walls. "Tell me, do your professors know how much practical experience you have with criminal enterprises? The things you learned at Uncle Salvatore's knee?"

Red creeps up his neck as he struggles to maintain composure. Around us, my men continue their choreographed movements, a deadly dance designed to keep him off balance. A crate crashes somewhere in the darkness. A chain clanks against steel. A door slams in perfect timing.

"This way." I lead him past rows of shipping containers, each branded with fake company logos that hide their true contents. "See, while you're writing papers about theoretical criminal organizations, I'm running one. While you analyze case law, I create cases." I pause, letting him absorb the scale of ouroperation. "Tell me that doesn't call to something in your blood."

"You're wrong about me." But his eyes linger on a wall of weapons, appreciation showing through his mask of distaste.

"Am I?" I move behind him, close enough to feel heat radiating off his skin. "Your body remembers, even if you pretend not to. The way to check sight lines and choose vantage points. How to calculate kill zones. What blood looks like under harsh industrial lighting."

His breath hitches, a tiny tell that feeds my hunger. The warehouse air grows heavier, charged with possibility and threat. Somewhere above us, water drips through the metal roof, marking time like a metronome. Like a countdown.

"You did all this to show me what I already know exists?" He tries to be dismissive and detached, but doesn't quite manage it. "I'm not impressed."

"No?" I rest my hand on the small of his back, feeling muscles tighten in response beneath expensive wool. "Then let's see what's behind door number two." I guide him towardmy office, where more personal demonstrations wait. "I think you'll find the executive suite more...engaging."

Metal stairs ring hollow under our feet as we climb toward my office. Each step draws him further from his pretense of normalcy and closer to the truth he can't outrun. His shoulders betray the tension thrumming through him—a caged predator sensing the trap but unable to resist its pull.

My office door clicks shut behind him with a resounding thunk. Rafael's reflection fragments across the wall of bulletproof glass, multiplying his tension into dozens of mirror images. Behind him, the warehouse floor stretches dark and vast, my men's shadows moving with practiced precision as they secure the perimeter.

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