Page 9 of His Obsession (Mafia Masters #1)

8

CALLUM

T here was a feeling of unease in the alley as Callum hustled Isolde toward the SUV parked just beyond the shadows. Her steps faltered in her attempts to keep pace with him, but his grip on her wrist was firm—unyielding. She wasn’t escaping him tonight. Not after the stunt she’d pulled.

“Slow down,” she hissed, her voice trembling, though whether from fear or anger, he wasn’t sure. “Callum, I can’t?—”

“You’ll manage,” he cut her off, his tone rougher than he’d intended. He didn’t slow down. Not when he could still feel those men’s presence lingering like a specter in the night. Not when her recklessness had nearly gotten her killed.

She was damn lucky he’d gotten to her first.

The SUV’s headlights flared to life as Padraig, ever-reliable, swung open the passenger door. Callum didn’t hesitate, practically shoving Isolde into the seat before slamming the door behind her.

“You stay behind, Padraig. Keep to the shadows and make sure no one is following us,” he said quietly.

“Right-o, boss.”

Callum rounded the front of the vehicle and slid into the driver’s seat, the vehicle’s locks clicking shut with a finality that hung in the air.

“Put on your seatbelt,” he ordered, his voice clipped as he adjusted the rearview mirror to check for tails.

Isolde glared at him, her arms crossed like a stubborn child. “You don’t get to bark orders at me like I’m some—some captive.”

“Buckle up, Isolde ,” he growled in a low, menacing voice.

Her eyes flared with defiance, but with a frustrated huff, she yanked the belt across her chest and clicked it into place. Callum wasted no time pulling away from the curb, the low hum of the engine cutting through the silence. The city blurred past in streaks of light and shadow, but his mind stayed sharp, tuned to the danger that still clawed at the edges of the night.

“Where are you taking me?” she demanded after a few minutes of charged silence.

“Somewhere safe,” he replied without looking at her, his hands gripping the wheel with a controlled strength that betrayed his fury.

“Take me home,” she said, her voice steadier now. “You’ve made your point. I’ll be more careful.”

Callum’s knuckles whitened. “You’re not going home.”

“Yes, I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Callum!”

Her raised voice grated on his already frayed nerves. He turned sharply onto a quiet side street, tires skidding slightly, before pulling into the underground garage of his private penthouse. The security gates closed behind them with an audible clunk .

Isolde’s glare deepened as she undid her seatbelt and reached for the door handle. “You can’t just?—”

Callum was out of his seat and at her side before she could finish. He opened the door, and before she could protest, he grabbed her waist and tossed her over his shoulder in one smooth motion.

“Callum!” she shrieked, fists pounding against his back. “Put me down!”

He ignored her, carrying her effortlessly across the concrete floor, his strides purposeful. Her protests were muffled against his broad back, but he could hear every word: furious, breathless curses that would’ve amused him under other circumstances.

“You can argue all you want, mo chroí, ” he said, his voice low and laced with dark amusement. “But I’ve had enough of your nonsense for one night.”

“ Nonsense? ” she sputtered. “You have no right—no right to kidnap me!”

“Saving your life isn’t kidnapping,” he replied as the elevator doors slid open. “It’s common sense.”

Her struggles intensified, her breath hitching when he stepped inside, and the doors shut. When one of her blows proved more painful than the others, Callum brought his hand up and smacked her backside sharply.

“Enough.”

“Bastard,” she cried, outraged.

“Brat. You do that again and you’ll find sitting down rather uncomfortable.”

He could feel her struggle with wanting to hit him again and the realization he wasn’t making an idle threat. Instead, she said, “You can’t just lock me away. I’m not some damsel you can throw in a tower.”

Callum’s lips twitched as he suppressed a grin, though his tone remained calm. “You’re not going anywhere until I know you’re safe. End of discussion.”

The penthouse was dark when they entered, the floor-to-ceiling windows revealing a glittering expanse of the Dublin skyline. Callum took the stairs two at a time, striding down the hall. He set Isolde down with a deliberate gentleness, though his hands lingered on her waist for more time than was absolutely necessary. The smack to her ass and her acquiescence, however reluctant, to his dominance was intoxicating. An image of Isolde bent over the back of his couch, her backside a fetching shade of pink from his discipline as he prepared to shove his hard cock into her wet and ripe pussy flashed before his eyes. When he looked at her, her cheeks were flushed, her chest rising and falling with her ragged breath.

