His Obsession Read online

  PRAISE FOR QUINN MARLOWE

  Praise for Her Romeo

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  “You’re telling me I have to wait for I don’t know how long for a sequel to this amazing mafia romance??? No way I’ll live through that! Yes, I was expecting spice. And I got it. Yes, I was expecting a possessive mafia romance. And I got it. But the plot surprised me completely!” —@FedyTheReader

  “I was not ready for this book to end. I need the next book like yesterday… I will be like a starving book dragon hunting for book two, that's for certain!” –Melissa, Goodreads reviewer

  “I am obsessed with this book!!!!” –Renee, Goodreads Reviewer

  “… the action, suspense, who to trust and who not to. You are constantly on the edge of your seat. My overall opinion of this book... addictive, entertaining, steamy with a dose of hot chemistry and a solid page turner. I am definitely anticipating book two. I mean, continuing this series to completion, it's a no brainer, it's just simply that good.” –Debbie, Goodreads reviewer

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  “If I had enough hours in the day, I absolutely would've never set this one down. If you are looking for something with a mafia vibe, with the suspense that will leave you dying for more. This is it. Forbidden romance. Kidnapping. This is definitely a book for you!” –Rachel, Goodreads reviewer

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  “You know those books that you have to put down a few minutes to catch your breath or to make last longer?! Yep, this is definitely one of those books! I loved it from the first word until… THE CLIFFHANGER! I want more… scratch that I need more of Sloane and Joseph! It was fast paced and I couldn’t put it down, except to catch my breath. Definitely recommend!” –Rachel, Goodreads reviewer

  “This book had me hooked and interested from the first page. It got right into the “action” and was a page turner until the very end. I could not get enough of the tension between the characters and the internal struggle both of them are facing is BEAUTIFULLY written.” –Stephanie, Amazon reviewer

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  Praise for Her Hero

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  “Buuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuut are you guys squealing yet? Because you should! This trilogy is SOOOOOOOO squealworthy! It has everything you need.. spice? Yes! Romance? Hell yes! Guns and violence and everything else you want in a mafia Romance? Hell to the yes!” —Winter Wolf, Amazon Reviewer

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  “I loved this book even more than the last two! I loved watching Sloane and Joseph grow even closer in this book, even as adversity increased! Y'all know how much I love a fast-paced, quick read that still has a good plot, and this book is IT.

  Mr. Joseph Rossi has my effing heart. That's all I need to say. I'm amazed and in love.” —Olivia, Amazon reviewer

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  “Another book in the mafia romance series involving the story of Sloane and Joseph … WOW JUST WOW!!! I’m obsessed!!!” —@FedyTheReader

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  “…Such an enjoyable read! The plot could've gone everywhere, and with all the action it felt like I just kept flipping pages. I just wanted to know how it ended!” —Sanne, Goodreads reviewer

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  “Guns blazing, car chases and more has exploded the suspense in this romantic suspense trilogy. It's a quick read, but a fun one.” —Micky, Goodreads reviewer

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  “Couldn't put it down. Loved how Sloane and Joseph were together. I do hope there is more to come. Definitely recommend.” —Sue, Goodreads reviewer

  HIS OBSESSION

  PREQUEL TO MAFIA ROGUES ROMANTIC ADVENTURES: ROSSI

  QUINN MARLOWE

  COPYRIGHT

  Copyright © 2021 by Spitfire Press

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Any names of characters, business, places, events, or incidents are fictitious or have been used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

  Cover: Temy’s Designs

  To my husband, who was the driving force that started me on this road. You are my everything. Even on the days when I don’t understand your jokes.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Devil In The Sunlight

  Chapter 2

  Sloane Fucking Brennan

  Chapter 3

  Emotions That Kill You

  Chapter 4

  Not My Fucking Problem

  Chapter 5

  Cold, Calm, And Deadly

  Chapter 6

  A Meeting To Get To

  Chapter 7

  Walking The Line

  Chapter 8

  Double Talk

  Chapter 9

  A Dark, Deserted Hallway

  Chapter 10

  Ulterior Motives

  Chapter 11

  Dancing With Lions

  Chapter 12

  The Last Night

  Chapter 13

  Home Alone

  Chapter 14

  Christmas Eve By Myself

  Chapter 15

  Romeo

  Epilogue

  Christmas In La

  SNEAK PEEK

  A Day in the Life of a Girl

  About the Author

  Also by Quinn Marlowe

  1

  SLOANE

  DEVIL IN THE SUNLIGHT

  “That’s it, I'm never going home again.”

