The Don's Deadliest Obsession

A day later>>>>>

True to his word, Lysander has a dress delivered to my room.

A beautiful dress, I will admit.

An expensive one, too. The kind of dress that probably costs more than what some people earn in an entire year.

I try to get out of going to the gala, i really do.

I complain about being tired. I remind him that I have a workspace to finish arranging. I even suggest that perhaps his family would enjoy the evening more without me there.

His response?

His mother insisted.

Apparently, when his mother insists on something, even the mighty Don Sanchez becomes incapable of saying no.

So here I am.

Standing in front of my mirror, adjusting the straps of a dress I never asked for, trying to convince myself that this evening might not be entirely dreadful.

The dress is a deep wine-red, fitted through the waist before falling into a long, elegant skirt that brushes my ankles. The neckline is modest enough to keep me from feeling exposed, but the cut still manages to flatter my figure. My hair falls in soft waves over my shoulders, and my makeup is simple, with a little extra attention given to my lips.

I look good.....really good.

I turn sideways, inspect my reflection, and nod in approval.

At least if I have to suffer through an evening of rich people pretending to like one another, I will look fabulous while doing it.

I grab my clutch and leave my room.

By the time I reach the staircase, I can hear the faint sound of a car engine running outside.

Lysander is waiting.

I descend the stairs carefully, gathering the skirt in one hand so I don’t trip over it. When I reach the entrance, I find him standing beside a black luxury car, checking something on his phone.

He looks up as I approach.

For a brief moment, his gaze travels over me.

His eyes linger a little but he quickly averts his eyes when he catches my eyes on him.

And because I am an incredibly mature woman, I immediately decide not to give him the satisfaction of knowing I noticed.

I walk past him and open the car door myself.

This time, there is a driver sitting in the front seat.

I slide inside and arrange my dress around me.

”Such a gentleman,” I mutter.

Lysander gets in beside me, shutting the door.

”Apologies, wife.” He slips his phone into his pocket. ”I got caught up with work and didn’t see you coming out to open your door for you.”

I turn to stare at him.

He gives me a perfectly straight face.

”But I’m sure you’ll survive.”

I glare.

He smiles. That infuriating, smug little smile that makes me want to throw something at his head.

”One day,” I tell him sweetly, ”I’m going to poison your coffee.”

”Make sure you use something effective, little riot. I have a rather impressive tolerance for most things.”

I blink. Then I narrow my eyes.

”That wasn’t an invitation to give me advice.”

”I know.”

I turn toward the window before I do something that might land me in a second marriage to a prison sentence.

The driver pulls away from the estate.

For a while, neither of us speaks. Lysander checks his phone occasionally, answering messages with the same cold efficiency he seems to apply to every aspect of his life. I watch the city pass outside, the evening lights reflecting off the glass and painting the streets in shades of gold.

I wonder what sort of gala this is. All I know is that Lysander has been ordered to attend, and apparently, I am part of the package.

Yayyy Lucky me.

The drive is surprisingly short.

When the car finally slows, I glance outside and realize we have arrived at a grand estate surrounded by high stone walls and tall iron gates. Security guards stand at the entrance, checking names before allowing vehicles through.

There are no reporters, no cameras flashing in our faces, non crowds of people waiting to catch a glimpse of the infamous Lysander Sanchez and his wife.

I sigh with relief.

Thank you, dear stars.

Perhaps the universe has decided to show me a little mercy tonight.

The driver gets out and opens Lysander’s door. My husband steps onto the pavement, adjusts his jacket, and walks around to my side.

He opens my door and extends his hand.

I stare at it for a moment then I look up at him.

”Look at you. You’ve suddenly remembered how doors work.”

His mouth twitches.

”Don’t get used to it.”

”Wouldn’t dream of it.”

I take his hand, allowing him to help me out of the car.

His fingers close around mine, warm and firm. For a brief second, we stand close enough that I catch the familiar scent of his cologne.

Then he releases me, and we walk toward the entrance together.

The moment we step inside, the atmosphere changes. The hall is enormous, with polished marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and elegant arrangements of white flowers lining the walls. Men im suits stand in small groups, speaking in low voices while women in beautiful gowns move between them with champagne glasses in their hands.

I am still taking everything in when a familiar voice calls out.

”Lysander!”

His mother approaches us with a bright smile.

She looks beautiful in a dark blue gown, her hair pinned neatly at the back of her head. She kisses Lysander on the cheek before turning to me.

”Nerissa, darling. You look lovely.”

”Thank you, Ma.”

I smile and kiss her cheek. She squeezes my hand, looking genuinely pleased that I came.

”I was beginning to think you would find an excuse to stay home.”

I glance at Lysander.

”Believe me, I tried.”

His mother laughs.

”And I’m glad my son was sensible enough not to listen.”

”Sensible?” I repeat, pretending to be astonished. ”Are we talking about the same man?”

Lysander gives me a warning look and i smile wider.

His mother only laughs harder.

After exchanging a few pleasantries, I spot Isabella across the hall. She’s standing near a cluster of tall windows, looking stunning in a pale gold dress.

I excuse myself and head over.

For the next several minutes, Isabella keeps me entertained with stories about the guests, her latest argument with Lysander, and a particularly dreadful man who apparently spent twenty minutes explaining the stock market to her without realizing she had stopped listening after the first thirty seconds.

I laugh so hard I nearly throw up.

Eventually, my throat becomes dry.

”I’m going to get a drink,” I tell her.

”Bring me one too!”

I nod and weave through the crowd toward the drinks table.

I am almost there when someone collides with my shoulder.

”Oh, I’m sorry,” I begin automatically, turning toward the person. ”I wasn’t....”

The apology dies on my tongue and my entire body goes cold.

I know that face, I know it so well that even after all this time, even surrounded by music and laughter and people dressed in their finest clothes, I recognize it instantly.

For one terrible moment, the room seems to tilt beneath my feet.

My fingers go numb, my heart slams against my ribs, and the words caught in my throat refuse to come out.

No. It can’t be.

Not here, not now.

He gives me a devilish smile then his hand moves.

A gun appears, and before I can take a single step backward, the barrel is pointed directly at my face.

My lungs forget how to work.

Around us, the gala continues for one suspended heartbeat, the music playing softly beneath the chandelier’s golden light.

Then he leans closer, his smile widening.

”Il Diavolo says hi.”

*The Devil* in Italian.

Then a single shot rings out.

I stand frozen, a scream lodged in my throat.

The gun is still pointed at my face, but the bullet never reaches me.

Instead, a scream erupts behind me.

Someone has been hit and before I can even process what happened, Lysander is there.

He has the man’s wrist twisted at an unnatural angle, forcing the gun away from me. In his other hand is a knife, its blade pressed firmly against the man’s throat.

Everything happens so quickly that I barely manage to breathe.

One moment, I’m staring down the barrel of a gun. The next, my husband is standing between me and the man who nearly killed me.

He doesn’t look at me, his eyes are fixed on the man beneath his blade, dark and merciless.

I want to move. I want to scream. I want to do something, anything, but my body refuses to cooperate.

Before I can say shit, Lysander moves and the knife drags cleanly across the man’s throat.

The sound is sickeningly soft.

Blood sprays across my face and dress, warm droplets splattering my skin.

I gasp, stumbling backward.

Lysander doesn’t even blink.

And I can only stare at the blood dripping from his blade, realizing that the man who just tried to kill me is no longer breathing.