Page 65 of Lord of Obsession

Now the room's energy shifts, suspicion and outrage replacing mere disapproval. My cousin Maria, who runs our digital security, watches me with naked hostility. The accusation strikes at the heart of family survival. Betraying operational security is unforgivable, regardless of motivation.

"I never compromised family interests." I maintain steady eye contact with Salvatore, refusing to be drawn into defending myself tolesser players. "Dario knows nothing about current operations, protocols, or assets."

"But he knows you." My mother's voice cuts through the tension, her words carrying a weight that silences even Salvatore. "He's inside your head, your heart. That's a vulnerability none of us can afford."

The naked truth of her statement lands like a physical blow. Not because she's wrong, but because she's right in ways I've only recently admitted to myself. Dario doesn't just know me; he sees me, all the way down to bones and blood and the darkness I've tried so hard to deny.

"Yes." The admission costs nothing now. "He knows me. Better than anyone in this room ever bothered to try."

Luca flinches as if struck. The rest of the family exchanges glances heavy with calculation, reassessing threats and alliances in light of this confession. Salvatore, however, reveals nothing, his expression a perfect mask of patriarchal authority.

"And for this... understanding, you're willing to turn your back on blood? On the family that raised you, protected you, gave you everything?" He rises slowly from hischair, power radiating from his frame despite his advancing age. "For aGreco?"

I match his stance, straightening to my full height. "I turn my back on nothing. I simply choose a different path. One that acknowledges what I am without pretending it's something noble or necessary."

"What you are," my uncle repeats, circling the table with measured steps, "is a Valenti. Whether you acknowledge it or not. Whether you run to academia or to our enemies' beds. This blood"—he gestures to the family crest mounted above the fireplace—"this legacy, it defines you. It shapes you. It demands loyalty above all personal desire."

"Blood." I taste the word like copper on my tongue. "How many times have you invoked that word to justify violence? To demand obedience? To silence questions about the lives we destroy?"

Gasps ripple around the table. No one challenges Salvatore this directly, not even his own brothers. But I'm beyond caring about family hierarchy or the consequences of disrespect. I've already chosen a path that carries its own death sentence in their eyes.

Salvatore stops his circling, now standingclose enough that I catch the scent of his cologne—the same one my father wore before his assassination. "You think you're the first to question? To want something different?" His voice drops lower, meant for my ears though the room's acoustics carry it to every listener. "Your father had similar ideas once. Similar weaknesses."

The comparison to my father—rarely mentioned since his death—sends ice through my veins. "Don't you dare use him against me. He believed in something beyond blind loyalty to a system built on blood and domination."

"And look where that got him." The words hit like bullets, precisely aimed to maximize damage. "Dead before forty, leaving his son to be raised by others who understood the necessities of our world."

My hands curl into fists, nails biting into palms hard enough to break skin. Control slips, that careful mask I've maintained throughout this confrontation cracking under the weight of old grief and fresh rage.

"Is that a threat?" The question emerges in pure Sicilian, my carefully cultivatedAmerican accent abandoned in the face of primal emotion.

Salvatore's smile carries no warmth. "A reminder. Of the price of defiance. Of the reality waiting beyond these walls for those who forget who and what they are."

The room holds its collective breath, sensing the precipice upon which we balance. Violence hangs in the air like ozone before lightning strikes, everyone present acutely aware of how quickly words can transform into blood.

"I know exactly what I am." My voice drops to a whisper that somehow carries to every corner. "The perfect blend of violence and intellect that you spent years crafting." I step closer to Salvatore, close enough to see the faint lines around his eyes, the evidence of age his power cannot disguise. "But here's what you never understood: knowing what I am doesn't mean I have to be your weapon."

"No," he agrees, something like genuine regret touching his features. "You've chosen to be Greco's weapon instead."

The accusation should sting, should make me defensive. Instead, it draws a bitter laughthat surprises even me with its rawness. "You still don't understand. I'm no one's weapon anymore. Not yours. Not his. Not even my own."

I turn, addressing the entire assembled family. "I'm done pretending we're anything but what we are. Done justifying violence with talk of protection and necessity. Done hiding behind legal degrees and family loyalty while blood stains every dollar we touch."

My gaze finds my mother, holding her eyes as I deliver the final blow. "I choose to walk away. Completely. Permanently. I claim nothing from this family—no protection, no resources, no name."

The declaration lands like a bomb, shock waves rippling through the assembled group. Even Salvatore seems momentarily stunned by the totality of my rejection. To walk away without claiming family protection is unheard of in our world. It's tantamount to suicide.

"You can't possibly survive out there alone." Aunt Elena's voice carries genuine concern beneath her sharp tone. "Not with what you know. Not with what you are."

"I never said I'd be alone." The implication hangs in the air, undeniable and damning.

Salvatore recovers quickly, his maskreasserting itself as he returns to the head of the table. "So that's your final word."

I maintain eye contact, refusing to be cowed by the collective judgment burning in their gazes. "I choose freedom from lies. I choose honesty about what we are and what we do." My voice remains steady despite the emotion building in my chest. "And yes, I choose Dario—not because he's different from us, but because he never pretended to be."

Luca rises suddenly, the screech of his chair against marble breaking the room's terrible silence. "This is madness, Raff. He'll destroy you. That's what Grecos do; they consume everything they touch."

"Perhaps." I acknowledge the possibility with a small nod. "But at least it will be an honest destruction. Not the slow death of pretending to be something I'm not."

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