Page 1 of Lord of Obsession

ONE

RAFAEL

I check my watch: 8:47 PM. The library's vaulted ceiling traps the evening shadows, darkening the corners between towering bookshelves. Most students cleared out an hour ago, leaving behind the heavy silence I prefer. My notes spread across the worn oak table in precise columns: blue tabs for precedent cases, yellow for key arguments, red for potential counterpoints.

Everything in its place. Everything under control.

From my chosen spot—back corner, clear view of the entrance, solid wall behind me—I can monitor the entire reference section while appearing completely absorbed in my work.Old habits. Even here, in the sanctity of Valmont College's law library, I can't fully silence the security instincts drilled into me since childhood. A Valenti never sits with his back exposed, even one who pretends he's not a Valenti at all.

The brass lamp beside me casts a warm circle of light across my workspace, carefully arranged to eliminate any shadows that might obscure my notes. I've claimed this same table three nights a week for the past semester. The librarians know me by name but have learned not to engage in small talk. Their footsteps echo against the gothic archways as they make their final rounds, the sound mixing with the soft hum of ancient heating vents and the whisper of pages turning.

The upcoming exam on constitutional law demands perfect focus, but my hands keep smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from my shirt sleeves. Three members in my study group linger by the reference desk, gathering their things. Their whispered conversation carries across the quiet space: plans for drinks at The Grove, celebrating the end of midterms. I keep my eyes fixed on my textbook as they pass, responding totheir wave with a small nod. The invitation hangs unspoken between us. They've stopped asking me to join them weeks ago.

Easier this way. Safer. The Grove is owned by the Rossi family, and the last thing I need is to run into any cousins who might report back about my social activities. My uncle already watches too closely, questioning my dedication to law school. As if my perfect GPA isn't enough to prove I'm serious about building a legitimate future.

The fluorescent lights hum overhead as I highlight another passage, adding it to my color-coded system. My neck aches from hunching over books for hours, but I ignore it. One more chapter to review. One more step toward becoming untouchable through legal expertise rather than family connections. I reach for my coffee, long since gone cold, and my hand trembles slightly. Exhaustion from maintaining this rigid control or something else? I push the thought away and focus on my notes and the comforting order of legal arguments laid out in precise lines.

A group of first-year students whispers too loudly near the periodicals section, their nervous energy betraying their own upcomingexams. I catch fragments of their conversation, something about tort law and precedents. Their textbooks are new, the spines barely cracked, highlighted passages still neat and organized. They haven't learned yet how to truly study law, how to dissect every case until its skeleton is laid bare. I remember being that naive once, before I understood how laws could be twisted, manipulated, and used as weapons by families like mine.

My phone buzzes silently in my pocket, probably another message from my cousin Luca about the upcoming family dinner. I leave it unanswered. He understands my need for space during exam week, even if the rest of the family sees it as another sign of my rebellion. The phone screen's glow would disturb the careful balance of light I've created anyway, threatening the bubble of control I've built around myself in this corner of the library.

But even as I immerse myself in constitutional precedents, part of me remains alert, scanning the shadows between bookshelves and cataloging the sound of every footstep. Always watching, always ready. The weight of the Valenti name ensures I'm never trulyalone with my studies, never fully free of the world I'm trying so hard to escape. The heavy legal texts surrounding me are both shelter and armor, each memorized case another brick in the wall I'm building between myself and my family's legacy.

I check my watch again: 8:53 PM. The library closes at midnight. Three hours and seven minutes to finish reviewing this chapter. I straighten my already straight papers and push back my shoulders, ignoring how the perfect posture makes my spine ache. My reflection in the darkened window shows a perfect law student: pressed shirt, neatly combed hair, focused expression. The image I've crafted as carefully as my study notes. Control. Focus. It's all I have.

The first prickle of awareness hits me at 9:17 PM. A shift in the air, subtle enough that anyone else might miss it. But I've spent my life learning to read these signals, the way prey animals sense a predator's approach before seeing it. Someone is watching me.

I don't lift my head from my constitutional law textbook, but my senses sharpen, cataloging my surroundings with practiced precision. Two students remain at the longtable near the windows, both wearing Valmont hoodies, both genuinely absorbed in their studies. A girl with bright red hair stands in the stacks three rows over, scanning book spines with tired eyes. The elderly librarian, Mrs. Keating, sorts returns at her desk. None of them are the source of this crawling sensation along my spine.

