Page 6 of Lord of Obsession

I straighten my already straightened papers and adjust my perfectly positioned coffee cup. Small acts of control in a world that's rapidly spinning beyond my grasp. Up here, surrounded by carefully tended herbs and flowers, I can almost pretend I've built something real. Something that passes for legitimate. But Dario's voice whispers in my memory:"Playing pretend."

The worst part is, he might be right.

When did this rooftop become another prison? Another carefully constructed cage, just like my apartment, my study spots, my entire routine? I trace my fingers along the rough brick of the wall, remembering the calluses I used to have from weapons training. Now my hands are smooth, marked only by paper cuts and keyboard strain. Lawyer's hands. But they still remember how to hurt, how to break, how to?—

I jerk my thoughts back from that dangerous path. This is exactly what Dario wants, to make me question everything I've built. To make me doubt the walls I've erected betweenmy past and my future. I pull up another case study, but the legal jargon blurs before my eyes. Three years of perfect grades, of carefully maintained distance from family business, of building a new identity brick by brick. And it's all starting to feel like exactly what he called it: an elaborate performance.

The breeze carries the scent of the herbs I've planted: basil, oregano, the same ones my mother grew in her kitchen garden. Another tie to the past I can't quite sever. Even my attempts at normalcy betray my roots.

The first warning comes as a shadow across my laptop screen—too large for a bird, too deliberate for a cloud. My muscles tense before my mind processes why. There's someone behind me.

I don't turn. Don't give him the satisfaction. But my fingers curl against my thigh, missing the weight of steel. The breeze shifts, carrying the scent of expensive cologne and leather. Dario. The lock on the rooftop door was supposed to be unbreakable.

"Nice view," he says, voice rich with amusement. "You've got good taste in hiding spots."

The words slice through the peacefulafternoon air. I keep my eyes on my screen, though the text has become meaningless shapes. My pulse thunders in my throat as I catalog my options. The maintenance door is twelve steps behind me. The edge of the roof, eight steps left. The herb planters would provide cover, but limited mobility.

"Most students don't know about this place." His footsteps trace the perimeter I've so carefully secured. "Then again, most students don't have your…specialized training in finding escape routes."

Heat crawls up my neck. Anger, fear, and something else I refuse to name. "There's a study room available in the library."

He laughs, the sound too intimate in my sanctuary. "But the library doesn't have these lovely privacy walls. Or these"—he pauses by my herb garden—"interesting choice of plants. Very traditional. Very Italian."

My jaw aches from clenching it. He's between me and the only viable exit now. The maintenance door is padlocked from the outside. I could make the jump to the next building, but that would mean showing him exactly what I'm capable of.

"Your security cameras are cute," hecontinues, and my blood freezes. "Amateur work, but you get points for effort. Though you might want to upgrade the receivers. The signal's easy to track."

Finally, I turn to face him. He leans against the wall like he owns it, afternoon sun catching the planes of his face. There's a fresh bruise darkening his jaw; someone fought back recently. The sight shouldn't send a thrill through me.

"What do you want?"

His smile sharpens. "Now that's an interesting question. What do I want?" He pushes off the wall, his movement liquid and predatory. "Maybe I just want to understand what makes a Valenti turn his back on everything he is. Maybe I want to see how long you can keep playing student before you crack. Or maybe..."

He steps closer, and it takes everything in me not to move. Not to show weakness. Not to show how my skin prickles with awareness of the danger he represents.

"Maybe I just like watching you pretend you don't check every exit, catalog every threat, and plan every possible scenario." His voice drops lower. "Like now. You're alreadycalculating how to take me down if I get too close. Aren't you, Rafael?"

The sound of my name in his mouth sends electricity down my spine. He's not wrong. Ihavealready mapped out three different ways to neutralize him, each more violent than the last. The knowledge sits heavy in my gut.

"You're trespassing," I say, but the words come out rough, uneven.

"Am I?" He glances around the rooftop, at my perfectly arranged study space, my carefully positioned planters. "Looks to me like you're the one trespassing. In this clean little world that doesn't belong to you and never will."

A cloud passes over the sun, casting us both in shadow. In the dimness, I catch the outline of his holster beneath his jacket. He's armed, of course. The question is: why show me? Why make it obvious?

The answer hits like a punch to the gut. Because he knows I won't report it. I won't call campus security. Won't do anything that might draw attention to either of us. Because despite everything, I'm still playing by the old rules. Still bound by the laws of ourworld, even as I try to learn the laws of this one.

"Fuck off," I say, the curse slipping out in Italian. His grin widens, all teeth and triumph.

"There he is," he purrs. "There's the real Rafael Valenti."

The herb garden's scent intensifies in the afternoon heat, basil and oregano mixing with gunmetal and leather. Below us, students cross the quad, their voices carrying up like a distant radio. Their world feels impossibly far from this moment, this confrontation. A pair of pigeons takes flight from the neighboring roof, startled by our tension.

His presence transforms my sanctuary into a battleground. Each familiar element—the worn brick walls, the rusted drain pipe, the cracked concrete under my feet—becomes tactical terrain. The sun glints off the glass walls of the business building across the street, momentarily blinding. In that flash, Dario shifts closer, testing boundaries.

"You chose this spot well," he says, gesturing to the cityscape behind me. "Perfect view of your family's territory. Tell me, do youwatch their cars come and go? Keep tabs on the business you pretend doesn't exist?"

The question strikes deeper than it should. I do watch—not just my family's movements, but all of them. The ebb and flow of power in Montcove written in black SUVs and nervous couriers. Old Harbor's shadows stretching toward downtown like grasping fingers.

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