His Obsession (Sinful Mafia Daddies #1)

Chapter 1

VALENTINA

The bar line is backed up, the champagne needs more ice, and a girl with six million followers is about thirty seconds away from having a meltdown in the middle of the venue. As far as I’m concerned, the night is off to a perfect start.

I stand just outside the private elevator bank at the top of the hotel, phone in one hand, earpiece in, and my eyes sweeping the rooftop in quick, practiced passes.

The venue is stunning, overlooking the ocean.

One thing I’ll give LA is that the views blow Manhattan’s out of the water.

The décor I’ve selected for tonight only adds to the ambience.

Candlelight flickers across glass tables and white orchids hang over the main bar in soft, dramatic clusters.

The skyline stretches beyond the low glass wall, glittering against a dark velvet sky.

“Valentina,” a voice calls.

I turn toward the service corridor just as one of the catering servers comes out carrying the wrong tray. He’s young, nervous, and moving too fast, which means he’s about to make a mistake.

I step into his path before he hits the floor. “Hold on.”

He stops so abruptly the tray rattles. “What?”

I glance down at the tuna cones on his platter. “These aren’t for the first pass. These go out after the founder speech.”

His face goes blank. “Chef told me these were up.”

“Chef is wrong,” I tell him, keeping my smile in place. “First pass is burrata crostini and truffle tartlets. Take these back and tell Mario I said if he pulls this again, I’m keying his car.”

The server blinks, then laughs nervously. “Okay.”

“You’re not in trouble. Just move.”

He nods and disappears back through the doors. I peer through the glass into the prep area and catch Mario’s eye immediately. He puts a hand over his heart like I’ve wounded him. I point two fingers at him. He grins.

I swear under my breath, then cut across the terrace to head off the next problem.

An influencer in silver sequins is leaning over the east bar, giving one of the bartenders hell because she wants into the roped-off lounge. The bartender looks about one second away from telling her off, which would inevitably end up all over TikTok.

I slide in beside her.

“You look stunning, Melissa,” I say warmly, like we’re old friends and she’s not currently terrorizing my staff. “I’m so glad you made it.”

She turns, ready to fight, then hesitates. People like being greeted by someone who looks like she’s in charge. I learned that a long time ago.

“Someone’s fucked up the VIP room,” she snaps.

“I’m so sorry you feel that way,” I tell her gently. “The front lounge is reserved for press during the first hour, and then we’ll be rotating guests through after remarks. You’re at the top of the list.”

Her mouth tightens. “I don’t wait in lines.”

“Neither do I.” I lean in like I’m about to do her a favor. “That’s why I’d hit the west photo wall right now, before the actresses get here. The lighting is better on that side, and once the bigger names start posting, the line is going to be impossible.”

That gets her attention. She glances toward the west side, already calculating her own face from every angle.

“Perfect,” she says, a gleam in her eye, and stalks toward the west wall.

A launch party like this is controlled chaos.

The clients think they’re paying for beauty and exclusivity.

What they’re actually paying for is the woman sprinting in heels behind the scenes so no one realizes the ice delivery was late, the logo plaque on the flower wall shifted half an inch, and one of the assistants nearly cried.

I catch a hostess near the private lounge and straighten the angle of her name badge without breaking stride.

“Relax your shoulders,” I murmur to her.

She straightens. “Sorry.”

“You’re fine,” I tell her kindly. “Just breathe. It’s a catering job, not World War III.”

Gia appears beside me like she was summoned by my stress level alone.

She looks incredible in her bronze slip dress, with long dark hair swept over one shoulder, and sharp, smoky eyes that miss almost nothing.

She works in branding and publicity, which means we cross paths constantly.

Somewhere in the middle of that, she became my best friend.

“Mrs. Reynolds is panicking in the powder room because she thinks one side of her contour looks muddy,” she says.

Jacqueline Reynolds is the wife of Harold Reynolds, the founder of the company launching tonight. She’s the kind of woman who thinks this party is all about her, and she’ll milk every last second of it.