  “You and me both, sister,” the voice immediately to my right muttered, sleepy with sunshine and more than a little bit slurred, thanks to the five or so margaritas we'd had since we arrived at the beach. “Though I think that might fall under the heading of ‘be careful what you wish for.’ Sounds like the sort of thing someone says right before they get chopped in the back by the designated villain.”

  She added this second statement with her eyes open and her voice sounding a bit sharper, and I glanced over at her, wondering what the hell she was getting at.

  The picture I saw was, of course, a girl who looked like she should be fucking modeling rather than laying on the beach in Santa Monica with me, on Christmas break from law school. Brooks Peterson—short for Brooklyn, a name she hated with the heat of a million suns—had always been taller than me. More gorgeous than me. Sassier than me. Then we'd come west to go to UCLA for college and she'd gotten even sassier.

  These days she was dying her used-to-be-blonde hair a bright fire engine red and wearing stark black eyeliner with a wing that made it look like a makeup artist lived in the same house as she did.

  There was no makeup artist in her house. I knew, because I lived there too, and if there had been a makeup artist in residence, I would have been sporting the same winged liner.

  As opposed to the hurried brush of blush and eye shadow I generally managed. With more mascara than anything else. Maybe some lipstick on days when I was feeling really fancy.

  Brooks, who had watched me watching her this entire time, lifted one very elegant—and still fairly blond—eyebrow. "Take a picture, love, it'll last longer."

  I stuck my tongue out at her. "Why would I need a picture when I see you every freaking day of my life?"

  She just grinned and laid back down. "You and I both know you love it. Now, what were you saying about never going home?"

  I laid back as well but kept myself propped up on my elbows so I could keep my gaze on the bright blue of the Pacific Ocean. Freaking 85 degrees in the middle of December, and as bright as the day was long. I mean, the day wasn't long. Not in December in California. But the brightness? The be
auty?

  Yeah, that was all in evidence.

  Back home in New York, it was snowing right now. Snowing and freaking cold, with the power going all spotty and the sidewalks frozen and cars driving by at 50 MPH and splashing you with dirty slush.

  I knew because my parents had told me so this morning when I called to tell them I wasn't coming home from law school for Christmas this year. Brooks and I were staying in LA rather than flying home.

  And neither of us was all that sorry for it.

  I glanced at the pier about a mile down the beach, took in the garland wound along the rails and the Christmas lights going up the struts that held the roller coaster, and grinned to myself. Christmas in LA meant a lot of decorations and almost no change in the weather, and I fucking loved it.

  "I said I don't think I'm ever going home again," I repeated. "Why the hell would I leave all of this behind for the snow in the winter and the freaking heat in the summer?"

  "And that humidity," she added. "And what it does to my hair."

  "Your hair's not curly, even in the humidity," I noted.

  Not like mine. I had the sort of hair that got bigger and curlier if there was an ounce of humidity in the air, and though LA's heat made it wavy and hard to control, New York's humidity...

  A sharp poke in the ribs broke me out of my mental curses against my hair—which was also naturally auburn, unlike Brooks'—and back to the reality of the sunny Southern California beach.

  "My hair is so curly," Brooks muttered on top of the finger jab.

  I just snorted. It wasn't worth it to argue with her when it came to things like that. She decided years ago that she was going to have curly red hair—just like mine—and it was no use reminding her that her hair was red only thanks to her hairdresser, and the curl nonexistent.

  Brooks had a way of disagreeing with reality so strongly that she often forced it to bend to her will, and it made her nearly impossible to argue with. It was also going to make her one hell of a lawyer. If she could keep it under control.

  "So what are we going to do while we're never going home again?" she murmured, sliding her sunnies down her nose and glancing over at me.

  I returned the glance, already knowing the answer.

  I always knew the answer. It was one of the things that was going to make me a great lawyer.

  "Oh, you know. The usual. I'm thinking the beach, some shopping, more margaritas than we should be drinking on our own, maybe a Christmas parade or two. Volunteering, of course."

  "And boys," Brooks added.

  "And boys," I agreed. "And anything that keeps me from having to talk to my parents or even think about New York this season."

  That was a lie, of course. Nothing was going to keep me from talking to my parents or thinking about New York at Christmas. That just wasn't me.

  Sure, my dad was the reason I wasn't going home this year. Sure, the even bigger reason was that as the head of the family, he was suddenly getting into things that were a whole lot bigger and more dangerous than they had been when I left the city to come out west.

  And yeah, I was pretty sure that those bigger and more dangerous things were going to get him in a whole lot of trouble. Probably sooner rather than later.

