Obsessed (Forbidden Desire)

Elena Russo's black dress felt like a suit of armor as she stood alone in her childhood home, surrounded by empty glasses and half-eaten appetizers, evidence of mourners who had already departed. The silence pressed against her eardrums, almost painful after hours of murmured condolences and stories about her father that painted a man she barely recognized.

The crystal tumbler in her hand caught the afternoon light, sending prisms dancing across the worn hardwood floor as she swirled the amber liquid. Her father's favorite whiskey. She'd never acquired the taste, but today seemed like the perfect time to try.

"To you, Papa," she whispered, lifting the glass toward the mantle where his photograph stood beside the urn containing his ashes.

The burn of alcohol down her throat matched the sting behind her eyes. For the hundredth time that day, Elena wondered how her strong, vibrant father had deteriorated so quickly. Cancer was a thief, stealing him piece by piece until nothing remained but a hollow shell, and now, not even that.

The doorbell's chime shattered her moment of grief.

Probably Mrs. Gianelli from next door, bringing another casserole she wouldn't eat. Elena set down the tumbler and smoothed her dress, mentally preparing another gracious smile for another well-meaning neighbor.

The men at her door were not neighbors.

Three of them, dressed in tailored black suits that couldn't quite disguise the bulges of shoulder holsters. The one in front, salt-and-pepper hair, a face lined by experience rather than age, smiled without warmth.

"Miss Russo?" His voice was courteous, his eyes anything but. "My name is Anthony. I worked with your father."

Elena's hand tightened on the doorknob. Her father had been an accountant for a restaurant supply company, a boring, stable job that had supported them modestly but comfortably since her mother left. These men looked nothing like the colleagues who had attended the funeral earlier.

"My father's funeral was this morning," she said. "Whatever business you had with him."

"That's precisely why we're here." The man's smile never wavered. "May we come in? This conversation is better had in private."

Every instinct told Elena to close the door, but the look in Anthony's eyes suggested that wasn't an option. She stepped back, allowing them into the modest foyer.

The three men swept through her home with the confidence of those accustomed to taking up space. They didn't sit when they reached the living room, instead positioning themselves strategically, one near the window, one by the door, and Anthony directly in front of her.

"Your father had debts, Miss Russo." Anthony didn't waste time with platitudes. "Substantial ones."

Elena crossed her arms. "That's impossible. My father was careful with money. Conservative, even."

Anthony produced a thin leather portfolio from inside his jacket. "Your father had a weakness for games of chance. He was quite skilled, actually, until his luck turned."

The folder opened to reveal photographs that stole Elena's breath: her father at poker tables, roulette wheels, surrounded by men with