Her Obsession (by Sheridan Hartin) novel Chapter 159

Her Obsession.

More Like Her.

Conner

Meetings like this one don’t happen in offices anymore. Not for us. We moved them underground–literally. The new compound’s war room sits three levels below the main house, built into bedrock, soundproofed, steel–lined, and large enough to seat half the damn syndicate. A long black table dominates the space, its surface inlaid with gold veining that catches the overhead lights. The O’Neill crest sits carved in the centre: a wolf and a ghost intertwined. Marco Ricci, son of the late Don Ricci, is here tonight, flanked by two bodyguards and, interestingly, a woman I don’t recognise. Early twenties, maybe, though it’s hard to tell under the sharp cut of her bobbed hair and the neutral mask she wears. She sits slightly behind Marco’s right shoulder, not quite part of the discussion but not a

but her eyes are sharp and assessing. decoration either. Her dress is simple, businesslike- charcoal grey, sleeves rolled to the elbows She doesn’t drink, doesn’t fidget, doesn’t smile. I make a note to ask Nico to find out who she is. Ricci’s niece? Sister? Daughter? Or something less predictable, like the brains behind the family’s newest power play. She catches me watching once, just briefly, and holds my gaze longer than most men in this room could stomach. Then she looks away, as if I were the one being measured. Interesting.

–

—

“Gentlemen,” I begin, voice even. “Let’s get to it. We’re here to finalise the coastal exchange routes. No one leaves until the paperwork’s

signed.”

Marco leans forward, his gold watch flashing. “We agreed on forty percent.”

“Forty?” I echo. “You’re out of your mind. Twenty–five, and you’re lucky we’re feeling generous.”

He smirks, looking to the others for backup. “Your ports need our ships, O’Neill. You’d be crippled without-”

The sound that cuts him off isn’t mine. It’s Diego’s low, quiet, dangerous tone, the one that says someone might lose an eye tonight.

“Finish that sentence carefully.”

Marco blinks, thrown off. “Excuse me?”

Diego leans back in his chair, elbows on the armrests, every inch of him calm but coiled. “You were about to say we’d be crippled. Go on.

I’d like to hear you finish it.”

The Italian’s jaw twitches. “It was a figure of speech.”

“Ah,” Diego says mildly. “Because I’d hate for it to sound like a threat.”

The silence that follows is heavy. I can see it happen in real time, how the men at the table start measuring him, adjusting the mental

math of where the danger truly sits. He doesn’t smile. He just stares, waiting.

I don’t interrupt.

Marco clears his throat, suddenly smaller. “Twenty–five. Agreed.”

“Good man,” Diego says, finally grinning. “See? No need for theatrics.”

1/2

More Like Her.

I hide my smirk behind the rim of my glass. That’s my boy.

When Marco finally folds, conceding the deal, I notice her again. She leans toward him, whispers something behind her hand, and Marco’s jaw tightens, not in defiance, but restraint. Whatever she said, it stopped him cold. Diego doesn’t miss it either. I catch him glancing her way once, just a flicker, curiosity barely disguised under that trademark smirk. She doesn’t return the look. Doesn’t need to. She’s already aware of him. By the time the signatures are inked and the Ricci entourage gathers their things, she’s the last one to stand. Her chair slides back deliberately and quietly. She gives a small nod toward the table, then she’s gone, heels clicking down the hall.

After the door closes and silence settles again, Diego exhales a soft laugh. “Who was she?”

“I was wondering the same thing,” I admit.

He smirks. “She didn’t look scared.”

“No,” I say, swirling the whiskey in my glass. “That’s what worries me.”

The elevator hums as it moves us back up to ground level. When the doors open, the smell of rain drifts in from the fields. It’s started to pour outside, so I do my best to avoid the puddles on the way back to the house. Diego, on the other hand, seems to go out of his way to hit every single one. I can see the smirk on his face like he knows that Sage will have something to say about it.

Diego runs a hand through his hair, looking every bit the man he’s become. “You ever get tired of it?”

“The business?”

“The politics of it.”

I consider it. “I get tired of the noise. But never of what we built.”

He nods slowly. “I get that.”

“Good.” I clap his shoulder. “You’ll need to remember it when it’s your turn to teach someone else how to survive it.”

He snorts. “Not planning on kids anytime soon.”

“Neither was I,” I remind him. “Then your Sissy showed up with a dinosaur and a pinky promise.”

That earns a laugh.

“Come on,” I say, nodding toward the kitchen. “Let’s tell your Sissy it went well before she comes looking to wring it out of us.”

“I’ll catch up with you in a bit,” he says casually, already rolling his sleeves back down.

I narrow my eyes. “Where’re you off to?”

More Like Her.

He just gives me that grin, the one that’s all confidence and trouble stitched together. “Nowhere.”

“Where’s nowhere?” I ask, but he’s already turned his direction, his steps turning into a light jog to the side of the house.

Pa always said curiosity was the O’Neill curse. I’m starting to think he was right. I watch him disappear into the dark and shake my head. Whatever he’s up to, I probably don’t want to know. But the smile that pulls at my mouth betrays me anyway, that familiar mix of pride and dread tightening in my chest. He’s not just looking for trouble. He is trouble. Everyone likes to say he takes after me, but that’s only half the truth. The rest of him, the part that doesn’t flinch at danger, the one that enjoys the chaos a little too much, that’s all Sage. He’s got her darkness, her hunger for control, her calm when everyone else panics. It’s a dangerous combination. Smart. Charming. Unpredictable. There’s something almost feral beneath that polished grin, a side of him that doesn’t just walk into shadows; it thrives