  It wasn't like this was the first time I'd dealt with it. I'd known for my entire life what he was. It would have been impossible not to. My whole life had centered around what he referred to as 'the life,' and I would have had to be incredibly stupid not to know what that life entailed.

  I wasn't incredibly stupid.

  But I was also studying to be a lawyer, these days, and that made it a whole lot harder to ignore the fact that my dad was one of the biggest mob bosses in New York. Head of the Irish side of the business in the city, to be precise, and the don of the largest family in the state.

  Hell, Daddy considered himself the most important person in New York, most days, and there weren't many who would argue with him.

  People who did often found themselves on the wrong side of a gun.

  And therein lay the problem, didn't it? Because it had been easy enough to ignore that when I was younger and more naive. But now, when I was getting ready to take the bar and start practicing the law—on the right side of it...

  Well, I'm sure you can see the personal conflict.

  I closed my eyes and took a very big gulp of margarita—on the rocks, with salt.

  What a fucking conundrum.

  When I opened my eyes, willing myself to focus once again on the beauty of the Santa Monica morning, the sun and sea and sand and all that Californian stuff, my eyes landed instead on the guy who'd been shaking out his towel right in front of us.

  The tall, incredibly well-built, and incredibly dark guy. The tousled curls that looked like he'd just rolled out of bed. The shadow across his jaw that made it look like he hadn't shaved this morning, even though he probably had.

  The eyes, so blue they looked like they had to be fake.

  My heart stopped.... and then started hammering so hard I thought for a second it was going to try to get all the way out of my chest, while my stomach did something that felt alarmingly like an actual somersault.

  I knew those eyes. I knew that hair and that strong chin and the cheekbones that looked like they could cut glass. I knew the smoldering look, the narrowed gaze as his eyes met mine.

  Joseph Rossi.

  Oldest son and heir apparent of the other biggest mob boss in New York.

  The boy I'd once counted as the friend no one else had known I had. And the boy my father would have told me was my biggest enemy.

  2

  JOSEPH

  SLOANE FUCKING BRENNAN

  Sloane Brennan.

  Sloane. Fucking. Brennan.

  And I know what you're thinking: Joseph, you were in LA, across the nation from the city where you were born and fucking raised and where you knew pretty much everyone there was to know. The city where you were every bit as important as the most important politician and twice as important as people who weren't in charge of (theoretically) running the city.

  You were in LA, and there was no way you were looking at the girl you'd spent much of your life watching from across the street that divided your territory from her father's.

  But you'd be wrong to think that.

  Understandable, since you wouldn't be staring at what I was staring at. You wouldn't be looking at the riot of coppery curls surrounding a face that was almost too sweet-looking to be true, covered in the palest of pale skin and a smattering of freckles that made her look a whole lot younger and more innocent than she actually was. You wouldn't be letting your eyes rake down the curves that had always been a little too perfect for comfort, particularly when you'd once thought of the girl as nothing more than a friend, and a friend in the enemy camp at that.

  You wouldn't be pulling your eyes back up to that face to see it staring back at you, the eyes covered by over-large sunglasses and the mouth open in a perfect O of absolute shock at seeing you.

  Sloane. Fucking. Brennan.

  What the hell was she doing here, on this beach in Santa Monica in the middle of December? It was Christmas, for God's sake.

  Why wasn't she home with her parents? Why was she in LA in the first place?

  I finished tossing out my towel and laid down on my stomach, facing her, my mind churning through every single piece of information I could remember about the girl. Everything I could think of about what she might have been doing of late.

  Me? I was here on business. My first order of business on my own, to be frank, and an important order at that. My father, head of the Rossi family in New York and biggest don there was in the whole fucking city, had finally given in to my constant poking at him to let me do something on my own, and this was the result. A trip to LA to take a meeting with a guy—head of another family—that we were looking to do some business with. They were in jewelry and operated mostly out of the West Coast just because it was easier to get things through customs on
this side of the nation.

  He could get things we couldn't. Things that we wanted. And I was here to make sure that deal happened.

  It was the opportunity of a lifetime, and I'd been training my entire fucking life to prepare for it. As the oldest son, it was my right—my responsibility—to do things like this, because one day—far in the future, God willing—I'd be taking over the family and sitting in my father's chair.

  It was something I didn't like to think too much about, though, so I tore my thoughts from the idea, ignored the shiver that was running down my spine in spite of the California sunshine, and got back to the matter at hand.

  I knew why I was here, and I had a really, really good reason. An important reason that was condoned by my family.

  Why the fuck was Sloane here? Was she here on business, like me? Could it be that her father was using her for some sort of negotiation as well?