Page 2 of His Obsession (Mafia Masters #1)

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ISOLDE

T he National Gallery shimmered with opulence, chandeliers casting diamond-like reflections on the polished floors. Gowns of silk and sequins swept across the marble as Dublin’s elite mingled, laughter and the clink of champagne glasses reverberating through the cavernous hall. Isolde Fitzwilliam adjusted the delicate straps of her ivory gown, a picture of composure amidst the chaos of last-minute details.

Her heels clicked purposefully against the stone floor as she slipped through the crowd, her mind occupied with the donor list that had disappeared moments before the auction. The gala’s success hinged on that list, and her father’s trust in her capability to manage the foundation did too. She exhaled, her frustration tempered by the warm notes of vanilla that lingered from her perfume—a small indulgence that always soothed her nerves.

Thinking to take a shortcut from the grand hall to the offices of the museum, Isolde rounded a corner into a dimly lit hallway. There, she froze. The faint metallic tang of blood mingled with the scent of fresh paint. A pair of men were there in the shadows —one on his knees and bleeding and the other standing over him with a gun—their voices low and urgent.

“I told you to pay,” a gravelly voice snarled, venom dripping from every word.

“I just need more time—” the other man stammered, his words cut short by the sharp spit of a gun affixed with a silencer.

Isolde gasped, her hands trembling as she pressed herself against the cool plaster wall. Her heart thundered in her chest, her mind racing with disbelief. A figure crumpled to the floor, lifeless, while the other wiped his gun with calculated precision. The darkness swallowed him whole as he turned, disappearing down the corridor without a second glance.

She took a faltering step forward as if to follow, her silk gown brushing against the ornate molding of the gallery wall but stopped herself. She bent down to remove her shoes and then took a step back towards the entrance to the hall, but her escape was short-lived. A broad, unyielding chest collided with her back, the faint scent of cedarwood and smoke wrapping around her like a snare.

Before she could cry out, a calloused hand clamped over her mouth, silencing her scream.

“Not a word, love,” a deep voice murmured against her ear, low and commanding.

Isolde’s eyes darted upward, catching the faint reflection of her captor in the polished glass of a nearby painting. His eyes glinted with restrained power, framed by a chiseled face that exuded danger and control.

“Let me go,” she hissed, her voice muffled beneath his hand.

“Not until you calm down.” The words were a growl, more predator than man.

Her pulse raced, fear and something darker swirling in her veins. She squirmed against him, the hard press of his body a stark contrast to her own trembling limbs. His grip didn’t waver, his strength a silent warning.

“I saw…he—” she stammered, her words halting as his fingers loosened ever so slightly.

“I know what you saw,” he interrupted, his voice cutting through her panic. “I saw it, too. If you value your life, you’re going to forget you ever saw anything and pray that no one else finds out differently.”

She turned her head, her amber eyes blazing as they met his. “I can’t do that. I just saw a man murdered. The police need to be called. Who the hell are you, anyway?”

His lips curved into a dark smile that wasn’t reflected in his eyes. “The man who just saved your pretty little life.”

She should have been terrified—his presence radiated a menace that promised he was no better than the man she’d just seen pull the trigger. But beneath the fear was an undeniable heat, a pull she couldn’t explain.

“You—” she began, her voice faltering as he leaned closer, his breath brushing against her temple.

“I’ll explain everything,” he said, his tone softening but losing none of its edge. “But not here.”

The hum of the gala carried on just beyond the hallway, oblivious to the violence that had unfolded mere feet away. Isolde’s mind screamed at her to run, to escape the man who held her like a fragile bird in his grasp. But his touch, rough and unapologetic, ignited a spark of defiance—and desire.

“I don’t go anywhere with strangers,” she managed, her voice steadier than she felt.

He released her mouth, his thumb brushing against her jaw in a gesture that felt both possessive and oddly reverent. “Then it’s a good thing we’re not strangers. Callum Kavanagh.”

Her breath hitched. She’d heard the name before—whispers of power and danger that swirled through Dublin’s elite circles like ghost stories told in hushed tones. He was said to be the right-hand man for the Devil of Galway, Conchobar O’Neill, one of the most powerful underworld figures in all of Great Britain.

“You’re him,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

“And you,” he said, his gaze raking over her, “are in way over your head, Isolde Fitzwilliam.”

“How do you know my name?” she demanded, her anger flaring to cover the vulnerability that threatened to consume her.

He leaned closer, his lips a whisper’s breadth from her ear. “I make it my business to know everything about the people in one of the cities in which we have business. Especially those who stumble into things they shouldn’t.”

Her knees weakened as his words settled over her, a heady mix of warning and promise. She should push him away, scream for help, do anything but stand there as his hand slid to her waist, grounding her in place.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t go straight to the police,” she challenged, her voice trembling but defiant.

