Page 3 of His Obsession (Mafia Masters #1)

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CALLUM

T he Fitzwilliam Foundation office was a study in pristine order, all clean lines and understated elegance. Morning light streamed through the tall windows, illuminating Isolde as she stood near the central desk, her head bent over a stack of papers. Her ivory blouse and tailored skirt gave her an air of crisp professionalism, but Callum’s sharp eyes caught the subtle tremor in her hands as she shuffled the documents.

He leaned against the doorframe, his broad shoulders commanding the narrow entrance, exuding a calm that belied the storm of calculations running through his mind. His dark gaze swept over the room, taking in the polite smiles of the staff and the smooth cadence of Ciarán Dempsey’s voice as he presented the donation agreement to Isolde. Ciarán was the syndicate’s accountant and handled all the legitimate financial transactions for Con.

“It’s a significant contribution,” Ciarán said smoothly, sliding the papers across the desk. “I’m sure the Fitzwilliam Foundation will make excellent use of it.”

Callum didn’t bother to hide the smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Ciarán was playing the part of the loyal lieutenant well, as usual. Callum’s eyes, however, remained fixed on Isolde.

Her hand hovered over the document, pen poised. She hesitated, just for a fraction of a second, her eyes lifting to meet his. There it was again—that spark of intelligence, the fire that flickered even beneath the shadow of what she’d seen last night.

“Your boss has always been so generous, Mr. Kavanagh,” Isolde said, her voice steady but softer than he remembered. “I have to admit, the timing is… unusual. Over the years we’ve enjoyed the pleasure of your support, but this contribution is beyond generous. I promise we’ll make good use of it.”

Callum’s lips curved into a slow smile, deliberate and unapologetic. “Generosity is a virtue, Ms. Fitzwilliam. Isn’t that the foundation’s motto?”

Her gaze didn’t waver, even as her cheeks flushed. She straightened her posture, regaining control, but he caught the faintest flicker of tension in her expression.

“It is,” she replied evenly. “But it usually comes with a history of interest in our work. Forgive me if I seem ungrateful, but we’re not accustomed to donations of this size from Mr. O’Neill.”

‘Donations of this size,’—a polite euphemism if ever he’d heard one. The taste of copper filled his mouth as he bit the inside of his cheek to suppress the sharp retort that threatened to escape. She was playing with fire, testing boundaries she didn’t yet understand.

He watched her carefully, saw the moment she realized she’d drifted too close to dangerous territory. Her lashes lowered, and she tilted her head, a picture of polished diplomacy… or submissiveness.

“You’re right, of course,” he said, his voice low and measured. “I suppose my employer has been a quiet admirer of the foundation’s work for some time. The organization has a long- standing belief in giving back to the community, and we’ve only recently begun expanding our reach into Dublin.”

Ciarán cleared his throat softly, a subtle signal that the conversation was veering into delicate territory. Callum ignored him. His focus was solely on Isolde, on the graceful line of her neck as she bent to sign the document.

The sight of her hand trembling slightly as she pressed the pen to paper sent an unexpected surge of protectiveness through him. He tamped it down immediately. Protectiveness wasn’t useful here. Control was.

“Mr. Kavanagh,” she said, her tone professional but cautious as she slid the signed document back toward Ciarán, who put it in his briefcase and let them alone. “Your employer’s support will go a long way toward funding our next initiatives. We’ll be sure to keep you updated on our progress.”

Her attempt at formality amused him. “I’d appreciate that,” he said, stepping closer, his voice dropping just enough to make the air between them crackle. “But I have to admit, I’m more interested in the people behind the foundation than the initiatives themselves.”

Her eyes snapped up to his, her cheeks coloring again. “The people?”

“You,” he said simply, his gaze locking on hers. “Your passion for this work is obvious. It’s rare to see someone so dedicated.”

Isolde blinked, clearly caught off guard by his directness. “I—I appreciate that. But the foundation’s success is a team effort.”

“Of course,” Callum said, the corner of his mouth lifting in a way that wasn’t quite a smile. “But every team needs a strong leader. I can see why your father trusts you to carry on the family’s legacy.”

Her expression softened briefly, pride flickering across her features. But it was fleeting, replaced by a wariness that told him she hadn’t forgotten who he was—or what she’d seen.

“Mr. Kavanagh,” she began, her tone a touch sharper now, “you’ve been very kind to us, but I have a lot of work to attend to. If there’s nothing else?—”

“There is,” he interrupted smoothly, stepping even closer. He caught the subtle hitch in her breath as his presence crowded hers. “I’d like to schedule a follow-up meeting to discuss some additional opportunities. Perhaps over dinner?”

The question hung in the air, heavy with implied intent.