“Take me home,” she said again, her voice softer now, though no less determined.

“No.”

She rounded on him, her hands curling into fists at her sides. “You can’t keep me here.”

“I can, and I will,” he said, stepping closer. He could see the mix of fear and anger swirling in her eyes, but there was something else, too—something that flared hotter every time he invaded her space. “You remember what I said. I let you get away with that temper tantrum downstairs due to the stress you’ve been under. I won’t excuse that behavior in the future. You’re under my protection now, Isolde. Whether you like it or not.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off with a low growl. “Do you think those men were out there by accident? Do you think Lynch doesn’t know exactly where you live, where you work, where you sleep? Are you willing to risk the foundation’s security team? They’re good for crowd control and to make a display, but in a firefight, I would be worried they’d shoot themselves or each other. Walsh is good, but not good enough… at least not good enough outside of your office building.”

She paled at his words, her shoulders stiffening.

Callum softened his tone just a fraction. “You’re staying here. And that’s final.” Callum opened a nearby door and gestured inside. “This will be your room. It locks from the inside if that makes you feel better. You’re free to leave it when you want— within the penthouse. I will arrange with Walsh to watch over you when I take you to the office. Don’t even think about trying to slip away again. Don’t test me, Isolde.”

The challenge in his eyes was impossible to ignore, and she didn’t seem ready to try. She turned and stalked into the room, slamming the door behind her. Callum grinned faintly at the sound.

Good. Let her be angry. Anger was better than fear.

The following days settled into a strange rhythm—one that Callum hadn’t expected but found himself oddly unwilling to disrupt.

Each morning, he dropped Isolde at her office, leaving Walsh to stand guard. Callum knew Walsh wasn’t pleased about the arrangement, but the man was too pragmatic to argue. Each night, Callum picked her up and brought her back to the penthouse, their conversations becoming less combative as the days wore on.

Over late dinners and quiet moments, Callum began to see glimpses of the woman beneath the armor. She was sharp and fiery, but also thoughtful and vulnerable in ways she tried to hide. She challenged him at every turn, but each argument—each spark—only drew him deeper.

And he knew she felt it, too.

The way her breath became ragged when he stood too close. The way her eyes lingered on his hands. The way her sharp retorts faltered when his voice dropped to a murmur.

She was fighting it, but the battle was hers to lose.

On the fourth morning, after escorting Isolde up to her office, Callum returned to the lobby, his usual guarded silence broken by the sight of James Fitzwilliam waiting near the entrance.

“Kavanagh,” Fitzwilliam said, his voice carrying that aristocratic disdain Callum had little patience for. “What the hell do you think you’re doing with my daughter?”

Callum didn’t slow his pace, his tone cold as he replied, “Protecting her.”

Fitzwilliam’s face turned red. “I don’t need men like you protecting my family. I don’t need you anywhere near my family.”

Callum stopped, turning to face him fully. His expression was unreadable, his dark gaze cutting. “With all due respect, Fitzwilliam, your daughter is in danger.”

“What kind of danger?”

“The kind that could get her killed. Walsh might be fine for here in your building, but he’s out of his league outside these doors. And before you get all high and mighty with me, I’ll remind you that your family has been well-served by its association with the O’Neill Syndicate. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

Fitzwilliam’s mouth opened and closed, his rage obvious.

Callum smiled faintly, stepping closer. “You don’t like me. I get that; I don’t care. What I do care about is Isolde. Her life is in danger, and I’m the only one keeping her alive. So, unless you plan to do better, stay out of my way.”

Fitzwilliam glared at him, but the man had no retort. Callum turned on his heel and walked out of the building without another word.

In the reflection of the glass doors, he caught a glimpse of Isolde watching him—her expression a complicated mix of emotions he couldn’t name.

He smiled faintly to himself.

She might not trust him yet, but she would… whether she liked it or not.

