Page 62 of Lord of Obsession

I smile, my body finally sated, my heart full. Our journey had been violent, passionate, but in the end, it had brought us together. And as light streams through the partially open blinds, I know that no matter what the future holds, we would face it together.

NINETEEN

RAFAEL

The Valenti estate materializes through early evening mist like something from a half-forgotten nightmare. Limestone towers and manicured grounds that once represented safety now loom with silent threat. I ease the borrowed car—one of Dario's many untraceable vehicles—to a stop just beyond the property line, giving myself one final moment before crossing a threshold that can't be uncrossed.

My reflection in the rearview mirror shows a stranger: stubble darkening my jaw, shadows beneath my eyes, and a hardness that wasn't there three weeks ago. The expensive suit I wear feels like armor, each piece carefully selected for this confrontation. The woolcarries a slight weight in the breast pocket: a micro recorder Dario insisted I take. Not that I'll need evidence of what comes next. Some conversations burn themselves into memory.

The security gate's sensor recognizes my approach, iron barriers parting with silent efficiency despite my weeks of absence. Three years of playing at escape, and the family's systems still know my signature, still welcome me home like the prodigal son. The irony isn't lost on me.

Gravel crunches beneath tires as I navigate the circular drive. Two black Escalades flank the main entrance—my uncle's vehicles, which means he's expecting me. Of course he is. Nothing happens in Montcove without Salvatore knowing, especially not a Valenti heir returning after such a public break.

The mansion's windows gleam golden in fading daylight, warmth that doesn't reach the cold calculation in my chest. I've rehearsed this meeting a hundred times in my mind, played out every possible scenario with the same strategic precision Uncle Salvatore taught me before I could drive. The same skills I've spent years pretending I didn't possess.

I check my watch—Italian, a gift from my mother on my twenty-first birthday. The hour is specific, carefully chosen for when the family would be gathered but before dinner begins. Maximum impact with controlled variables. A lesson from my earliest training that I've never managed to unlearn.

Security cameras track my approach to the door, their subtle movements betraying heightened alert status. The guard at the entrance—new since my departure—maintains a façade of welcome that doesn't reach his eyes. His hand remains close to the weapon hidden beneath his tailored jacket.

"Mr. Valenti." He inclines his head with practiced deference. "They're waiting for you in the main study."

Not the dining room, then. Interesting choice. The study offers fewer exits but more privacy. Uncle Salvatore's strategic thinking hasn't dulled in my absence.

My footsteps echo against marble as I cross the threshold, muscle memory guiding me through hallways I could navigate blindfolded. Every painting, every antique, every carefully positioned chair remains unchanged, as if the past weeks of violence andrevelation never happened. As if I haven't been irreversibly transformed by bullets and blood and Dario's arms around me.

The familiar scent of lemon polish and old money fills my lungs as I approach the study. Voices drift through the partially open door—my mother's melodic cadence, my uncle's deeper rumble, and others I can't immediately identify. I pause, straightening my already immaculate tie. Not from nervousness, but from the ritual of preparation my father instilled in me before he died. Always enter important confrontations from a position of control, even when you're outnumbered.

I don't bother knocking. This house, for all its locked rooms and hidden passages, never truly belonged to anyone but Salvatore. Instead, I push the door open with deliberate force, letting it swing wide enough to reveal every occupant at once.

My uncle stands behind his massive desk, hands braced against polished wood like a general surveying battle plans. My mother sits in one of the leather wingbacks, her posture perfect despite the tension evident in her shoulders. Cousin Luca occupies the windowseat, his usual friendly expression replaced by something more cautious. Three security personnel hold positions near strategic points in the room: doors, windows, and the concealed wall safe.

"Rafael." Uncle Salvatore's voice carries the weight of authority that once commanded my unquestioning obedience. "How kind of you to finally return."

My mother rises, taking half a step toward me before Salvatore's subtle gesture halts her movement. Her eyes catalog my appearance, noting changes that speak volumes about where I've been and who I've been with.

"Salvatore." I ignore the theatrics, moving further into the room with measured steps. "Mother. Luca." Each name carries identical intonation, betraying nothing of the emotional current running beneath my carefully constructed calm.

"You look..." My mother searches for the right word, settling on, "different."

A bitter smile tugs at my mouth. "Different. That's one way to put it."

Salvatore gestures to the chair opposite his desk. "Sit. We have much to discuss."

I remain standing, maintaining eyecontact as I position myself with clear sight lines to all exits. Not that I expect to need them; this isn't that kind of confrontation. Not yet.

"I appreciate the invitation, but I'll stand." The words come out smooth despite the tension coiling through my frame. "This won't take long."

My uncle's expression doesn't change, but something cold flickers in his eyes. "You disappear for weeks after publicly defying family authority, consort with our most dangerous rival, and cost us considerable resources tracking your movements. And you think this conversation will be brief?"

"I'm not here to explain myself." I unbutton my jacket, a casual gesture that allows easier access to the weapon I'm not carrying. Old habits. "I'm here to make my position clear, one final time."

Luca straightens, his usual easy manner nowhere in evidence. "Raff, whatever Greco's done to convince you?—"

"This isn't about Dario." The lie slips out smooth as silk, though we all know better. "This is about choice. About finally acknowledging what we all are beneath the veneer of legitimacy and family loyalty."

"And what is that, exactly?" Salvatore's voice carries dangerous undercurrents despite his relaxed posture.

I meet his gaze without flinching. "Monsters wearing designer suits. Killers playing at civility while the blood never quite washes off our hands." My focus shifts to my mother, who flinches as if struck. "Some of us just stopped pretending."

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