Isolde hesitated, her eyes flickering with something he couldn’t quite name—defiance, maybe, or curiosity. “I don’t usually mix business with social engagements.”

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Then consider it a professional courtesy.”

The flush in her cheeks deepened, but she held his gaze, unyielding. “I’ll have my assistant coordinate with your office.”

A wry smile touched his lips. She was clever, he’d give her that. But this game was only beginning, and she didn’t yet realize she was playing on his board.

“Looking forward to it,” he murmured, stepping back just enough to let her catch her breath.

As he turned to leave, he caught the faintest scent of her perfume—soft and warm, vanilla laced with something uniquely hers. The curve of her neck, the determined set of her jaw, the way she hid her fear behind a veil of poise—all of it lingered with him as he strode from the office.

He’d come here to eliminate a threat, to assess whether Isolde Fitzwilliam was more liability than intrigue. But now, as the door closed behind him, he realized she was both.

And that only made her more dangerous—and more irresistible.

Later that same day the late afternoon sun cast a golden haze over the city as Callum Kavanagh watched Isolde step out of the Fitzwilliam Foundation’s glass doors. Her ivory blouse glowed in the waning light, and the gentle sway of her hips as she walked toward the street sent a ripple of something dark and possessive through him. He leaned against the sleek black car parked discreetly across the street, his arms crossed, exuding the quiet menace that came naturally to him.

Against his better judgment, he’d interceded and kept her safe, cleaning up the mess from the dead body. It might not have been the practical thing to do—far from it—but the boss was insistent about not taking the lives of innocents. Keeping Isolde alive, keeping her close, was a risk. But the predator in him had other ideas. He wanted her near, where he could control her every move. And if he was being honest, it wasn’t just about managing a liability. There was something about her—her defiance, her fire—that made his blood run hotter, his focus sharper.

The fact that she was dangerous in her own way only made her more tempting.

Isolde’s gaze flickered with recognition when she spotted him, her steps faltering. For a brief moment, he caught a glimpse of panic before she carefully smoothed her expression into cool neutrality. Brave little thing.

“Mr. Kavanagh,” she said, her tone clipped as she approached. “What are you doing here?”

“Callum,” he corrected, his lips curling into a slow, deliberate smile. “We’re past formalities, don’t you think?”

Her gaze darted around, scanning for witnesses. Smart. But not smart enough.

“This isn’t a good time,” she said firmly, clutching her handbag as if it were a shield. “If you want to discuss foundation matters, you can call my office?—”

“Foundation matters,” he interrupted smoothly, stepping into her path, “can wait. This is about you and me.”

Her breath hitched, the faintest tremor in her hand betraying her composure. “There is no ‘you and me,’ Mr. Kavanagh. I don’t know what you think?—”

“You don’t know what I think,” he said softly, his voice a low growl that cut through her protests. “But you will.”

Before she could respond, his hand closed around her wrist—not harshly, but with an unyielding grip that brooked no argument. Her eyes widened, and she opened her mouth to protest, but he leaned in, his breath brushing her ear.

“Don’t make a scene, love. You’ll only draw attention, and that’s the last thing either of us wants right now.”

She stiffened but didn’t scream. He could practically feel the anxiety radiating from her as he guided her toward the car, his hand never loosening its hold.

“Callum, you can’t kidnap me in broad daylight,” she hissed under her breath, her voice laced with both fear and anger.

“It’s an abduction,” he corrected, his tone maddeningly calm as he opened the car door and gestured for her to get in. “But let’s not split hairs.”

She hesitated, her jaw tightening, but the calculating gleam in her eyes told him she was weighing her options. Finally, she slid into the passenger seat, her movements stiff with resistance.

“Good girl,” he murmured, shutting the door behind her before slipping into the driver’s seat.

The drive was silent except for the low hum of the engine. Callum could feel her gaze burning into him, her eyes sharp and unyielding even as she sat rigid in her seat.

“Where are you taking me?” she demanded, breaking the silence.

“You’ll see,” he said simply, his focus on the road ahead.

Her fingers curled into fists in her lap, her frustration was hard to miss. “This is insane. You can’t just?—”

“I can,” he said, cutting her off with a dark edge to his voice. “And I will. You’re lucky I’m giving you this option, Isolde. The alternative isn’t nearly as pleasant.” He had no plans to kill her, but she didn’t need to know that.

She swallowed hard, her lips pressing into a thin line as she glared out the window.

The car wound its way up a secluded road, the city lights fading into the distance as they climbed into the hills. When they finally arrived, the imposing facade of the Hellfire Club loomed ahead, its black marble exterior gleaming under the glow of dim red lights. The valet approached without a word, his gaze averted as Callum handed over the keys and rounded the car to open Isolde’s door.

