Page 37 of His Obsession

The cool weight of the gun in Callum’s pocket offered little solace as he pushed through the heavy oak doors of the exclusive private club at the end of a long day. His jaw was set, his eyes dark as storm clouds as he strode past the concierge’s desk without sparing the man a glance.

“Sir, you can’t—” the young man stammered, stepping out from behind the desk to intercept him.

Callum didn’t slow, his presence alone enough to make the air feel charged. His voice was calm, but laced with steel. “Don’t waste your breath.”

Behind him, Callum caught sight of the concierge glancing nervously toward the security stationed near the entrance. Before the guards there could move, another voice cut through the room.

“Let him in.”

James Fitzwilliam sat near the center of the lavish lounge, his hand raised to silence the approaching guards. He leaned back in his chair, his polished demeanor unruffled despite Callum’s forceful entrance. With a slight nod, he dismissed the staff, his cold gaze fixed on Callum as he approached.

“Persistent as ever, Kavanagh,” Fitzwilliam said, his voice calm and measured. “I assume you’re not here for a drink.”

Callum didn’t respond immediately. He sank into the chair across from Fitzwilliam, the leather creaking under his weight. A crystal tumbler of scotch sat untouched on the table between them, its amber depths catching the light like a warning.

“You don’t return my calls, Fitzwilliam. Thought I’d make things easier for you,” Callum said, his tone sharp enough to cut glass.

Fitzwilliam exhaled slowly, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “Because there’s nothing left to discuss. Isolde should never have been dragged into this.”

Callum’s lips twitched in a humorless smile. “And yet here we are.”

The silence stretched between them with unvoiced accusations. Finally, Fitzwilliam picked up the tumbler, swirling the scotch idly but not drinking it.

“I left the O’Neill Syndicate for a reason, Callum,” he said, his voice quieter now, laced with something almost resembling regret. “To protect Isolde. To give her a chance at a life thatwasn’t soaked in blood and lies. And you—” He paused, his eyes narrowing. “You’ve undone all of that.”

Callum leaned back, his hand drumming once against the armrest before going still. “I didn’t undo anything. The Syndicate’s enemies—your enemies—did that. You think hiding her behind a foundation and a name would keep her safe forever? It was only a matter of time.”

Fitzwilliam’s jaw tightened, his grip on the glass firm. “Don’t lecture me, boy. You don’t know what it cost me to get out. What it cost all of us.”

“Then enlighten me,” Callum said, his voice dropping to a low growl. “Because right now, all I see is a man willing to sacrifice his daughter’s safety to keep his own hands clean.”

Fitzwilliam’s face darkened, his hand slamming the tumbler onto the table hard enough to make the liquid ripple. “You think I don’t know what I’ve done? You think I don’t wake up every day with the guilt of her mother’s death on my shoulders?”

Callum stilled, his eyes narrowing. “Her mother?”

Fitzwilliam sat back, rubbing a hand over his face—he looked older, the cracks in his polished exterior showing. “Eoin Lynch ordered the hit that killed her. It wasn’t supposed to be her, but me. She got in the way.”

The revelation hit Callum like a physical blow, his mind racing as he tried to process the implications. Isolde’s mother—a victim of the same game he was now trying to protect her from.

“And you think keeping this from her will make her safer?” Callum said, his voice cold and cutting. “You’ve lied to Isolde her entire life, and now you want me to believe you have her best interests at heart?”

Fitzwilliam’s gaze hardened. “I didn’t tell her because I didn’t want her burdened with it. And I certainly didn’t want her dragged back into that world because of you.”

Callum leaned forward, his hands resting on his knees as he locked eyes with the older man. “She’s already in it, Fitzwilliam. Bradford’s not just sniffing around to make a name for himself. He’s working with Lynch. She saw a hit the night of the gala. My men cleaned it up so it wouldn’t fall back on you, but my guess is the shooter knows she’s a witness. I’m not even sure at this point if Lynch or Bradford can stop him.”

The words landed like a bomb between them, as the room crackled with electricity. Fitzwilliam’s eyes widened slightly before narrowing, his fingers curling into fists.

“You’re sure?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Sure enough,” Callum said, his tone grim. “Bradford wants more than just the Syndicate. He’s after your Foundation, too. He’s using Lynch to get both, and Isolde’s the leverage he needs.”

Fitzwilliam exhaled sharply, his face paling. “God help us.”

“You’re damn right we’ll need help,” Callum snapped. “Because Bradford and Lynch won’t stop until they’ve taken everything—and left nothing but bodies in their wake.”

Fitzwilliam didn’t respond immediately, his gaze fixed on the untouched scotch as if the answers he sought might be found in its depths. Finally, he looked up, his expression grim.

“If you’re right,” he said slowly, “then we don’t just have enemies to fight. We have alliances to reconsider.”

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