Page 5 of His Obsession (Mafia Masters #1)

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CALLUM

C allum was watching from the shadows of the alley across the street when Isolde exited the building, flanked by Ted Walsh, the head of the foundation’s security team. He must have rattled her more than he’d thought. But if she thought the former cop would be able to protect her from him, she had another thought coming.

He smiled as he followed them to The Celestial Stag, the crown jewel of the O’Neill Organization’s legitimate ventures in Dublin. Con always liked to mix legitimate and not-so-legitimate businesses in the same city to keep the cops and Interpol on their toes.

He entered the restaurant via the back entrance and was seated in his private booth before Isolde was shown to a table with an older gentleman he recognized. James Fitzwilliam, Isolde’s father. Walsh had all the subtlety of a freight train as he took up a post close to their table with his back against the wall, scanning the restaurant before taking a seat at a nearby table.

The rich aroma of roasted lamb hung in the air, mingling with the faint scent of truffle oil and freshly baked bread. The restaurant was an oasis of polished marble, subdued lighting, and understated elegance, its exclusivity a magnet for Dublin’s elite. Callum’s dark gaze wasn’t on the gleaming chandeliers or the impeccably dressed servers gliding between tables, though. His attention was fixed across the room, where Isolde sat with her father.

James Fitzwilliam carried himself with the calm assurance of old money, his every movement deliberate, his tailored suit impeccable. He was a man who knew his place in the world—and worked hard to maintain it. Isolde, seated beside him, looked every inch the perfect daughter, her ivory blouse and emerald-green skirt accentuating her poise. But Callum wasn’t fooled by outward appearances.

Her body language was stiff, her movements guarded, as though she were bracing herself against something unseen. The candlelight caught the coppery strands in her dark chestnut hair, highlighting the rigidity in her shoulders. She wasn’t entirely at ease.

Good.

The clink of glasses and murmur of quiet conversations masked any sound from their table, but Callum didn’t need to hear their words to understand the dynamics at play. James leaned in, speaking softly, his hand gesturing toward the file resting on the table between them. Isolde nodded, her face a carefully controlled mask of neutrality.

“Ted Walsh looks uncomfortable,” Padraig Byrne, the organization’s tech wizard and head of their money laundering division, muttered as he joined Callum.

Callum’s lips twitched in a faint smile. He’d noticed.

Walsh was seated one table away, his sharp eyes scanning the room with the restless energy of a man who’d spent too many years in law enforcement. Every few seconds, his gaze darted toward the Fitzwilliam table, then swept over the rest of the diners, lingering on the entrances and exits.

Callum tapped his fingers against the edge of his glass of Guiness, his eyes narrowing. “He’s a liability.”

“Not an immediate one,” Padraig said, leaning back against the leather booth. “He’s former Scotland Yard. Sharp, but he knows better than to poke his nose into the wrong business. At least for now.”

Callum’s gaze returned to Isolde. She shifted in her seat, her lips curving into a faint smile at something her father said, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. It was practiced, polite. The memory of her fire—her sharp tongue, her flushed cheeks, the way her breath hitched when he got too close—flickered in his mind, and his smile deepened.

“She doesn’t want to be here,” Callum murmured.

Padraig followed his gaze, frowning slightly. “Her father’s making a point. Showing her off, maybe, or reasserting control. Family dynamics are messy at that level.”

Callum could feel his muscles stiffen as his attention snagged on the way James leaned toward Isolde, his voice lowering. Her expression shifted subtly—annoyance, perhaps, or defiance buried beneath a carefully neutral mask.

“James Fitzwilliam doesn’t reassert control without reason,” Callum said quietly, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “And she doesn’t yield without a fight.”

Padraig arched a brow. “You’re watching too closely. If Fitzwilliam notices, he’ll start asking questions.”

“Let him,” Callum said, his voice cold. “He’s not the one I’m interested in.”

A server approached their booth, bowing slightly as she placed a plate of roasted lamb before Callum. The aroma intensified, rich and heady, but his appetite had already shifted.

From across the room, Isolde’s gaze lifted, her eyes scanning the restaurant. The moment her gaze locked on Callum’s, her body tensed visibly.

She didn’t look away.

Good girl.

Callum held her gaze, raising his glass slightly in a silent toast. He saw the flicker of surprise in her expression, followed by something darker, more conflicted. She broke eye contact, looking down at her plate, but her composure had already cracked.

Padraig chuckled softly. “I think you just ruined her evening.”

“Not yet,” Callum said, his voice low and dangerous. “But I will.”

Walsh’s sharp gaze turned toward their booth, his brow furrowing as he caught Callum’s lingering attention on Isolde. Callum met his stare without flinching, his expression unreadable. Walsh shifted slightly, his hand brushing against the edge of his jacket—a subtle movement that suggested he was armed.

Callum smiled, leaning back in his seat. Walsh’s instincts were good, but they wouldn’t be enough.

“You’re going to provoke him,” Padraig warned.

“He’s irrelevant,” Callum replied, his tone dismissive. “She’s the one who matters.”