Her eyes widened as she took in the building, realization dawning. “This is?—”

“The Hellfire Club,” he finished for her, his tone nonchalant. “Dublin’s most exclusive members-only establishment. I’d say you’re in for an unforgettable evening.”

She didn’t move, her expression a mix of indignation and apprehension. “I’m not going in there.”

“You are,” he said, his voice soft but firm as steel. “Unless you’d prefer to stay outside and explain to the next person who comes along why you’re standing here with me.”

Her defiance faltered, and she glanced around, her cheeks flushing. Finally, she stepped out of the car, her movements hesitant but deliberate.

Inside, the air was heavy with sensual energy, the low hum of conversation mingling with the faint strains of music. The club’s decor was a blend of dark opulence and restrained decadence—polished leather furniture, low lighting, and an undeniable undercurrent of danger.

Callum guided her through the main floor, his hand resting lightly on the small of her back. She bristled at his touch, but she didn’t pull away.

“Why are we here?” she demanded, her voice low and tight.

“To talk,” he said, leading her to a private alcove. “And to make sure you understand exactly what’s at stake.”

As they sat across from each other, the flickering candlelight cast shadows over his face, emphasizing the hard lines of his jaw and the predatory glint in his eyes.

“You need to understand something, Isolde,” he said, his voice a low growl. “What you saw last night puts you in a position you’re not prepared for. You’ve stepped into a world where silence isn’t just golden—it’s survival.”

She met his gaze, her chin lifting in defiance. “And bringing me here is supposed to convince me of that?”

“No,” he said, leaning closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Bringing you here is to show you that I’m in control. Of this situation. Of you.”

Her breath hitched, her cheeks flushing with a mix of anger and something else—something darker that neither of them was ready to name.

“And what if I refuse to play along?” she challenged, her voice trembling but bold.

Callum’s lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile. “You won’t. Come along love, I have something to show you.”

The implied threat hung heavy in the air, but so did something else—a crackling tension that made his pulse quicken, the primal part of him roaring to life at the fire in her eyes.

A muscular man towered over the delicate woman strapped to the St. Andrew’s cross in the middle of the room. The way he moved showed he was a man accustomed to dominating his partner and that tonight was no exception. The woman’s gaze held a mixture of trepidation and surrender.

With practiced ease, the man retrieved a long, cylindrical object from a nearby table.

“That’s a violet wand,” Callum whispered in her ear. “Doesn’t look like much until it’s turned on, and then it can be as sensual or as wicked as the wielder wants it to be.”

Isolde gasped softly as the device was switched on and the settings adjusted. He could see her nipples stiffen beneath her blouse. She was definitely intrigued. Maybe keeping her around could be more pleasurable than he’d anticipated.

As the man’s hand moved to the submissive’s hip, Callum slid his hand down to cup Isolde’s ass. When she tried to move away, Callum pulled her closer and growled softly, but didn’t remove his hand.

The wand’s tip brushed against the woman’s shoulder, making her gasp. Her eyes closed while the sensation rippled across her skin. The man’s hand grasped the woman’s other shoulder, grounding her as the wand's spark danced across her collarbone.

“I won’t watch this,” said Isolde quietly as she closed her eyes.

“Yes, you will,” said Callum malevolently. “Open your eyes.”

Isolde obeyed as her gaze locked on him instead.

“Eyes forward,” he continued. “Watch how he moves the wand downward, tracing the outline of her breasts before teasing her nipples with it. See how uneven her breathing is getting. I’ll bet she’s damn near dripping for him. I’d venture a good sum of money that he’ll make use of that honey before the night’s over.”

“You’re a pervert,” she hissed.

“And you’re not nearly as much of a prude as you’d like me to believe. You’re aroused. I can smell it. I can feel it. Say the word, Isolde, and I’ll take you upstairs and use the wand on you before I feast on your pussy and fuck you until you can’t walk tomorrow. Would you like that, love?”

Isolde remained silent as the wand continued its descent, gliding over the woman’s flat stomach, making her muscles twitch. As the wand reached the top of her thighs, the man’s hand followed, his fingers gently exposing her glistening folds.

Callum was anticipating that this night might go far better than he’d thought as he heard her breath hitch. That thought came to an abrupt halt as Isolde stomped on the instep of his foot, bringing her elbow back into his midsection and running for the door.

One of the bouncers made a move to stop her.

“Let her go,” said Callum. “She’s new to the lifestyle. I’ll have her better trained before we come again.”

Callum tipped the bouncer heavily as he exited the club and saw Isolde getting in a cab. It drove off into the night. She had no idea what she’d stumbled upon the night before, but Callum did. It was a game of cat and mouse, predator and prey. He doubted she knew she was playing a dangerous game, but he did. And heaven help them both, he meant to ensure he was the victor and that it ended the way he wanted.