Page 23 of Lord of Obsession

He exhales, sharp and controlled. A fighter's breath, measured and precise. "I'm not what you think I am."

"No?" I slide around to face him, boxing him in with my body. The leather chair creaks as he shifts, trapped between me and imported craftsmanship that's witnessed a century of similar power plays. "Then what was that in the warehouse? In your study room? Just a law student letting off steam?"

His dark brown eyes close briefly, pulse hammering visible in his throat. When they open, the raw hunger there makes my blood sing. The perfect mask cracks just enough to show the killer underneath.

"Back off." The commandcarries pure Sicily in its undertones, dark as aged wine and twice as intoxicating.

I smile, victory sweet on my tongue. "Make me."

The conference room's temperature rises another degree, a subtle adjustment triggered by my phone. Rafael's perfectly tailored suit will start to feel like armor now, too heavy and confining. Each careful calibration serves its purpose: the heat, the lighting, the weight of criminal legacy pressing in from all sides. I circle back to my side of the table, letting anticipation build as I select a thick folder from the stack.

"You know what fascinates me about your legal research?" I flip through pages of surveillance photos, bank statements, and court documents. The paper carries the scent of fresh ink and secrets. "How closely it parallels certain family operations. Almost like you're studying your own history."

His throat works as he swallows. "Those are confidential case files."

"Are they?" I slide a photo across polished mahogany: Salvatore Valenti's latest shipping venture captured through telephoto lenses. "Or are they family albums? Tell me, doesyour study group know how much firsthand experience you have with their theoretical discussions?"

Color drains from his face as more photos spill across the table. Crime scenes he'd witnessed, deals he'd attended, and faces he'd known before they disappeared. Each image strikes like a bullet, shattering the careful walls between his past and present. His world of legal academia crashes against reality, printed in high resolution and carefully annotated.

"You've been busy." He reaches for a document, then stops himself short. The movement carries echoes of old training. Never touch evidence without gloves. "Following me. Collecting…information."

"Following you?" A laugh rises in my chest. "Baby, I've been watching you construct your entire thesis around taking down operations exactly like your family's. Like you could somehow absolve yourself by understanding how the machine works from the inside."

The air conditioning cycles again, pushing a fresh wave of heat that makes his collar dampen. Perfect. I tap one particular photograph—a younger Rafael standingbeside his uncle at a warehouse much like the one where I'd cornered him. The image captures something raw, something he's spent years trying to bury.

"How old were you here? Sixteen? Already learning the business. Already showing so much promise." My fingers trace the edge of the photo while my other hand signals another temperature increase. "Before you decided to play pretend in ivory towers, that is."

"That's not—" He cuts himself off, jaw tight. The accent bleeds stronger through his careful pronunciation. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"No?" I select another file, this one heavy with financial records. "Let's discuss the Martinez case. The one you've been researching so thoroughly. Interesting choice, considering how closely it mirrors your uncle's operation in Old Harbor."

The leather creaks as I lean back, studying his reaction. Everything in this room serves as a reminder of what he's trying to escape: the heavy furniture carved from Italian walnut, the subtle patterns in the wallpaper that disguise cutting-edge surveillance equipment,the way sound carries just enough to keep him on edge.

Rafael's hands curl against his thighs. The movement draws my eye to his fingers—smooth now, years removed from trigger calluses, but still shaped for violence. They still remember other skills than turning pages and typing briefs. His cuffs ride up just enough to show the scar from his first knife fight, a story I know by heart.

"You're trying to map it all out, aren't you?" I spread more documents across the table, creating a paper trail of his divided loyalties. "Every connection, every pattern, every weakness. Building a case not just against the family, but against the whole system." I lean forward, dropping my voice. "You’re planning your escape route, aren’t you?"

The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken truth. Outside, clouds darken the afternoon sky, casting shadows that turn the conference room intimate and threatening. Rafael's pulse jumps at the base of his throat, betraying everything his expression tries to hide. Behind us, the hidden panel in the wall slides silently, revealing rows ofweapons—another calculated exposure of the world he can't escape.

"That's why you're really here," I continue, satisfaction blooming through my chest. "Not for legal consultation. Not even because I baited you. You're here because part of you needs to see it up close again. Needs to remember what you're running away from."

"I'm not running." But his voice carries the weight of lies told too often, and his eyes keep catching on the arsenal displayed behind me.

"No?" I tap another photo: his cousin's recent weapons shipment caught on satellite imagery. "Then why does your research focus on exactly the kinds of operations your family specializes in? Why spend hours studying methods you learned at your uncle's knee?"

Lightning flashes beyond the bulletproof glass, highlighting the sharp planes of his face, the war behind his eyes. Perfect timing. I trigger another temperature increase, watching a bead of sweat trace down the contours of his neck. The storm building outside mirrors the tension in this room, where every surface holds memories of violence written in wood grain and marble.

"What do you want?" The question slipsout in his mother tongue, his façade cracking further with each passing second.

I smile, slow and sharp. "I want you to stop lying to yourself. I want you to admit that all your careful research, all this legal expertise, it's not about justice." I move closer into his space, feeling heat radiate between us. "It's about understanding the cage so you can find the weak spots. You want to learn how to dismantle it from the inside."

His eyes meet mine, dark with fury and recognition. Sometimes they are so dark brown they look black and when he is angry, like now, they look black as coal. The perfect lawyer's mask splinters as thunder rolls overhead, nature providing the percussion for this private drama. The temperature peaks, and with it, the last pretense of professional distance evaporates like morning fog.

"Too bad," I murmur, close enough to catch the heat radiating off his skin. "There's only one way out of this life. And it's not through law books."

Once again, lightning flashes, turning Rafael's face into a study of light and shadow. The storm outside provides the perfect cover for what comes next: thunder drowningfootsteps, rain obscuring visibility, nature conspiring to create this private pocket of tension and truth.

"You can't hide forever." I trace one finger along the edge of a surveillance photo. "Not from this. Not from what you are." The picture shows him leaving his apartment, spine straight with inherited authority he can't quite suppress. "And most of all, not from me."

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