Page 48 of Lord of Obsession

And I'll gladly pay it in blood.

FIFTEEN

RAFAEL

The crystal wine glasses on the Valenti family home dining table catch light from the chandelier, fracturing it into tiny rainbows across imported linen. I adjust my tie, the silk feeling more like a noose with each passing minute. Through leaded windows, storm clouds gather over the estate's manicured grounds, mirroring the tension building in my chest.

Maria appears at my elbow, her silver hair catching the chandelier's glow. "Your uncle requests your presence in his study before dinner." Her eyes hold a warning as she smooths my lapel with maternal concern. Even after thirty years of service, she still tries to protect us from ourselves.

The journey to my uncle's study feels endless, each step on polished marble echoing like a countdown. Oil paintings of stern-faced ancestors track my progress, their judgment weighing heavy as the gun I no longer carry. The door looms ahead, solid oak imported from Sicily when this mansion was built. A fortress disguised as a home, much like everything else in my life.

Uncle Salvatore stands at his desk when I enter, examining something in a thick manila folder. He doesn't look up immediately, drawing out the moment like a conductor leading an orchestra toward crescendo. The silence stretches until it nearly snaps.

"Sit." He finally closes the folder, gesturing to one of the leather chairs facing his desk. "We need to discuss your recent...activities."

My throat tightens as I lower myself into the offered seat. The leather creaks beneath me, underlining how still I'm holding myself. Years of training kick in as I assess exits, identify weapons, and maintain composure. Old lessons rising unbidden, just as Dario said they would.

"The Martinez case is proceeding well," Ibegin, clinging to the pretense of academic discussion. "Professor Harrison believes?—"

Photographs spill across the polished wood, cutting off my words. Images of Dario and me in various locations: the library, the warehouse, the rooftop. Each one captures a moment I've tried to forget, evidence of control slipping away frame by frame.

"Do you take me for a fool, Rafael?" Uncle Salvatore's voice carries the weight of decades of command. "Did you think we wouldn't notice the youngest Greco stalking our territory? Making appearances at your study spots, your gym?" His fingers drum against wood, the rhythm sharp as gunfire. "The question is why."

I force my hands to remain steady in my lap, though sweat beads at my temples. "It's not what you think."

"No?" He selects one particular photo—Dario pressing me against the study room's glass wall. "Then explain this to me. Explain why my nephew, who claims to want nothing to do with family business, keeps ending up in compromising positions with Antonio Greco's most volatile son."

The truth catches in my throat likeground glass. How do I explain something I barely understand myself? The pull between Dario and me transcends simple manipulation or family politics. It's darker, deeper, more fundamental than any game of power and control.

Lightning flashes beyond the study windows as storm clouds finally break. The rain's percussion against glass fills the silence between us, nature's accompaniment to this carefully orchestrated confrontation.

"I can handle Dario Greco," I say, but the words ring hollow even to my ears.

Uncle Salvatore's laugh holds enough ice to freeze hell. "Can you? Because you’ve said this before, and nothing has changed." He taps another photograph, this one from the warehouse. "He's systematically dismantling every wall you've built between yourself and your heritage. And you're letting him."

Heat floods my face as my uncle's words strike too close to home. The carefully constructed identity I've created—dedicated law student, reformed heir, man of principle—crumbles further with each passing second.

"My studies?—"

"Are a shield," he cuts in. "A convenientexcuse to hide from what you really are. What this family needs you to be right now." He stands, his presence filling the room. "But that ends now. You have a choice to make, Rafael. Either you walk away from whatever game Dario Greco is playing or you lose the family's protection entirely."

The ultimatum lands like a physical blow. Beyond the study’s walls, thunder rolls across Montcove's skyline. My careful world balances on a knife's edge, everything I've built threatening to shatter under the weight of impossible choices.

"You're asking me to?—"

"I'm telling you to choose." His voice drops lower, intimate with threat. "The law degree, the clean life, the pretense of legitimacy—we've indulged your little rebellion long enough. But with the Grecos testing boundaries, we need every soldier. Every asset." His eyes drill into mine. "Every Valenti."

My pulse thunders in my ears as the full implications sink in. This isn't just about Dario or my choices. It's about legacy, loyalty, and the price of freedom in a world built on blood and obligation.

The rain intensifies, drumming againstcentury-old glass with increasing fury. In this moment, suspended between past and future, I feel the weight of my name like chains around my throat.

Uncle Salvatore moves to the bar cart, pouring two fingers of scotch with deliberate precision. "You have until the end of dinner to decide." The crystal catches light as he lifts his glass. "Choose wisely, nephew. Some bridges, once burned, can never be rebuilt."

I rise on unsteady legs, the photographs still scattered across his desk like evidence at a crime scene. Each image captures a moment of weakness, of control slipping away, of the truth I've tried so hard to deny.

The door closes behind me with stark finality as I step into the hallway. Ahead, voices drift from the dining room where my mother waits. Behind, my uncle's ultimatum hangs in the air like cordite after a firefight.

Time to face the family. Time to choose.

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