Page 46 of Lord of Obsession

Now he faces me, his cold eyes raking over my disheveled appearance. I see him taking in my reddened mouth and the flecks of sand still clinging to my hair. I watch him do the mental math, tabulating my actions and the depth of his disapproval.

"This feud with Rafael...your obsession with unmaking that boy." He swirls the scotch with deceptive mildness. "It has become a distraction. A liability."

I lean forward, placing my elbows on my knees, my grin turning razor sharp. "Oh no, that's where you're wrong. It's a decimation. A hostile takeover." My voice lowers, intimate in its viciousness. "And when I'm done, the Valenti prince will be a smoking ruin, and their empire will follow."

Antonio's grip tightens on his glass, a hairline fracture in his icy facade. Good. Heshould know by now not to underestimate my appetites or my ambition. Rafael is both a goal and a means, the key to an annihilation that will rewrite the very history of this city.

"You play a dangerous game, son." The warning rings cold and familiar, a tarnished coin often traded between us. "If Salvatore realizes the depth of your plan…"

"Salvatore is a fossil, clinging to the dregs of his power." I examine my nails, deliberately provocative. "He'll realize nothing until it's too late. Not until his precious nephew is the poison in his cup and the knife in his back."

The mantle clock ticks softly and surely in the weighted silence. My father takes a long pull of his drink, never breaking eye contact. Measuring. Calculating. Trying to discern how much of this is youthful bravado and how much is lethal intent.

He should know better. I am my father's son, after all. The most ruthless weapon in his arsenal, honed on blood and betrayal. And now I've found my purpose, my target, my brutal magnum opus.

Rafael will be my masterpiece, the Valenti dynasty will be the canvas, and the streets will run red with the aftermath. A dark shiver ofanticipation travels along my spine at the thought.

"I hope you know what you're doing, Dario." A muscle jumps in my dad's jaw as he turns back to the bar. "For all our sakes."

My laughter is caustic in the cloying air of the study. "Oh, I know exactly what I'm doing. And when the dust settles"—I rise to my feet, blood buzzing with vicious satisfaction—"you'll be calling me ‘sir.’"

I don't wait for his response. The slam of the study door punctuates my exit, a son's declaration of war against the father. Against the whole damn world.

I slam my father's study door hard enough to rattle the frame, each step down the mansion's hallway echoing my fury. The ancestral portraits lining the walls track my passage with painted eyes that hold generations of judgment. Let him stew in his doubts and warnings. I've got an empire to crush and a prince to corrupt.

A flash of movement catches my attention, and Marco appears at the intersection of hallways, his usual stoic expression cracked by something that sets my teeth on edge. One look at his face stops me cold.

"What?"

He glances at the security cameras before lowering his voice. "Intel just came in from our dock contacts. You need to see this. Now."

We duck into my private office, the space a stark contrast to my father's old-world sensibilities. Modern furniture, steel surfaces, everything arranged for maximum efficiency. A stack of surveillance reports sits centered on my desk, crisp manila folders stamped with today's date.

The first page hits me like a shot to the gut. Ferrara family soldiers creeping along the edges of our territory, testing boundaries and probing weak spots. Their usual haunts show triple the activity of last month. But that's not what sends ice through my veins.

Marco stands at attention by the door, his spine rigid as he delivers the real punch. "They've been tracking Rafael's movements. Three men were stationed outside his apartment building last night. Another team followed him to campus this morning. They're getting bolder. One even went into his regular coffee shop right after him."

The paper crumples in my fist. Every muscle in my body coils tight at the thoughtof their eyes on him, marking his patterns, invading spaces I've claimed. A feral sound tears from my throat as I hurl the reports across the room. Pages scatter like birds taking flight, crime scene photos and surveillance logs raining down on imported rugs.

"Get me everything," I snarl, already reaching for my phone. "Security footage from every angle. License plates. Known associates. Cell phone data. I want to know who gave the order and every hand involved in this little expedition into our sandbox."

Marco nods once, crisp and efficient. As he moves to comply, I dial a number I've memorized but never saved. It rings three times before connecting to empty air and a gravelly voice I know too well.

"Your credit line's running thin, kid. Last job nearly got two of my best guys pinched."

I pace the length of my office, past walls of monitors displaying feeds from our territory. "Then consider this an investment in future returns. I need eyes on the Ferrara operation—full surveillance, no blind spots. Every warehouse, every safe house, every rat hole they might crawl into."

A low whistle crackles through theconnection. "That's not cheap intel. And Angelo Ferrara isn't known for his forgiving nature when spies get caught. He still has that thing about blowtorches..."

"Neither am I." The words drip acid as I recall the last man who crossed me. They never did find all his pieces. "Double your usual rate. Triple if you can get me names within the hour."

The line goes dead. I pocket my phone and stalk to the window, staring out at grounds bathed in late afternoon sun. The manicured hedges and perfect flower beds mock me with their artificial order. Like Rafael's carefully constructed world of legal briefs and academic achievements, a thin veneer over darker truths.

My fingers itch for a trigger, for the simple clarity of answering threats with lead and cordite. But this requires a scalpel, not a sledgehammer. Rafael may be mine to break, but he's still a Valenti. Still a vital piece on this city's chessboard. And no one touches my property without permission.

Joey appears in the doorway, another manila folder clutched to his chest like a shield. Sweat beads on his upper lip; heknows interrupting me right now is playing with fire. "Sir? We've got movement at the north docks. Ferrara's people loading unmarked containers onto?—"

"I don't give a fuck about shipping manifests right now." I snatch the folder from his trembling hands. Inside, grainy photos show three men in dark suits lingering outside Rafael's usual coffee shop. The timestamp reads 8:47 AM—his regular arrival time. They stood close enough to catch his scent as he passed, near enough to reach out and?—

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