Lord of Obsession (Gods of Montcove #2)

Chapter 1

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 to their 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 upcoming exams. 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 truly alone 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 long table 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 rational part 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, the hidden 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 steady hands, 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 halfway to 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 espresso machine, 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.

He's younger than I expected. Maybe a year older than me, but there's something ageless about the way he holds himself, something that speaks of violence witnessed and dealt. While I've spent years in libraries learning to interpret laws, he's been learning to break them in increasingly brutal ways. The Greco family's attack dog, unleashed on their enemies. What hell is he doing here?

"Last cup of the day," the barista says, sliding my coffee across the counter. Her smile falters as she glances past me, and I know without looking that Dario has moved closer.

I pay in cash—I always pay in cash—and wrap my hands around the cup. The heat burns my palms, but I welcome it. A tangible sensation to focus on. The barista hurries to finish her cleaning, clearly unsettled by something she can't quite name. She's picking up on Dario's energy, the coiled violence he doesn't bother to hide .

When I turn, he's examining the café's bulletin board with apparent interest, but his attention is still on me. I can feel it like a physical touch. The coffee shop suddenly feels too small, too exposed. But returning to my study spot means passing him again, closer this time in the narrow passage between café tables.

I start walking, forcing myself to move at the same measured pace as before. Three steps. Two. One. As I draw even with him, he shifts his weight slightly, and every muscle in my body tenses for an attack that doesn't come. Instead, he just smiles, slow and deliberate, letting me see the predator behind his casual pose.

"Careful with that coffee," he says softly. "Be a shame to stain such a nice shirt."

The threat is clear, though wrapped in mundane words. I keep walking, even as my mind catalogs the possible meanings. A warning? A promise? Or just a Greco playing games with a Valenti who dares to pretend he's nothing more than a law student?

Back at my table, I set the coffee down with steady hands, but I can't stop my eyes from tracking his reflection in the windows. He's made no move to follow, still lounging against the shelves like he has every right to be here. Like he hasn't just shattered the carefully maintained boundary between my two worlds.

The coffee burns my tongue as I sip it, bitter and familiar. My notes swim before my eyes. Constitutional law suddenly seems absurd in the face of family law, the ancient rules of power and revenge that govern our world. I straighten my papers again, a futile attempt to impose order on a night that's spinning rapidly out of control.

In the window's reflection, Dario finally moves, sliding into a seat with a clear view of my table. Settling in. Watching. Waiting. My sanctuary has become a cage, and we both know it.

Ten minutes. I've reread the same paragraph on judicial precedent ten times, absorbing nothing. Dario hasn't moved from his chosen spot, but his presence fills the library like smoke, choking out my concentration. My carefully organized notes mock me with their color-coded tabs and highlighted passages, as if legal knowledge could protect me from someone like him.

I maintain the pretense of studying, but my mind races through possibilities. The Greco family hasn't directly moved against the Valentis in three years, not since the warehouse incident that left four dead. Uncle Salvatore's détente with Antonio Greco is supposed to be holding. Unless something's changed. Unless I've missed something in my self-imposed exile from family politics.

The redhead from earlier hurries past my table, shooting nervous glances at Dario. Smart girl. Even without knowing who he is, she senses the danger. Within minutes, the remaining students follow her lead, gathering their things with poorly concealed urgency. The library empties like a beach before a storm.

Only Mrs. Keating seems immune, moving between the shelves with the same unhurried precision she's shown for the past three years. Her cart squeaks slightly as she shelves returns, the sound unnaturally loud in the tense silence. I should leave too. Pack up my notes, retreat to my secured apartment, make some calls. But that would mean letting him win. Showing weakness.

"Library closes in fifteen minutes," Mrs. Keating announces, her voice echoing against the vaulted ceiling. She doesn't seem to notice—or chooses to ignore—the tension radiating between me and my unwanted observer.

I begin my usual end-of-session routine, but everything feels off-balance. My movements are too stiff, too controlled. My notes slide into their folders with sharp, angry sounds that betray my fraying composure. Dario watches it all with dark amusement, like a cat studying a particularly entertaining mouse.

When he finally stands, the movement is liquid grace, dangerous and deliberate. He stretches, his jacket riding up just enough to reveal the gun holstered at his hip. He’s not trying to hide it and making sure I see it. My hands clench around my textbook, knuckles white with tension.

He takes his time walking past my table, close enough that I catch another whiff of that expensive cologne mixed with leather and something metallic. Gun oil, maybe. His fingers trail across the polished wood of my table, a casual violation of my space that sets my teeth on edge.

"You've got good taste in study spots," he says, voice pitched low enough that Mrs. Keating won't hear. "Nice and quiet. Private." His smile shows too many teeth. "We should talk sometime. About law. I've got some questions about…criminal procedure."

The threat hangs in the air between us, wrapped in a veneer of collegiate friendliness. I focus on packing my bag, each book and folder placed with precise movements that take every ounce of control I possess. "The writing center offers tutoring services."

He laughs, the sound rich and dangerous. "But they're not Valentis, are they? Not like you." He leans closer, dropping his voice further. "No matter how hard you try to hide it."

My pulse jumps, but I keep my face blank as I stand, shrugging my bag onto my shoulder. The weight of my books is reassuring, even as I calculate whether they'd make an effective weapon if needed. Three years of law school, of maintaining perfect control, of building a life outside the family's reach—all of it crumbling under the weight of his predatory gaze.

"Have a good night," I say, the bland politeness of my tone a deliberate choice. I head for the exit, measuring each step carefully. His soft laughter follows me, sliding under my skin like a blade.

"Sweet dreams, Rafael," he calls after me, my name in his mouth a promise and a threat.

I don't look back. Don't acknowledge the way my hands shake slightly as I push through the library's heavy doors. Don't think about how he knew my name, or what his presence here means for my carefully constructed future. The night air hits my face, cold and sharp, but it does nothing to dispel the feeling that everything has shifted. My sanctuary is compromised. My control is slipping.

And Dario Greco is watching me walk away, his interest a tangible weight between my shoulder blades, heavy as a target.