Page 16 of His Obsession (Mafia Masters #1)

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CALLUM

T he dim glow of the monitors in Callum’s SUV bathed the cabin in eerie light, his dark eyes glued to the surveillance feed streaming from inside Siobhan’s gallery. The fundraiser bustled with activity—polished guests, flutes of champagne, the hum of laughter and conversation adding to the undercurrents of energy already there.

But none of that mattered.

All he could see was her .

Isolde, stunning in that emerald silk dress that clung to her curves like sin itself, moved through the crowd with a practiced poise that belied the danger she was in. Her every step made his jaw tighten, his fists clenching on his knees as he resisted the instinct to storm inside and drag her out of there, kicking and screaming if need be.

Through his earpiece, Tiernan’s voice crackled. “Bradford’s making a move. He’s got her near the east wing.”

Callum’s pulse roared in his ears, drowning out everything else. His gaze darted to the second monitor, where a camera feed captured Councilman Bradford’s smug smile as he gripped Isolde’s arm, steering her away from the gallery’s main floor. The sight made Callum’s blood run cold.

“Stay close, but don’t engage,” Callum growled into his comms, his voice a blade of barely restrained fury.

“Understood,” Tiernan replied, though his hesitation was almost tangible.

Callum forced himself to inhale slowly, the rhythm measured and deliberate. His fury wouldn’t help her now—not unless he could control it. He turned his attention back to the monitors, flipping through camera angles until he caught sight of Padraig in the gallery’s security room.

“Padraig,” he barked, “give me audio. I want to hear everything.”

The line clicked, static hissing before the sound of muffled voices filtered through. He caught fragments of conversation—Bradford’s sickly sweet charm, Isolde’s measured replies. Then, clearer than anything else, her voice.

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

Defiance laced her words, and Callum’s chest tightened. God, she was brave, but this wasn’t the time for courage. Bradford wouldn’t hesitate to break her if he thought it would serve his ends.

“She’s holding her own,” Tiernan murmured through the comms, clearly trying to reassure his boss. “Bradford’s got her rattled, but she’s not giving him much.”

“She’s given him too much already,” Callum growled. “I’m done waiting. Be ready to move.”

“No,” Padraig interrupted, his voice steady. “She’s wired. Every word they’re saying is intel. You go in now, we lose whatever edge we’ve got.”

Callum bristled but stayed silent, his gaze snapping back to the monitors. His heart stopped as he spotted a new figure entering the frame—tall, sharp, and unmistakably dangerous. Eoin Lynch.

The man who had taken so much from him. The man who had killed Isolde’s mother. The man who now stood mere feet away from her.

Callum’s teeth ground together so hard he thought they might shatter. Every nerve in his body screamed to move, to crush Lynch beneath his boot and drag Isolde away from this nightmare. But he couldn’t risk it—not yet.

“She’s about to be in the same room as Lynch,” he bit out, his voice low and lethal. “Tiernan, Quinn, get into position. I want her out the second this goes south.”

“Yes, boss,” came Quinn’s clipped reply.

On the screen, Isolde was led into a small, lavishly furnished office. Her spine was ramrod straight, her shoulders squared as if she were marching to her own execution but determined to do it on her terms. Her chin lifted, defiance blazing in her eyes even as Lynch’s predatory smile cut through her composure like a knife.

Callum’s chest ached at the sight. She didn’t belong in this world—his world. She was light, fierce and untouchable, yet here she was, standing her ground in front of monsters.

“Padraig,” Callum barked, his tone icy. “Seal the exits. No one gets in or out without my say-so.”

“You’ve got it,” Padraig replied, the sound of rapid typing in the background.

Callum shifted in his seat, his gaze glued to the screen. Lynch stepped closer to Isolde, his words inaudible but his intent unmistakable. Callum’s vision tunneled as his hand went to the Glock holstered at his side, the cool metal grounding him.

“She’s still wired,” Tiernan said softly, as if reading his thoughts. “We’ll have the proof we need against Bradford and Lynch if we hold our ground just a little longer.”

“I don’t give a damn about proof,” Callum growled. “If either of them touches her?—”

“She’s playing her part,” Padraig interrupted, his tone calm but firm. “You go in guns blazing now, she’ll never forgive you.”

Callum closed his eyes briefly, the significance of Padraig’s words settling over him. He didn’t care about forgiveness. He cared about her . About the way the room suddenly felt too small whenever she was near. About the realization that everything he’d built—the Syndicate, his alliances, even his loyalty to O’Neill—paled in comparison to the need to keep her safe.

On the screen, Lynch reached for her arm. Isolde flinched but didn’t retreat, her chin lifting higher.

“Defiant to the end,” Callum muttered, his lips curving into a faint, humorless smile. She was going to be the death of him.

His earpiece crackled with Tiernan’s voice. “We’re in position, boss. Say the word.”

The pressure in Callum’s chest wound tighter. He leaned forward, his voice a low growl. “Wait for my signal.”

