Page 11 of His Obsession
SEBASTIAN
Somewhere between the second and third red light on my way home, I realize I’ve barely registered the route. My mind was too busy replaying Valentina leaning back in her chair with that dry look on her face, calling me a nightmare client to my face.
I’m not the kind of man who loses time thinking about a woman I’ve just met. I notice them. I enjoy them when they’re worth enjoying. Sometimes I make room for one in my life for a while. I don’t dwell on first impressions like a schoolboy with a crush.
I also don’t creep on my friends’ relatives. That’s basic code. Valentina is Nico’s sister, which makes the whole thing spectacularly off-limits. Nico isn’t an experienced fighter, but I’d let him beat the shit out of me for hurting her. It’s a matter of principle.
I pull into my driveway, shut off the engine, and sit there in the dark. This is exactly why I keep distance between the different parts of my life. Business is one thing. Family connections are another. When those lines blur, things get complicated.
I have no interest in complications.
That should be the end of it. Instead, I’m thinking about her anyway. Thinking about her when I walk into my house, pour myself a drink, and go through the messages waiting for me. Thinking about her when two of my club managers drone on about problems. Thinking about her when a promoter calls asking for VIP access at one of my clubs. Thinking about her when one of my attorneys tells me to check my email.
I dislike being curious when there’s nothing productive I can do with that curiosity. There’s no scenario in which I’d ever pursue her. I settle that in my mind and head upstairs, more confident in my reasoning.
Tonight was a casual, friendly dinner. Valentina Moretti is sharp, attractive, and entirely off-limits for more than one obvious reason. If I hire her for the charity gala, it’ll be because she’s qualified and because the event needs someone who is. There is no deeper agenda.
Unfortunately, my unconscious mind doesn’t get the memo. I have a very unprofessional dream about her sitting naked on Nico’s patio table where her legs may or may not be spread wide open for me. I’m absolutely fucked.
The next morning, I’m in my office by seven with coffee on the desk, a security report open in front of me, and one eye on the camera stills from Bellissimo’s exterior feed. The club issue from the other day hasn’t gone away, which was expected. Men like Carlo Marchetti rarely let a boundary sit untouched once they’ve started testing it. The trick is deciding whether the test is meant to become something bigger or whether it’s just another boy riding borrowed confidence, trying to impress the wrong audience.
I study the still image again. A black sedan, parked across the street from the side entrance. Wrong angle for a rideshare, and it’s been there too long for a guest pickup. No plate visible from the shot we have, which means someone knows the camera angles. Two similar sightings outside Bellissimo over the weekend and one near a smaller lounge in Hollywood that technically has nothing to do with the club issue but still lands in the same part of my mind.
It could be a coincidence, but coincidences are rare in this business.
The office is just waking up around me as elevators begin moving, and the sound of doors opening and closing down the hall flood my ears.
A single knock, then the door opens and Nico walks in without waiting. Normal for him. He’s in a dark suit today, tie already loosened like he started the morning in a mood that hasn’t improved. He shuts the door behind him, glances toward the coffeepot, and pours himself a cup without asking. He’s been in this office enough to skip formalities.
“You look irritated,” he says.
“I’m always irritated,” I remind him.
“Not usually this early.”
He drops into the chair across from my desk and glances at the monitor on the side credenza where I left the club stills open.
“Is that the reason Darren was fired?” he asks casually.
“One of them,” I mutter. “Darren wasn’t very good at his job in general.”
He leans closer to the screen. “I think I saw that same sedan parked outside Dulce,” he says, squinting.
“I’ll look into it,” I say, pulse thrumming.
Nico leans back, eyes still on the screen. “It could be nothing.” He shrugs, because he doesn’t like to speculate on the more dangerous possibilities.
“It could.” I nod, though neither of us really believes that.
He takes another sip of coffee and looks at me over the rim. “So. Val mentioned you offered her a job,” he says casually, though that’s clearly the reason he walked in here.
“I told her about a job,” I correct. “She hasn’t sent me her proposal yet, so I haven’t offered her anything.”
“The gala?” he guesses.
“It’s a good event for us,” I say. “We raise enough money every year for charity that no one questions the rumors about our business.”
“What rumors?” He smirks, taking another sip. “In any case, I just want you to be careful with her.”
