Chapter 4
Obsession is a slow disease.
You never notice the infection until it’s already in your blood.
It started simple—due diligence.
A journalist sniffing around my name, my businesses, my family. I’ve seen it before. It never lasts long.
But Isabella DeLaurentis wasn’t like the others.
She didn’t scare easily. She didn’t flinch when men twice her size tried to block her from stories that could ruin them.
And every time I read one of her articles, I caught something underneath the facts—anger, yes, but also honor.
A strange thing to find in a city that sold its soul a century ago.
So I told myself I was being cautious when I had Lorenzo run a background check.
Responsible when I asked Nicole to pull her security footage from the lobby of her office building.
And maybe I was curious when I pulled her file onto my own screen late at night—just to look at the woman who dared to put my name near her truth.
Now her face lives behind my eyelids.
Brown eyes that see too much. A mouth that looks like it was made for words and sins in equal measure.
I’ve spent the last three nights pretending I’m studying her—her patterns, her contacts, her leads.
But every time I scroll through another photo, I find myself lingering too long.
Zooming in on the curve of her jaw, the faint smudge of ink on her thumb, the kind of details that have nothing to do with strategy.
And everything to do with weakness.
Nicole catches me staring once, her reflection sharp in the glass.
“You’ve never given this much time to anyone who wasn’t family,” she says quietly.
I don’t look at her. “She’s a liability.”
“She’s a woman doing her job.”
“She’s a problem,” I correct. “And problems deserve attention.”
She doesn’t argue. She doesn’t have to. The look she gives me says she knows exactly what kind of attention I mean.
By the time dawn breaks, I’ve memorized Isabella’s life without meaning to.
Where she buys her coffee. The route she takes home. The tiny studio she calls an apartment, filled with books and chaos.
Her world is small, simple. Too pure for mine.
I tell myself I’m keeping her alive.
That’s what men like me do when the truth tastes too much like guilt.
Lorenzo steps into my office just after dinner, phone in hand, expression tight. “We’ve got a situation.”
I arch a brow. “Which kind?”
“The kind that bleeds.”
He slides the phone across my desk. A photo of shattered glass, a street corner, flashing police lights.
“Drive-by. Midtown. The woman wasn’t hit.” His gaze meets mine. “Isabella DeLaurentis.”
The words land like a bullet to the ribs.
For a second, I can’t breathe. My chest tightens—sharp, unfamiliar. Not anger. Something worse.
“She’s alive?”
“Yes. Shaken, but unhurt. NYPD’s calling it random.”
“Nothing’s random in my city.” My voice comes out low, rough. “Who did it?”
“We’re looking. Could be one of the mayor’s people trying to scare her off. Could be someone using your name.”
The muscle in my jaw locks. “Using my name?”
Lorenzo nods. “A text was sent to her after. Mentioned the Don. Word’s spreading she’s been ‘warned.’"
The glass in my hand cracks before I realize I’m squeezing it. Whiskey bleeds down my knuckles.
I stand slowly. “How long?”
“A couple hours ago.”
“And she’s alone?”
“Yes.”
The ache in my chest twists tighter, sharp enough to make me press a hand there like I can stop it.
What the hell is this? Guilt? Possessiveness? Something else entirely?
Lorenzo studies me carefully. “You want her moved somewhere safe?”
I should say no. I should let her run, hide, disappear. It’s what every logical part of me screams for.
But logic has never felt this small.
“She doesn’t even know who’s protecting her,” he adds.
“She doesn’t need to,” I say. “Bring her in.”
He hesitates. “Dante—”
“Bring. Her. In.” The words come out quiet, final. “No one touches her again.”
He nods and leaves without another word.
When the door shuts, the silence feels suffocating.
I stare out the window, the skyline gleaming in morning light, and all I can think about is her.
Her voice when she’s angry. The way she bites her lip when she reads. How she must’ve looked standing in that rain with glass around her feet.
I’ve killed men for less than what she’s done to my peace.
Some part of me—the part that remembers what it’s like to feel—is furious that someone tried to hurt her.
Another part —the one I trust —knows this isn’t about business anymore.
I’ve been obsessed with threats before, but this feels different. Personal. Primal.
Like someone aimed at something mine.
Nicole steps in quietly, holding a tablet. “The girl?”
I nod once.
“She’ll be frightened,” she says.
“Good,” I murmur. “Fear makes people listen.”
But even as I say it, I know I’m lying.
Because when I picture her afraid, it doesn’t feel like power.
It feels like punishment.
Nicole lingers, eyes soft. “You don’t even realize it, do you?”
“Realize what?”
“You’re protecting her like she’s already yours.”
The ache in my chest flares again, a warning I ignore.
“She’s not mine,” I say.
But the lie sits heavy between us, because somewhere deep down, I already know—
The moment someone whispered her name in my world, she became something I couldn’t let go of.
And now, after tonight, the city will learn what it means to threaten what I’ve claimed.