Icouldn't focus on my Constitutional Law reading. The words blurred together on the page, meaningless black marks that refused to form coherent thoughts. I'd been staring at the same paragraph for twenty minutes, reading and re-reading without comprehension.
All because I couldn't stop thinking about him.
Rafe Conti.
The name echoed in my mind, bringing with it a flood of conflicting emotions—wariness, curiosity, a strange, unsettling attraction that made no sense. He was dangerous. I knew that instinctively, even before I'd learned his name. There was something in his eyes, in the way he moved, in the careful precision of his words that screamed predator.
And yet...
I closed my textbook with a sigh, pushing it away from me. The library was quiet, just the occasional rustle of pages and soft tapping of keyboards breaking the silence. Normally, I found it soothing—this temple of knowledge, this sanctuary of order and reason. Today, it felt stifling.
Two encounters. That's all it had been. Two brief, strange meetings that should have meant nothing. So why couldn't I stop replaying them in my mind? Why did I keep seeing his face, hearing his voice, feeling the weight of his gaze on my skin?
Someone who sees you.
The words had lodged in my chest like a splinter, painful and impossible to ignore. Because wasn't that what I'd always wanted? To be seen for myself, not as an O'Sullivan, not as Patrick's daughter, not as a potential asset to the family business. Just as Grace.
But Rafe Conti hadn't seen me. He'd stalked me. He'd known my name before I gave it. He'd appeared at the coffee shop I frequented, claiming coincidence when it was clearly calculation.
Conti. The name was familiar, of course. The Contis were to New York what the O'Sullivans were to Boston—a family with old money, older secrets, and a reputation that existed in whispers rather than headlines. I'd heard my father mention them occasionally, always with a mixture of respect and wariness.
Competitors. Potential threats. Definitely not people I should be thinking about with anything approaching interest.
I gathered my books, suddenly needing to be anywhere but the library. The walls felt too close, the silence too oppressive. I needed air, space, noise—anything to drown out the thoughts circling in my head.
Outside, the October afternoon was crisp and clear, the campus awash in the golden light of late autumn. Students milled about, laughing, talking, living their normal lives with normal concerns. I envied them their simplicity.
I walked without direction, letting my feet carry me where they would. Eventually, I found myself at the small park nearmy apartment—a quiet green space with benches and trees and a small pond where ducks gathered in warmer weather.
I sat on a bench, tilting my face up to catch the weak sunlight. The park was nearly empty at this hour, just an elderly man walking his dog and a young mother pushing a stroller along the path.
Normal people. Safe people.
I closed my eyes, trying to clear my mind, to focus on the present moment—the cool air on my skin, the distant sound of traffic, the rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze.
Instead, I saw dark eyes watching me with an intensity that made my breath catch. Heard a voice that seemed to reach inside me and touch places no one had ever reached.
Someone who sees you.
"Stop it," I muttered to myself, opening my eyes and straightening my spine. "Get a grip, Grace."
This was ridiculous. I was a law student, for God's sake. Rational, logical, trained to analyze and evaluate. Not some romantic heroine swooning over a mysterious stranger.
A dangerous stranger. A Conti.
I pulled out my phone, hesitating for a moment before opening the browser. I shouldn't. It was a bad idea. But I needed to know what I was dealing with.
I typed "Rafe Conti" into the search bar.
The results were surprisingly sparse. A few mentions in business publications about the Conti Group's real estate holdings. A photo from a charity gala three years ago, Rafe standing in the background while an older man—Dante Conti, according to the caption—shook hands with the mayor of New York.
Nothing personal. Nothing revealing. Nothing to explain the intensity I'd felt in his presence, the sense that he was something other than what he appeared to be.
I switched tactics, searching for "Conti family Boston" instead.
This yielded more results—articles about the Conti Group's expansion into Boston real estate, speculation about their business interests, a few pieces mentioning tensions with "established local families."
My family.