His dark chuckle sent a shiver down her spine. “Because they can’t protect you from what’s coming.”

The air between them crackled, the world outside the hallway fading into irrelevance. For an instant, she forgot about the body lying not too far away, about the danger she was in. All that existed was the man before her—dangerous, dominant, and utterly in control.

And heaven help her, she wanted to know what it would feel like to lose herself in that control. She told herself she didn’t, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t true.

“Let me go,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Not yet,” Callum murmured, his grip tightening ever so slightly. “Not until I’m sure you understand what’s at stake.”

The unspoken threat in his words left her breathless. Isolde wasn’t sure if it was fear or desire she was feeling so strongly—or perhaps a volatile mix of both. As much as she wanted to shake off the arousal that coursed through her veins, she couldn’t seem to do so. Her breath and heart rate were increased, and it wasn’t only because of what she’d just witnessed. All she knew was that her life, so carefully controlled and predictable, had just taken a turn she could never have anticipated.

And somehow, Callum Kavanagh was at the center of it all.

The warm press of his body against her back was a stark contrast to the icy fear clawing at her chest. Isolde’s breath came in shallow gasps, the adrenaline coursing through her veins screaming for her to run. But his arm, like an iron band around her waist, held her in place.

“You don’t want to do anything stupid, love,” his voice was low and smooth, a predator’s purr that sent a shiver skittering down her spine. “I’d hate to see you get hurt because you couldn’t follow simple instructions.”

His breath brushed her ear, sending a jolt of something dark and unwelcome through her. She twisted slightly, trying to look up at him, but his grip tightened, his dominance unmistakable.

“I—” she began, her voice faltering as her gaze flicked to the scene unfolding in the shadows ahead.

Two men moved with disturbing efficiency, their faces impassive as they dragged the lifeless body out of sight. A third man, dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, wiped a smear of blood from his hands before nodding once in Kavanaugh’s direction and disappearing through a side door.

She swallowed hard, her mind racing to process the gravity of what she had stumbled into. The acrid scent of blood still lingered in the air, but it was overpowered by the faint trace of Callum’s cologne—expensive and intoxicating, a disorienting blend of cedar and leather that clung to her senses.

“You just killed him,” she whispered, her voice raw with disbelief.

“No,” Callum murmured, his tone chillingly calm. “He killed himself the moment he thought he could cross the wrong people. Fortunately, my people were here to clean up the mess so your gala isn’t tarnished.”

The words, spoken with such cold certainty, sent another shiver through her. She couldn’t reconcile the man holding her—so warm and solid—with the monster capable of such casual violence.

“Let me go,” she demanded, her voice firmer this time.

His chuckle was low and dark, the sound vibrating through her. “You’re not in a position to make demands, sweetheart.”

He leaned closer, his lips so close to her ear that she could feel the heat of his breath. “Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to walk back into that glittering little gala of yours, smile for the cameras, and pretend you didn’t see a damn thing. Because if you don’t…”

She froze, the understood threat in his words more terrifying than anything he could have said outright.

“My life,” she whispered, the words trembling on her lips, “depends on my silence, doesn’t it?”

“Exactly,” he said, his voice softening just enough to make her skin prickle. “You’re a smart girl, Isolde. I don’t think you’ll make this any harder than it needs to be.”

She glanced down the hallway, where the scene had been cleaned up as if nothing had happened. The efficiency was chilling, a stark reminder of the power he wielded.

“I don’t want any part of this,” she said, her voice shaking but resolute.

“You’re already a part of this,” Callum replied, his tone laced with something she couldn’t quite name—mockery, maybe, or something darker. “The question is, how well are you going to play your role?”

Her breath hitched as his hand slid from her waist, but the heat of his presence didn’t fade.

“Remember, love,” he murmured, his voice a dangerous caress, “silence is your safest choice.”

A surge of defiance flared in her chest. She wasn’t going to stand here, trembling under his control like a frightened doe. With a sudden burst of strength, she twisted out of his grasp, her movements fueled by raw adrenaline.

“Stay away from me,” she hissed, stepping back, her eyes blazing with a mixture of fear and fury.

Callum tilted his head, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Run, then,” he said, his voice low and lazy, as though the outcome had already been decided.

She didn’t wait for him to say more. Turning on her heel, she bolted toward the grand entrance, her steps silent against the marble floor. The cool night air hit her like a slap as she burst through the doors, the sound of the city enveloping her as she put her shoes back on.

But even as she fled, Callum’s laughter rang in her ears—low, rich, and maddeningly assured. It wasn’t the laugh of a man who had lost.

It was the laugh of a man who knew they weren’t done.