“I already sent up a makeup artist.” I sigh.

“Of course you did.” Gia laughs. “You don’t miss a thing.”

I grin and take a sip of water before scanning the room. The DJ is spinning bland, nondescript music that’ll serve as background for the evening. The bartender has a small crowd, but he moves like lightning, keeping the wait time low. Out of habit, I note where every security guard is stationed.

Gia watches me for a moment. “You’re doing that thing again, aren’t you?”

“What thing?” I ask, already knowing she’s caught me.

“You’re checking the exits,” she says. “Like you’re ready to bolt if you need to.”

Gia is so goddamn perceptive. Something I both love and hate about her.

“I’m just making sure all our security guards showed up.” I shrug. “You know how rowdy rich people can get when they’re drunk.”

She narrows her eyes but has the grace to drop it. I look out toward the skyline. Beverly Hills sprawls beneath us, all glowing windows and expensive rooftops and hills so dark they almost look painted.

One of my assistants hurries over before Gia can push me any further. She looks pale.

“Val, the sponsor plaque is missing from the flower wall.”

I shut my eyes for half a second. “Did you check behind the installation?”

“Yes.”

“The floor?”

“Yes.”

“The styling closet?”

“Yes.”

“Then someone moved it for a photo. Get Josh to reprint the logo card and bring up the backup clips. We’ll have it replaced before remarks.”

“Okay.”

She turns to go, and I stop her.

“Tessa.”

She looks back.

“You’re fine. Fix it and keep moving.”

Her shoulders loosen just enough to tell me I said the right thing before she disappears.

Gia watches her go. “You’re weirdly nice under pressure.”

“Yelling isn’t going to help the situation,” I say with a shrug.

For the next twenty minutes, the room settles into the kind of rhythm that makes all the invisible labor worth it.

Guests start to relax. The bars move faster.

The photos are going well. Mrs. Reynolds is finally leaving me alone.

I cross from one side of the rooftop to the other, adjusting, smoothing, solving.

This is the part I’m good at. Reading rooms, reading moods, or knowing when a problem is a problem and when it just needs a smile and a redirect.

Near the west terrace, I stop. A man is standing by the railing with his back half turned to me. He’s wearing a dark suit that barely conceals his broad shoulders. From this angle, I can only see his profile, but it’s so familiar it makes my stomach drop.

For one horrible second, the party disappears. I’m not in Beverly Hills anymore. I’m in an expensive Manhattan penthouse with marble floors. A man’s voice echoes off those perfectly polished surfaces, and my pulse spikes before his fist even reaches my face.

My body reacts before my brain catches up. I go cold.

“Val?”

Gia’s voice reaches me from too far away. The man turns just enough for me to see his face, and I can see he’s not the man from my nightmares. Not even close.

“Val.” Gia is beside me now.

“I need a minute.”

She takes one look at my face and nods. “Go.”

I move through the service doors without another word, past the prep kitchen and into the back corridor where it’s quieter.

The hallway smells like linen spray and bleach and hot kitchen air.

My heels click too loudly against the floor.

I keep walking until I hit the storage alcove near the extra rental racks, then stop with one hand braced against the wall.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Repeat.

I hate this part the most. Not the fear itself, exactly, but the humiliation of it. The anger. The fact that after all this time, after all the distance, he can still get inside my head without even being here.

I moved across the country. I built a life and entire business for myself. I’m a badass boss bitch who can handle anything.

Except the memory of him.

Except the fear.

My phone buzzes in my hand and I jerk so hard I nearly drop it. It’s just an email notification. I laugh once under my breath, but there’s nothing funny about it.

A shadow falls across the doorway a second later.

Gia leans against the wall and crosses her arms. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I say, squaring my shoulders and heading back toward the party. “Just got dizzy for a second.”