My hands don't shake as I turn the page, carefully maintaining the appearance of focused study. But my mind races through recent family events, potential threats, and forgotten obligations. It’s been three weeks since I last attended a family dinner. Two months since I refused to help cousin Marco with his "legal question" about offshore accounts. A week since I ignored another invitation to Uncle Salvatore's weekly card game.

The leather chair to my left creaks as someone shifts their weight, and my muscles tense. But it's just another law student—I recognize him from my criminal procedure class—gathering his books to leave. His footsteps echo against the hardwood floors before they fade. Eight people left in the library now. Eight potential threats, though the rationalpart of my brain insists they're just students and staff.

I reach for my coffee cup, using the motion to scan the room again. The massive arched windows reflect the library's interior against the darkness outside, creating overlapping layers of shadows and movement. Perfect cover for someone who knows how to use it. And there, a flicker of movement in the reflection, too controlled to be casual. Someone is standing in the row of bookshelves behind me, partially hidden by the constitutional law volumes.

A memory surfaces: two weeks ago, a black SUV idling outside my apartment building. I'd dismissed it as paranoia then. Now, I'm not so sure. My fingers itch for the knife I used to carry before I committed to this clean life. All I have now are heavy law books and a sharp mind. Sometimes I wonder if that's enough.

Mrs. Keating switches off the lights in the rare books section, plunging that corner of the library into darkness. The shadows between the shelves deepen. I've spent years training myself out of my family's habits—the constant checking of exits, the strategic positioning, thehidden weapons—but right now, every instinct screams danger. The watching presence feels closer now, more focused. Not a casual observer. This is intentional.

I start gathering my notes with deliberate calm, maintaining the facade of a student simply ready for a break. But each movement is calculated, each paper aligned at perfect angles. Control is critical. Show any weakness, and?—

The memory hits without warning: age thirteen, my first lesson in survival from Uncle Salvatore. "A Valenti who loses control loses everything." His voice had been calm as he'd explained how to sense a threat and how to maintain composure while planning escape routes. The same skills I'm using now, despite my best efforts to leave everything about that life behind.

My phone buzzes again. Luca's name lights up the screen, and for a moment, I'm tempted to answer. One call to my cousin, and I could have family security here in minutes. But that would mean admitting I still need their protection. That I still belong in their world.

Instead, I close my textbook with steadyhands, its weight reassuring. The watching presence hasn't moved, patient in a way that speaks of training. Professional. My heartbeat remains even through sheer force of will, but sweat gathers at the base of my spine. All my careful plans, my controlled routine, my clean life—they suddenly feel fragile, like a house of cards in a growing storm.

9:23 PM. In six minutes, the library's coffee shop closes. A natural reason to take a break, to change positions. To get a better look at whoever's watching from the shadows. I begin the meticulous process of organizing my notes into their labeled folders, each movement a study in forced calm. But beneath my controlled exterior, old instincts stir to life, ready for whatever comes next.

I'm halfwayto the coffee shop when I see him. Dario Greco. The name hits me like a physical blow, though I keep walking, my steps measured, expression neutral. He leans against the philosophy shelves with calculated casualness, one ankle crossed over the other, designer jacket intentionally rumpled.Everything about him is intentional, I realize, from his artfully disheveled dark hair to the way his posture suggests both laziness and lethal grace.

My heart pounds against my ribs, but I maintain my pace. A Greco. Here. In my carefully constructed sanctuary. He's watching me with dark eyes that miss nothing, and I know my calm departure has already told him too much about my training. A normal student would have startled at his presence, would have shown some reaction to the predatory stillness in his stance.

"Coffee shop's closing," he says as I pass, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. "Better hurry."

I don't break stride, don't acknowledge him. The five steps past him are the longest of my life. His cologne hits me—something expensive and subtle, incongruous with the rumors I've heard about his work as a family enforcer. The youngest Greco son, the most volatile. The one they send when they want to send a message written in blood.

The coffee shop's fluorescent lights feel harsh after the library's dim warmth. The barista is already cleaning the espressomachine, but she knows me and starts my usual order without needing to ask. I stand at the counter, my back to the wall, and finally allow myself to really look at where Dario stands through the shop's glass partition.

---