Page 64 of Lord of Obsession

The mansion's side entrance opens as I turn to leave, spilling golden light across rain-slicked gravel. Enzo Mancini—my grandfather's right hand until his death, now my uncle's most trusted advisor—steps out, his weathered face impassive despite the tension radiating from his frame.

"Your uncle requests your presence in the dining room." His voice carries neither judgment nor warmth, merely the weight of decades serving family interests. "The entire family has gathered."

I pause, hand already reaching for the car keys in my pocket. I've said what I came to say, but it seems Salvatore has other plans for this evening. A tactical maneuver I should have anticipated but somehow missed.

"This isn't a request, Rafael." Enzo's eyes hold a warning I can't quite decipher. "They're all waiting. Every lieutenant, every cousin, every associate with blood or marriage ties. A full council."

Understanding crashes through me, sharp as broken glass. Salvatore has orchestrated this perfectly—letting me believe our confrontation in the study was the end of it, only to maneuver me into a public declarationbefore the entire family. A direct challenge that cannot be ignored or dismissed as a private disagreement.

"Clever," I murmur, more to myself than Enzo. "Force my hand in front of witnesses."

Enzo's expression softens slightly, the closest he comes to showing concern. "You have two minutes to decide. After that, they'll come looking."

I weigh my options as I stand motionless in the driveway. Walking away now would be easiest—a clean break, no messy public confrontation. But it would also be interpreted as weakness, as running from family obligation rather than facing it directly.

And I'm done running.

"Lead the way." I toss the car keys into a nearby flower bed where I can retrieve them later. "Let's see what performance Uncle has arranged."

Enzo nods once, relief flashing briefly across his features before professional detachment reasserts itself. He guides me through side passages and servants' corridors—routes I memorized as a child, playing hide-and-seek with Luca among the mansion's many secrets. Each step carries the weight ofghosts and memories I've spent years trying to escape.

The dining room doors loom ahead, solid oak panels carved with vineyard scenes that hide reinforced steel cores. Voices drift through the wood—dozens of conversations overlapping in a symphony of power and negotiation. Enzo pauses, giving me one final moment to prepare.

"Remember who you are," he murmurs, too low for anyone else to hear.

I straighten my tie, a gesture that centers me despite its simplicity. "That's precisely why I'm here."

The doors swing open, and conversation dies like a cut wire. The massive dining table stretches the length of the room, every seat occupied by family members and trusted associates. Salvatore sits at the head, naturally, with my mother to his right, her face a mask of perfect control that doesn't quite hide the turmoil beneath. Luca has been positioned halfway down, deliberately distanced from the center of power.

"Nephew." Salvatore's voice carries to every corner despite its moderate volume. "How good of you to join us. We were just discussing family matters."

I move into the room, aware of every eye tracking my progress. Cousins I've avoided since childhood. Aunts who taught me how to mix poisons with my mother's herbs. Uncles who demonstrated knife techniques while other children learned to ride bicycles. The entire criminal aristocracy of the Valenti bloodline, gathered to witness my final stand.

"Uncle." I incline my head, the gesture carrying precisely calibrated respect—enough to acknowledge his position, not enough to suggest submission. "I wasn't aware we were having a family reunion."

A ripple of tension travels around the table. Salvatore's smile doesn't reach his eyes as he gestures to the empty chair directly across from him. "Not a reunion. A reckoning."

I remain standing, hands clasped behind my back in a posture that offers both confidence and tactical advantage. "Is this really necessary? I've made my position clear."

"To me and to your mother." His hand sweeps the assembled group. "But the family deserves to hear directly from you aboutyour...choices. About your alliance with our enemies."

The accusation hangs in the air. Several of the younger cousins shift uncomfortably, while the older generation maintains perfect stillness—predators waiting for the right moment to strike.

"Alliance." A bitter laugh escapes before I can stop it. "Is that what we're calling it?"

Salvatore's expression hardens. "What would you call it, then? Consorting with Antonio Greco's most volatile son? Taking bullets meant for a Greco? Betraying family secrets?"

Aunt Elena, my mother's older sister, leans forward. "We heard you killed six Ferrara soldiers to protect him." Her voice carries equal parts accusation and grudging respect. "Is that true?"

"Eight, actually." The correction slips out before I can consider its implications. "They were planning to use him against his father. I intervened."

Silence descends, heavy with shock and calculation. Eight trained killers, dispatched by the family's wayward scholar. The revelation transforms how they see me—no longerthe soft academic playing at legitimacy, but something more dangerous. More familiar.

"The boy remembers his training," remarks Uncle Paolo from the far end of the table. "Even if he's forgotten his loyalties."

I meet his gaze without flinching. "My training never left me. Neither did my judgment. The Ferraras were using family conflicts as cover for territory expansion. I made a tactical decision."

"A tactical decision." Salvatore's repetition carries dangerous undertones. "And was it also a tactical decision to share our security protocols with Dario Greco? To reveal safe house locations? To compromise operations we've spent decades building?"

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