Page 26 of Lord of Obsession

My mother's hand finds mine under the table, a gesture of comfort that feels like restraint. The room's warmth turns suffocating. Outside, rain lashes against the windows with increasing fury, nature matching the storm building in my chest.

"I belong to myself." The voice is quiet but firm.

Salvatore's laugh echoes in the large room, though there’s no warmth in it. He signals, and a guard approaches with a leather portfolio. "Do you? Then explain these."

Photographs spill across the fine linen: Dario and me in the library, in the gym, in the warehouse. Each image captures moments I've tried to forget and touches that burned my skin. The final photo shows us in the safehouse, my mask cracking as his hands found my throat.

"The Grecos are testing boundaries."Salvatore's voice turns as sharp as the knife by my plate. "They’re using you to probe our defenses. And you're letting them."

"It's not what you think." But the lie falls flat, each syllable ringing hollow.

"No?" He taps one particular photo: Dario pressing me against the study room's glass wall. "Then tell me what I should think. Tell me why my nephew, who claims to want nothing to do with family business, keeps ending up in compromising positions with Antonio Greco's attack dog."

My mother's fingers tighten around mine. Warning or support, I'm not sure which. The room feels smaller suddenly, the walls closing in like the trap I knew this dinner would become. Guards shift positions, adjusting to the rising tension.

"I can handle Dario Greco." Even I don't believe the words.

"Can you?" Salvatore stands, his height casting shadows across fine china and damning evidence. "Because from where I sit, it looks like he's handling you. He’s breaking down every wall you've built between yourself and your heritage. He’s not so subtly reminding you exactly who you are."

The words hit too close to what Dario whispers in my ear and what he proves with every calculated touch. I push back from the table, needing space and air that doesn't taste like childhood lessons and family expectations.

"I need some air." I manage to keep my voice steady, my movements controlled. "Excuse me."

No one stops me as I leave, but I feel their eyes burning holes into my back. The photographs remain scattered across the table like cards in a game I'm losing. They are evidence of every lie I've told myself about escaping this life.

Thunder cracks overhead as I flee the suffocating warmth of the dining room, each step carrying me further from pretense but closer to truth.

I can't breathe in these halls, where every surface holds memories I've tried to bury. My feet carry me through the mansion's winding corridors, past the kitchen where staff pretend not to watch my retreat, and through the conservatory where my mother's piano sits silent and judging. The French doors yield to my touch, opening onto the backterrace where rain-washed air finally fills my lungs.

The garden offers no peace tonight. Rain mists against my face as I weave between topiaries and stone fountains, each step taking me further from the mansion's suffocating warmth. Water trickles down marble nymphs, their blind eyes watching me flee. The paths wind through carefully cultivated wilderness, every branch and bloom placed to create the illusion of natural growth while maintaining clear lines of sight to all approaches.

My mother's roses climb wrought iron trellises, their thorns sharp enough to tear skin. The flowers themselves are nearly black in the storm's dim light, petals spreading like spilled wine. Their perfume mingles with wet earth and approaching thunder, creating an atmosphere thick with memory and threat.

A security light clicks on as I pass, motion sensors tracking my movement through the grounds. I know exactly where each camera is hidden: behind sculpted hedges, within classical statuary, and beneath dripping eaves. The knowledge sits heavy in my stomach alongside Salvatore's accusations and those damning photographs.

The garden's rear section houses the plants my mother truly loves: herbs from her childhood home in Italy, their leaves releasing ancient scents when crushed. Rosemary for remembrance. Sage for wisdom. Nightshade for lessons about beauty and poison taught to children born into power. I trace my fingers along their damp leaves, recalling other lessons learned in this space: which plants heal, which plants kill, which plants mask the evidence of either.

My shoes sink slightly into wet grass as I abandon the gravel paths. Here, behind a high wall of cypress trees, sits my childhood hiding place. A stone bench beneath a wisteria-covered pergola offers shelter from the strengthening rain. The pale purple blooms hang like tears above my head, dripping water onto my shoulders as I sink onto the cold marble floor.

The photographs flash behind my eyes, moment after moment of weakness captured in high resolution. Each image proves Salvatore right, proves everything I've been desperately trying to deny. Proves that no matter how many degrees I earn or how carefully I maintain my distance, the family's gravity well pulls me back.

Like now. Like always.

Time slips away as I sit in the growing darkness. The rain strengthens, but the pergola's thick canopy keeps me relatively dry. Inside the mansion, lights begin to illuminate windows one by one. Soon someone will come looking—my mother probably, with gentle questions and sharp eyes. Or worse, Salvatore with more photographs and more evidence of my failures.

The garden's evening chorus swells around me: wind through wet leaves, water splashing in fountains, and the distant hum of security systems scanning the grounds. Each sound is familiar, a lullaby from a childhood I've tried to forget. I close my eyes, letting the rhythm wash over me. I let myself remember, just for a moment, how it felt to belong here without question or doubt.

And then a twig snaps somewhere in the darkness.

I'm on my feet before conscious thought kicks in, every nerve ending alive with awareness. The garden stretches shadow-dark around me, rain obscuring visibility and thunder masking approaching footsteps.

But I know. My body knows.

"Your security has more holes than your uncle would like." Dario's voice carries across the wet grass and flowering vines. He emerges from between rose bushes like a shadow taking form, rain darkening his jacket and hair. "Though maybe that's the point."

My back hits rough stone as I retreat. The pergola's marble columns offer cover but also trap me in this space with him. With what he represents. With everything I've tried to escape.

"This is private property." My voice doesn't shake, but my hands curl into fists at my sides, despite my best efforts at neutrality.

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