Just like that. I see something on his face that I’ve never seen before. Roberto Giordano’s eyes hold fear. Real, visceral, paralyzing fear. The sight sends something electric surging through me. Something primal. Dark. Unapologetic and ugly. And so, so deeply satisfying.
For a flickering second, I don’t even care if these men came to kill us all. Just seeing that look on his face—that tremble in his jaw—is worth dying for.
Roberto stays frozen as the man behind him orders, "Down."
One of the others steps forward, coolly, efficiently, pulling zip ties from his vest. They wrench Roberto’s arms behind his back and bind his wrists, then shove him to his knees.
He doesn’t fight. That’s how I know he’s shaken, truly shaken.
I stay pressed against the couch, unmoving, and with a heart that's pounding so fast it hurts. I’m not screaming. I’m not crying. I’m not even shaking anymore. I’m past fear.Waypast panic.
I’m hovering somewhere else now, somewhere foggy and hollow where nothing feels real and everything feelssharp. Then one of the masked men turns. He slowly walks toward me. He’s tall, dressed like the others, head to toe in tactical black, a ski mask pulled low, hiding his face; he's holding a machine gun in one hand. But there is something familiar about him. Something I don't want to consider right now. Something too dangerous to consider. His other hand reaches out, forward, toward me. The movement is gentle and open. The way one might approach a scared kitten.
My name leaves his lips. "Sophia."
So incredibly soft. Too soft for a soldier. Too familiar.
I realize I'm shaking my head, denying what my heart is trying to tell me, even as the sound of his voice burrows under my skin. My brain keeps telling me, No. It can’t be. That’s not possible.
But when my hand lifts—numb and once again shaking uncontrollably—and slips into his, something happens. I feel it. The calluses. The heat. Therecognition.In one smooth motion, he lifts his other hand—the one with the gun—to pull off the mask.
Time fractures, and the world narrows to the face beneath. Scars slash across his cheekbone, and another cuts into the edge of his brow. His face is black and blue in places, almost unrecognizable. It's him. But that’s not what stuns me.
It’s his eyes.
Because this is Raffael.
And itisn’t.
Not the man who once held me while I cried. Not the one who once before stood between me and danger like a shield made of flesh and blood. Not the man who kissed me. This Raffael is different. Colder. Sharper. Harder. This is a man who kills and doesn't blink. Who would do it again without hesitation. He’s death incarnate—and he’s holding my hand so incredibly gently, like it’s the only thing tethering him to the earth.
I can’t breathe.
Behind me, Roberto spits from the floor. "Who the fuck are you?"
Crack.
One of the masked men slams the butt of his machine gun into Roberto’s head. He grunts and slumps sideways, stunned or unconscious, I can’t tell.
But I can’t even process it. Because all I can do is stare at the ghost of the man I once loved—standing in front of me like a living weapon—right before the world tilts. Dizziness overcomes me, followed by blackness around the edges of my vision, slowly taking everything else over. My mind spins, before it goes mercifully blank, and I fall.
Into nothing.
"Keep them locked up,separately. I'll be back," I promise between clenched teeth as I pick up the only woman who has ever mattered to me.
I wasn't sure what I expected when I exposed myself to her, but not her fainting. Not the fear I saw reflected in her eyes.
"You've got it, boss," Gray promises, as stoic as ever. I wonder if my men suspect that I have feelings for Sophia. Hell, at this point, it would be hard to keep it even from Yosh. After the shitstorm in Caracas, I owe them all an explanation.Later, I tell myself. Now it's only about her. Sophia.
Several SUVs are parked outside. I left the bike at the computer shop, making Yosh work overtime, not that I give a shit about that. I didn't expect Sophia to be in suchbad shape, but at least I had the forethought to realize that taking her home on the Ducati probably wouldn't be a wise move. Not yet.
I cradle her in my arms, and she feels like she's always belonged there. I give the driver the address in the Catskills. Nobody has been there before, besides Igor. But I have a feeling that the time of living as a king in the shadows is over. It's time I take my rightful place in La Famiglia.
Once we're inside the SUV, Sophia still cradled in my arms, one of my men slams the door shut behind us, and the engine hums to life. We pull away fast, the tires chew up the road, and the estate shrinks in the rearview. But I don’t look back.
I can’t.
Because all I can do is stare at the unconscious woman in my arms. At the bruises. All over her face. Her throat. Her arms and wrists. The low flickering cabin light does nothing to hide them. If anything, it makes them appear more sinister.
