Forbidden Obsession (Book 1)

It always starts with her breathing. Shallow, rapid, caught between her ribs like it doesn’t belong there. The sheets stick to my skin with cold sweat; my back arches, and my fingers curl so tight into the mattress that I can feel my nails digging through the cotton. But it isn’t the blood, the splatter, not even the gunshot that cracks through the air like glass shattering inside my skull. It’s her eyes. Wide and blue and frozen in that split second between knowing she’s dying and still hoping she isn’t. I’m under the bed. I remember that part too clearly—the silence after the shot, the weight of my own heartbeat, the scream I swallow so hard it tears my throat raw, and most of all, I remember those eyes, my mother’s eyes. They find me, see me even in the dark, even in the last flicker of her soul leaving her body. She sees me, and I see her die. I shoot up with a scream that doesn’t feel like it comes from me. My lungs are on fire. “Nina!” The door bursts open, heavy footsteps—a blur of broad shoulders and familiar panic. I’m already trembling when Massimo reaches the bed. “It’s okay, piccolina—it’s just a dream,” he says, voice hoarse with sleep but edged with that tightness I know too well. Protective and angry that he can’t fight the things living in my head. My arms wrap around his neck the second he sits on the edge of the bed. I don’t even think, just bury my face in his chest and cling like the world’s on fire. “It was the same one?” he asks, stroking my hair, voice low, the way he talks when he doesn’t want to wake old ghosts. I nod into his shirt, throat too dry to answer. He doesn’t push, just sighs against my hair and pulls back gently, palms cupping my face like he’s checking for blood. “You were screaming like someone was cutting you open. I nearly knocked down the whole f*****g hallway door.” A weak laugh scratches out of me.“You really do have a flair for drama, Mas.” He gives me a look, “Sera. You were crying in your sleep.” I glance down. My legs are shaking, my fingers still clenched. He sighs again, stands long enough to pull back the covers, then slides into bed beside me, as he used to when I was a kid. Back when nightmares meant monsters under the bed, not blood-soaked floors and dying eyes. Massimo pulls me into his arms, tight, secure, like I’m the only thing on earth he needs to keep safe. “You want to talk about it?” he asks. “What’s the point?” I whisper. “It always ends the same. She dies, and I hide.” His hand strokes through my hair again, gentle, rhythmic. “It wasn’t your fault.” “You say that like it changes anything.” He’s quiet. Then his voice is softer than I am used to, “It should.” We lie there a while, my breathing steadies, my heartbeat stops crashing against my ribs. The worst part is how real it still feels, like I can smell the gunpowder, feel the carpet under my knees, still hiding under that bed. “You’re not under the bed anymore, you know,” he murmurs, reading my thoughts the way only brothers can. I swallow hard. “Sometimes I think I never left.” “Then we’ll burn the whole f*****g bed and the house it stood in and the people who made you afraid.” A smile trembles against his chest. “Jesus, you’re dramatic tonight.” “You woke me up at three a.m. with a banshee scream. I think I’m allowed.” A soft giggle slips out. Real, for the first time tonight. Massimo looks down, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “Are you okay now?” “Yeah. Better. Thanks to you.” He gives me that look, the one my brothers save only for me. The one that says I’m still their little girl, even though I’ve grown curves, a mouth that pisses them off, and a habit of going places I’m not supposed to. Seraphina Monticello, twenty-two, business student at Columbia University. Red hair like fire. A laugh that comes easily when it’s not caught behind the pain I hide from others, and a heart that still aches quietly in the dark. To my brothers, I’m still their baby sister. To the world, I’m just a girl with too many secrets and too many guards. But inside? Sometimes I’m still that girl under the bed, and no one knows it but me. The morning light pouring through the villa windows is too soft for how heavy my chest feels. The air smells like espresso, toasted bread, and danger. I pad down the marble stairs barefoot, trying to shake off the remnants