She knows I’m lying. That doesn’t mean I’m going to talk about it here. This is neither the time nor the place to relive the horrors that caused me to flee across the damn continent.

When I step back onto the rooftop, I’m all business. I replace the missing sponsor plaque three minutes before Mr. Reynolds takes the podium. Once he’s done, I steer him through a slew of reporters to keep him on time so he can sit down and we can serve dinner.

By the time dinner starts, the hard part of my job is over.

Candlelight glows over designer gowns and expensive suits.

Everyone is at least two drinks in, and convinced the event is flawless.

As long as the waiters don’t mix up the vegetarian and vegan dishes, all that’s left is to coast through the next hour and hand things off to the cleanup crew.

A little after midnight, the last of the important guests begin to leave.

Mr. Reynolds is thrilled with how the event went.

Mrs. Reynolds hugs me twice. One of the beauty editors tells me she’s passing my name to someone at a luxury hotel group, which fills me with a sharp, bone-deep pride.

The venue manager squeezes my elbow on the way out and tells me my team was a pleasure to work with.

By the time the final vendor has loaded out and I’ve signed the last invoice, all I can think about is collapsing on my couch with a very large glass of wine.

“You’re kind of a rock star,” Gia says, grinning at me. “I’ve been to a lot of events in this town, and they rarely go this smoothly.”

“I’m an expert at chaos,” I say wryly.

“Well, now you can be an expert at shots.” She laughs. “I’m buying, bitch.”

I roll my eyes and follow her downstairs to the hotel bar. My couch will have to wait.

Three lemon drop martinis later, we’re giggling like schoolgirls, debriefing the event and all the near disasters we narrowly dodged.

“I can’t believe a bird actually flew into that woman’s hair,” she cackles. “How did you not burst out laughing?”

“I don’t know how she didn’t feel it.” I laugh. “We definitely didn’t have birds that big in Manhattan.”

My expression darkens just a fraction. I know she sees it.

She gently places her hand on my knee.

“That’s all over now,” she says softly. “It’s okay to admit you’re building a good life here. You’re killing it with work, you’ve got a great house. Maybe it’s time to think about dipping a toe into the dating scene.”

I shake my head automatically. Nothing could possibly sound worse than trying to date in LA. I’ve made peace with my impending spinsterhood.

“I’m way too busy to think about dating,” I deflect. “Besides, the men here are basically Ken dolls. They’re all prettier than me.”

“Not without fillers,” she snorts, the lemon drop clearly hitting her.

We finally say goodbye, and I book an Uber home. Halfway there, my brother Nico calls. It’s nearly two in the morning, so I’m surprised to hear from him, but he keeps late hours too.

“Word on the street is, you’re the newest event guru in LA,” he says without a greeting.

I grin so hard it hurts.

“Who told you that?” I ask.

“I have a friend who works at LA Social. She’s already working on the writeup and wanted to know if Valentina Moretti is related to me.”

“Did you tell her that I’m your much more fabulous sister?”

“I told her I used to change your diapers,” he jokes.

I roll my eyes and look out the window as the city rolls past.

“Anyway, I figured I’d catch you while you’re up. You’re coming to family dinner tomorrow, and I’m not taking no for an answer.”

I sigh. When I moved out to LA, Nico insisted on a weekly family dinner to catch up now that I was closer. Mostly that means him watching me carefully, making sure I don’t have a mental breakdown. The dinners have gotten tedious, so I’ve made excuses the last few weeks to skip them.

“My boss is coming,” he says seriously. “You’re not allowed to say no.”

“Your boss is your best friend,” I remind him. “It’s not exactly a big deal that he’s coming.”

“It’s always a big deal when Sebastian chooses to come over. He’s busier than you are, but he actually makes time for me.”

The words are said in jest, but there’s a barb of truth in them. I’ve been taking Nico for granted, and I know it.

“Fine,” I finally say. “Count me in.”

Even as I say it, I’m already plotting a conveniently timed migraine to get out of it.