That evening after picking her up, the glow of the city bled into the penthouse as evening settled, the golden lights of Dublin shimmering like ghosts against the glass walls. Callum stood at the bar, pouring himself a measure of whiskey, the liquid catching the fire’s flicker from the hearth across the room. The day had been long, and his patience—already stretched thin—was beginning to unravel.

Isolde sat curled in the corner of the couch, a throw blanket tucked loosely over her lap. She was watching him, her amber eyes sharp despite the fatigue on her face.

“You’re quiet,” she said, breaking the silence.

Callum turned slightly, glass in hand, and raised an eyebrow. “Should I be putting on a show?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” She uncrossed her legs, sitting up straighter as her expression hardened. “I saw you talking to my father today.”

Callum stilled, the glass halfway to his lips. He took a deliberate sip, letting the warmth burn down his throat before answering. “And?”

“And I want to know what he wanted.”

He shrugged, leaning one hand on the back of an armchair as he watched her. “Nothing you need to concern yourself with.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.”

Isolde stood abruptly, the blanket falling forgotten to the couch as she stalked toward him. “You can’t keep me locked in this gilded cage and expect me to just accept everything you do, Callum. I have a right to know why my father approached you.”

Her fire both infuriated and intrigued him. Callum’s gaze tracked her movements, taking in the rigidity of her body as she stood, the way she wrung her hands in front of her as she paced. She was angry— good . Anger was energy, focus. But it also made her careless, and he couldn’t afford that right now.

“You think you have a right?” he asked softly, his voice laced with something dangerous. “That’s adorable, mo chroí . But let me remind you where you are. You’re here because someone tried to kill you, not because I enjoy your company.”

Her eyes narrowed, and he caught the flicker of hurt behind her defiance. “Oh, don’t worry, the feeling is mutual. I didn’t ask you to save me, and I sure as hell didn’t ask for this… this arrangement.”

Callum’s jaw ticked, the last word scraping against his temper like flint to steel. He set the glass down with a sharp click on the bar and stepped toward her, his movements deliberate.

“Careful, Isolde,” he warned, his voice a low growl. “You might not like where this conversation ends.”

Her chin tilted stubbornly upward as she held his gaze. “I’m leaving tomorrow. I’ll have Walsh’s team see to my protection.”

A dark laugh escaped him, rough and bitter. “You think you can just decide to leave?”

“Yes.” She crossed her arms, her breath coming faster. “I’ve put up with this long enough. I’m grateful you helped me, but I’m not your problem to solve. I don’t belong here, Callum, and you damn well know it.”

Callum stared at her, his mind a storm of irritation and something far more dangerous. Doesn’t belong here? The hell she didn’t. She belonged exactly where he put her—under his protection, in his care, in his bed, where no one else could touch her.

But instead of shouting, he let a cold, lethal calm settle over him. “We’ll discuss it in the morning.”

Isolde’s eyes flared and he thought she might throw something at him. “There’s nothing to discuss,” she snapped, turning on her heel. “I’m going to bed.”

“Do that,” he said flatly, though his gaze followed her until she disappeared up the stairs to her room.

As the sound of her door closing echoed through the penthouse, Callum exhaled sharply, his patience worn to shreds. He raked a hand through his hair and returned to the bar, pouring himself another drink before settling into the leather chair in front of the fire.

The whiskey burned less this time, but it didn’t quiet the storm inside him. Isolde was a complication he hadn’t seen coming—a fire he couldn’t extinguish no matter how hard he tried. When he’d told Con what was going on, the Devil of Galway had merely laughed, indicated his trust in Callum’s ability to handle it, and wished him well. Callum told himself it was about protecting Con’s interests, that keeping her close was the logical move, but logic didn’t explain the way she got under his skin. The way she invaded his dreams was further evidence she was his fated mate.

That was the last thing he needed. What the hell had he gotten himself into?

The flames crackled softly in the hearth, their glow dancing across the polished floors and illuminating the darker corners of the room. Callum leaned back in the chair, whiskey glass dangling from his fingers as he stared into the flames, trying to piece together his next move. Lynch was circling closer, Bradford was a thorn he’d yet to pluck, and now… Isolde.

The sound of breaking glass shattered his concentration.