Across the room, James Fitzwilliam rose, placing a hand on Isolde’s shoulder as he spoke to her. She nodded, glancing toward Walsh before picking up her clutch. Callum watched her move, her steps graceful but deliberate as she followed her father toward the exit.

The moment she passed his booth, Callum reached out, his fingers brushing lightly against her arm.

She froze.

“Ms. Fitzwilliam,” he said softly, his voice carrying just enough gravitas to make her pause.

She turned slowly, her amber eyes flashing with a mix of anger and wariness. “Mr. Kavanagh,” she said evenly, though the stress in her voice was unmistakable.

“I trust you’re enjoying your evening,” he said, his gaze dropping briefly to her lips before returning to her eyes.

“Immensely,” she replied coolly.

Her father’s voice called her name from the entrance, but she didn’t move. Not yet. Callum leaned closer, his voice lowering so only she could hear.

“I’ll see you again soon,” he murmured. “And next time, we won’t be interrupted.”

Her breath hitched, and he saw the faintest flicker of uncertainty in her expression before she turned on her heel and walked away.

Padraig sighed, swirling the wine in his glass. “You’re playing with fire.”

Callum’s smile widened as he watched her disappear through the door. “Good thing I like the heat.”

The low hum of conversation buzzed around him, underscored by the clink of silverware against fine china. The Celestial Stag was at its peak dinner hour, every table occupied by Dublin’s elite. The scent of good food mingled with the faint tang of wine and filled the air. Yet the Guinness in Callum’s hand tasted bitter as he listened to Padraig deliver the news.

Padraig leaned forward in the booth, his wiry frame tense, his pale blue eyes darting around the room before settling on Callum. “It’s Lynch. His crew’s been sniffing around, asking questions about the Fitzwilliam family.”

Callum’s dark gaze flicked toward Padraig, the easy demeanor he’d worn moments ago vanishing. “What kind of questions?”

Padraig glanced down at his own pint, shifting uncomfortably. “They’re asking about connections. Trying to figure out if there’s overlap between us and them. Specifically, about her.”

Her.

The word hung in the air like a knife poised to drop as Callum processed the implications.

“Isolde,” he said quietly, the name slipping from his lips like a threat.

Padraig nodded. “Word is, Lynch thinks she’s useful. Maybe leverage. Or bait.”

Callum set his glass down with deliberate precision, his fingers curling into a fist against the polished wood of the table. The thought of Eoin Lynch’s crew anywhere near Isolde sent a dark, simmering rage through him. She was already too close to the fire, thanks to her unfortunate timing at the gala. Now this?

The familiar weight of his shoulder holster pressed against him, a cold reminder of the world he operated in. He could feel the reassuring presence of his Glock beneath his jacket, but even that didn’t ease the apprehension coiling in his gut.

“Bait,” Callum repeated, his voice low and dangerous. “If Lynch thinks he can use her against me, he’s more of a fool than I thought.”

Padraig leaned back slightly, sensing the shift in Callum’s mood. “What do you want to do about it?”

For a long moment, Callum said nothing. His eyes drifted across the room, landing on the empty table where Isolde and her father had dined earlier. He could still see her in his mind’s eye, the way her lips had pressed together in that stubborn line he’d come to expect when she was trying to conceal her emotions. The way her eyes had flared with something that wasn’t entirely fear when he’d brushed her arm as she passed.

She didn’t belong in his world. But now, thanks to Lynch, she wasn’t just a liability—she was a target.

“Double the surveillance on her,” Callum said finally, his voice sharp as glass. “I want eyes on her at all times. No one gets near her without me knowing.”

Padraig frowned. “You sure about that? Bringing more attention to her could?—”

“I don’t need your opinion, Padraig,” Callum interrupted, his tone icy. “I need results.”

Padraig nodded quickly, his shoulders stiffening. “Understood.”

Callum picked up his glass, brought it to his lips, but then set it down without taking so much as another sip. He turned it loose, unfinished, and leaned back in his seat, his eyes fixed on Padraig.

“And if Lynch or any of his crew get within striking distance of her,” Callum continued, his voice dropping into a growl, “they don’t walk away. Understood?”

Padraig’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Understood.”

As Padraig slid out of the booth, Callum’s gaze returned to the restaurant’s entrance. He thought of Isolde’s expression when she’d left, the stiffness in her shoulders as her father ushered her toward the door. The way her breath had hitched when he’d whispered that they weren’t done.

He told himself his growing obsession with her was purely practical. She was a loose end—a witness to a crime she should never have seen—and now a potential pawn in Eoin Lynch’s games. Protecting her was about protecting Con’s interests, nothing more.

But even as he tried to convince himself, the image of her fiery defiance lingered in his mind. He could still feel the heat of her skin beneath his fingers, the electric jolt of her presence.

Callum stood, adjusting his suit jacket as he cast one last glance around the restaurant before crossing the dining room and stepping into the night, the cool Dublin air doing little to calm the storm brewing inside him.

If Lynch thought he could use Isolde, in any way, he was in for a rude awakening.

And if she thought she could stay out of Callum’s reach, she was about to learn just how tightly he intended to keep her under his control.

Some obsessions, after all, weren’t meant to be tamed.