The room seemed to still as the feed showed Bradford pouring himself a glass of whiskey, his posture casual but his expression anything but. Lynch leaned in closer to Isolde, his lips moving as he spoke words Callum couldn’t hear. But he saw the way her fists clenched, the way her jaw tightened.

She was terrified. And still, she didn’t back down.

The sight of her courage made something inside him shift. It wasn’t just fury driving him anymore. It was something deeper, darker, and far more dangerous.

“Padraig,” he said quietly, his voice cold and calm. “Shut it down.”

“You sure?” Padraig asked, hesitation flickering over the line.

“Do it.”

The monitors flickered as the security feeds went dark, the room plunging into silence. Callum stood, his movements fluid, lethal, as he checked his gun and adjusted his jacket.

“I’m going in,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

He didn’t wait for a response. As he stepped out of the SUV into the rain-slicked street, one thought consumed him: nothing would keep him from reaching her. Not Bradford, not Lynch, not the entire world.

Not when she was his to protect. His to claim.

The storm was coming. And Callum was ready to bring hell with him.

ISOLDE

The air in the room felt thin, stifling, as Isolde stood between Lynch and Bradford, their gazes predatory, circling her like wolves toying with their prey. The dim light cast shadows across the lavish office, but there was no mistaking the menace in their postures. Her heart pounded in her chest, a relentless drumbeat of fear and defiance.

Lynch’s voice was like gravel, low and cutting. “You have a choice, love. Save your father and his precious foundation or save Kavanagh.” He stepped closer, his cold eyes boring into hers. “But you can’t have both.”

Isolde’s breath caught, the gravity of his ultimatum crashing down on her. Her gaze darted to Bradford, whose smug smile only deepened her dread. This was a game to them, a cruel spectacle where her agony was their entertainment.

“I—” Her voice wavered, but she swallowed hard, forcing herself to stand tall. “You’re asking me to choose between the people I care about. That’s not a choice. That’s extortion.”

Bradford chuckled, sipping his whiskey as if they were discussing the weather. “Call it what you like, Ms. Fitzwilliam. But we both know the foundation is the only thing your father has left. Without it, he’s nothing. Just another rich man in disgrace.”

Lynch leaned in, his breath hot against her ear. “And Kavanagh? He’s already a dead man walking. You just have to decide if he falls now or later.”

The mention of Callum made her chest tighten. At some point, without her even realizing it, he had become more than the dark and dangerous man who’d upended her life. He had become someone she needed, someone she couldn’t bear to lose. The realization hit her like a lethal knife wound—sharp and unforgiving.

Her mind raced, searching for a way to buy time. “What if I give you the foundation?” she said, her voice steadier now. “All of its assets, all of its influence. It’s worth more than my father’s reputation or Callum’s life. Surely, that’s enough for whatever vendetta you’re nursing.”

Lynch and Bradford exchanged a glance, their expressions unreadable. She caught the flicker of uncertainty in Bradford’s eyes, the way his jaw tightened as he considered her offer.

“And what about your father?” Bradford asked, his tone calculating. “You’d sell him out so easily?”

“I’m bargaining for his life,” Isolde snapped, her voice sharper than she intended. “You leave him alive, even if his name is tarnished. That’s the deal.”

Lynch smirked, crossing his arms as he leaned against the desk. “And Kavanagh?”

Isolde’s stomach twisted, but she held her ground. “He walks free. Both of them do. That’s the deal, or you get nothing.”

Her ears caught the faintest sound then—a soft pop, like champagne corks in the distance. Silenced gunfire. The realization sent a shiver down her spine, but she kept her face neutral, refusing to let them see the flicker of hope that she felt ignite in her chest. Callum’s team was here.

She pushed forward, keeping their attention on her. “This isn’t a negotiation where you hold all the cards,” she said, her voice gaining strength. “The foundation’s resources could ruin you both. Take my offer, or risk me walking out of here and exposing everything.”

Bradford’s smile faltered, but before he could respond, Lynch’s icy laugh rang out. “Bold of you, love. But boldness won’t save you.”

Isolde’s pulse thundered as she watched him, waiting, calculating. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the faintest movement near the doorway. Deirdre Lynch stood there, her expression unreadable, but her subtle nod sent a jolt through Isolde’s veins. She wasn’t alone.

Lynch took a step closer, his hand brushing against her arm as his voice dropped to a whisper. “You don’t have the stomach for this game, Fitzwilliam. You’re prey, not predator.”

His words hung in the air, but Isolde’s mind snapped into focus. She thought of Callum, of the lessons he had tried to teach her. Survival sometimes requires becoming the monster others fear.

She straightened, squaring her shoulders as her gaze locked with Lynch’s. “You’re wrong,” she said, her voice low but deadly. “I’m both.”

There was a strained silence before the door burst open, and chaos erupted. Gunfire rang out, sharp and violent, as Callum’s men stormed the room. Isolde ducked instinctively, her heart racing as she felt the heat of bodies and the crack of bullets.

When she looked up, Callum stood in the doorway, his dark eyes locked on hers, a predator unleashed. And for the first time, she felt not fear, but power.

The storm had arrived, and she was no longer the prey.