Twisted Obsession (Underworld Kings)

And now I see why—it’s breathtaking.

Not because of the dangerous men in suits, or the pretty women who are clearly submissive to them in the way they carry themselves, but because I’ve never seen something so exquisite before. I can’t help but drink in every inch of the gothic architecture as we make our way to a table which we settle at without speaking.

From where we’re sitting, the garden is visible, lit up by soft yellow bulbs that lead deep into the darkest shadows. A shiver wracks itself through me as I wonder just what lies in the woods that look like they could swallow me up.

The man, Mario, settles in opposite us, his dark gaze locked on my uncle. Anger juts his jaw, and a tick appears as he attempts to appear calm. But I can read people, and this man hates my uncle. He is handsome for an older man. I’m guessing he’s probably in his early thirties. With a dark head of hair, and a gentle dusting of stubble, he looks like a male model walking off the pages of a magazine.

His suit is tailored perfectly for his broad shoulders, and the shirt attempts to hide his muscular chest, but does nothing of the sort. Instead, it only accentuates his formidable frame even more. His eyes are a shimmering gray, with long black lashes that sweep along his cheekbones with every blink.

Shifting in my seat, I swallow the lump of nerves in my throat. I can’t find him attractive, he’s a bad person. At least, that’s what it seems like, because my uncle is a good man. He took over the family business after my father passed away.

Tearing my gaze away from Mario, I glance at Tommaso. He sits beside me, his fingers tangling around a pen that was lying on the long, wooden table. I haven’t even changed my outfit after the show.

Drinks are set on the table in front of Mario and Tommaso, tumblers shimmering with a deep auburn liquid. The scent is strong, and I recognize it as whiskey. Father enjoyed his evening whiskey and a cigar. I always teased him and told him he reminded me of Don Corleone when he sat in his enormous wingback chair smoking and drinking. But since he was killed, there haven’t been long nights in his office, reading his books, and asking him questions. He no longer offers me advice. There are no longer orders about where not to go, or who not to hang around with.

My father may have been the leader of a mafia family, but he was always just Dad to me. Someone who loved me dearly.

Since my mother died during childbirth, I was his principessa, his little girl. And nothing changed that.

“Where is he?” My uncle questions Mario as he fidgets with the pen. I’m not sure what is happening, but if Tommaso’s demeanor is anything to go by, I have a feeling something bad is about to happen.

I feel a presence before I see him.

A tall, dark, handsome man with broad shoulders steps into view. It may be cliché, but that’s exactly what he is. Mario rises to greet him, and so does my uncle. I don’t move. Instead, I pin him with a glare because I have a feeling he’s not here as a friend to our family.

I take him in as he greets Tommaso. His angular jaw is dusted with dark stubble, his eyes are the color of raven wings. His lips, full and pink, move slowly as he speaks in a low rumble. The baritone vibrating right through me.

His posture screams confidence and danger. The crisp white shirt he’s wearing is unbuttoned just enough to tease the smooth olive skin beneath. I don’t doubt that he is important, a man in charge. A leader.

When he settles into the chair opposite me, he finally pins me with a stare so fierce, my heart leaps into my throat, choking me. He doesn’t speak, he merely watches me, as if he’s assessing me, reading my nervous energy, and drinking it in like a vampire devouring the life force of a human.

It’s Tommaso who speaks, “Luna, this is Mr. De Rossi.” At the mention of his name, my blood turns to ice, and I freeze. Mr. De Rossi notices the corner of his mouth tips ever so slightly. It’s the only movement, but it’s clear he enjoys my discomfort.

I know who he is now.

The family who killed my father, and in retaliation, they killed his father. An eye for an eye. This is the life, I understand that, and I know he does too.

“Luna,” my uncle nudges me, but I don’t greet our guest. Instead, I lean back in the chair and stay silent. His mouth quirks again, and I can’t deny he’s breathtakingly handsome, but I hate him. And I make it known with a glare so fierce, I hope it burns him alive.