It’s counting down to a war. And I’m ready to fight it by my husband’s side.
CHAPTER 36
RAFAEL
I’m back in the warehouse yard, and the air is thick with the smell of ozone and burning rubber. The rifle cracks—that sharp, whip-like snap I hear in my sleep—but this time, when I throw myself over Gia, she isn't warm. She’s made of ice. I look down, and she isn't crying. She’s smiling, holding a burner phone that’s counting down the seconds until my heart stops. I try to scream her name, but my throat is filled with cold, wet Sicilian soil.
I jerk awake, my lungs burning as I suck in a ragged breath.
The room is silent, bathed in that deceptive, pre-dawn blue that makes everything look softer than it is. My shoulder is throbbing Beside me, the sheets are cold.
I shift my head, and there she is. Gia is sitting at the edge of the bed, her back to me. Her silhouette is a sharp, jagged line against the window, her shoulders hunched like she’s carrying the weight of the entire godcommanded estate.
Fucking dreams. Fucking De Lucas.
I stay still for a second, watching the way her dark hair spills over her porcelain skin. Her scent is still heavy in the air, a ghost of the sex we had hours ago—the way she arched into me, the way she whispered that she loved me. It was the first time I felt like I could actually breathe in ten years.
Now, the air feels like glass.
"Don't speak," she says. Her voice is low, steady, but it has a tremor underneath that makes my gut coil. She doesn't turn around. "Please, Rafael. Just... let me finish. If you speak, I won't be able to say it."
I sit up slowly. My shoulder screams, but it’s nothing compared to the cold rot starting to spread in my chest. I lean back against the headboard, my eyes locked on the curve of her spine. I want to reach out and touch her, to pull her back into the heat of the bed, but the 'Butcher' in me is already standing at attention, whispering that the world is about to end.
"Say it," I mutter. My voice is a rough, dark rasp.
She takes a breath—a long, shaky draw of air—and then she starts the autopsy.
"My father didn't just send me here to be your wife," she begins, her voice gaining a clinical, detached edge that cuts deeper than any blade. "He sent me to be a parasite. I received orders at our wedding reception. I had a burner device hidden in my jewelry case before the ink on our marriage certificate was even dry."
The words hit me like a physical blow. I stay perfectly still, my jaw tightening until I think my teeth might actually shatter. Every touch, every look, every time she let me think I was her sanctuary... it was a play. A goddamn script written by Salvatore.
"The leaks," she continues, still staring at the wall. "The northern transport. The warehouse. I was the one who provided the timing. I was the one who gave him the gap in the security rotations. I used your trust like a map, Rafael. That time you let me into your study, every file you showed me, I was memorized everything I could to send to him."
Shit.My mind flashes back to the yard. The sniper. The way the rifle shifted toward her chest. I threw myself in front of a bullet for the person who had invited the shooter to the party. I took a piece of metal in the shoulder for a woman who was actively digging my grave.
The betrayal is a hot, searing iron in my gut. I want to roar. I want to smash the furniture. But more than anything, I want to know if the woman who moaned my name four hours ago was just another lie.
"He’s working with the O'Rourkes," she says, her voice finally wavering. "My father wants the seat. He wants you dead, and he’s using the Irish to do it. He sent me videos of Laura, Rafael. He has her in a compound. He has a tracker on her. He told me that if I didn't give him the summit intel, he would... he would kill her."
She finally turns her head, looking at me over her shoulder. Her eyes are dry, her face a mask of 'Ghost Heiress' stone, but I can see the fracture in her soul.
"I couldn't do it," she whispers. "But last night, he met me at the club and he threatened me with her life again. So I sent him the intel when you were sleeping. But I changed it. I swapped the room numbers. I shifted the guard rotations. I gave him falseentry. If the O'Rourkes move, they’ll be walking into a cage, not a summit."
She stands up, moving away from the bed as if my touch could burn her. She looks small, fragile, but the weight of what she’s done makes her look like a giant.
"You are free to punish me, Rafael. You can send me back to him, or you can put me in the basement. I don't care. Just... save Laura first. Once she’s safe, do whatever the hell you want with me. But I need you to know... I love you truly. That was the only thing that wasn't a lie."
The silence that follows is deafening. It’s the sound of my life being dismantled. I look at the woman I worshipped, the woman I handed my heart to, and all I see is the blood of the men I’ve already lost because of her. The pain is a dull, throbbing ache behind my ribs, a reminder that I was stupid enough to think I could have a second chance.
I don't say a word. I can't. If I open my mouth, I’ll either kill her or beg her to tell me it’s a dream, and Rafael Caruso doesn't fucking beg.
I sit upright, the motion slow and deliberate. I reach for the nightstand, my fingers finding the gold band on my left hand. I slide it off. The skin underneath feels raw, exposed. I set the ring on the marble top with a softclinkthat sounds like a goddamn gavel hitting a desk.
I get out of bed, my body cold. I don't look at her. I don't touch her. I walk to the chair near the dressing room—the room I was building forher—and I dress in silence. I put on my suit, holster my weapon, and lace my shoes. Each movement is mechanical,rooted in the 'Butcher' protocols that have always been my default.
I walk across the room and head for the door. I can feel her eyes on me, heavy and desperate, but I don't turn back.
"Rafael," she breathes, her voice a broken thing.