of the night before. My throat is still tight, my skin still clammy, but I refuse to carry it into the morning. They won’t look at me like I’m broken. Black leather shorts, a black off-the-shoulder top that slides down my right arm like it doesn’t believe in rules. Hair in a loose braid, lips tinted rose. Just enough to say: I woke up like this. The moment I step into the kitchen, every conversation dies. Silvio freezes mid-sentence, Angelo has a fork halfway to his mouth, Massimo’s pouring coffee, Vera’s poised to baptize a croissant in butter, and at the far end of the room— Dante. Shirtless, cigarette in hand, smoke curling up past his jaw. The silence hits like a slap. I don’t need a crystal ball to know what they’re thinking. They heard the screams, the nightmare, the past clawing its way out of my lungs, again. “Good morning,” I say breezily, brushing past the silence like it doesn’t burn. I head for the fridge, pour cold brew over ice, add a splash of oat milk, and take a slow sip like I didn’t cry myself hoarse last night. “Morning, babe,” Vera says softly. I give her a tight smile and slide into the chair beside her. Silvio clears his throat. “Are you okay?” I don’t flinch. “It was a dream. Nothing more.” Massimo’s jaw ticks. “Didn’t look like nothing.” “Sounded like someone was getting murdered in their sleep,” Angelo mutters, then instantly winces. “s**t. Sorry.” I wave him off, “Stop treating me like I’m made of glass. I don’t need a pity party. It was just the past doing what it does, but it’s gone. That’s where it stays.” Vera touches my arm gently. “You don’t have to pretend with us.” “I’m not pretending,” I lie.“I’m choosing, there’s a difference.” Silvio leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching me with that deep, unreadable frown. “You’ve had that same nightmare since you were fourteen.” “And I’ve survived it every time.” My smile sharpens. “So let’s talk about something else. Like how you’re all going to pretend you weren’t judging my outfit the second I walked in.” Massimo raises a brow. “We weren’t going to pretend, actually.” I smirk and stand to grab an apple, the hem of my shorts lifts just enough, and I know my ink is showing. s**t, too late. Dante’s voice cuts through the air like a blade. “Since when do you have a tattoo, princess?” My head snaps toward him. He’s leaning against the doorframe now, one arm propped, cigarette balanced between his fingers. His chest is bare, hard muscle, scarred and inked, the dragon winding from his chest up to his neck. Sweatpants hang low on his hips. His voice…low, rough, and laced with smoke and sin, driving me insane without wanting to. “Excuse me?” I blink. Massimo’s chair scrapes back. “What tattoo?” Angelo’s already up, moving toward me like I’ve confessed to joining a cult. “Where?” Silvio squints. “What the hell’s on your leg?” I roll my eyes. “Relax. It’s a garter belt, lace, and roses. Very feminine.” “Feminine?” Massimo barks. “It’s ink. On your skin. Permanent.” “Yes, thank you, I do understand how tattoos work.” Angelo stares. “When did you get it?” “Two years ago.” Massimo looks at me like I betrayed him. “And we didn’t know?” “I’m good at hiding things that could drive you potentially insane.” They have no idea. Silvio glares. “Does dad know?” I raise both hands.“Dad’s somewhere in f*****g Portugal. I’m twenty-two. I make my own choices. You guys don’t get a vote.” Dante’s still watching me; his gaze burns hotter than the sun right now. “I’d be careful where you flash that thing,” he says, voice dry. “You’re not ready for the kind of attention it invites.” I meet his eyes. “Oh, you mean the kind of attention you give it right now?” He doesn’t flinch, just takes another drag, exhales through his nose slowly. God, he’s unreal. His muscles move like a predator stretching after sleep. His hair is slightly messy, like he ran a hand through it and didn’t bother fixing it further, and that scent of his...woodsy, smoky, expensive. I catch myself staring. Get a grip, Nina. I turn back to the counter, yank my keys off the hook. “Come on, V. We’ve got microeconomics.” Vera grabs her bag.“Bye, boys. Don’t kill each other.” I toss a wink over my shoulder.“Don’t wait up.” And just like that, we’re gone, my coffee half-finished, thighs bare, pulse still pounding. Behind me, I can feel him watching like he always does.