He doesn't take the hint. Instead, he laughs, a wet, sloppy sound, and steps closer into my personal space. "Selective? Or just waiting for someone who knows how to handle a woman with your... history? I heard you like it when the world gets a little chaotic."
Before I can retort, I feel it. His hand, heavy and damp, sliding from the small of my back down to the curve of my hip, his fingers digging into my dress as he tries to pull me flush against him.
The world snaps.
Suddenly, I’m not in a neon-lit club. I’m back in the library with Cosimo. The air feels thin. The walls are closing in. My heart isn't beating; it’s a frantic, jagged thing trying to tear its way out of my throat. I freeze, my breath hitching, the phantom weight of a dead man’s hand suddenly feeling very, very real.
"Take your hand off her."
The voice is low, a vibrating rumble of pure, unadulterated lethal intent.
I blink, and the neon returns. Rafael is there. He isn't making a scene. He’s just standing two feet away, his green eyes turned into flat, dark voids of obsidian. The air around him seems to vibrate with a pressure that makes the music in the room feel like a distant whisper.
"Caruso," the man stammers, his hand dropping as if my dress has suddenly turned into white-hot iron. "I was just... we were just talking."
"You weren't talking. You were touching what belongs to me." Rafael steps forward, his movement so economical it’s terrifying. He grabs the man by the lapels of his suit, his good hand tightening until the man’s face begins to turn a mottled shade of purple. "And I don't like other men touching my things. Especially when she looks like she’s seen a ghost."
"Rafael, don't," I whisper, my voice trembling.
He doesn't listen. He drives the man back against a marble pillar, the sound of the impact echoing over the bass. A short, sharp punch to the gut follows, a measured, clinical strike that leaves the man gasping on the floor. It isn't a brawl; it’s an execution of dignity.
Security is there in seconds—Luca and two of Dante’s men. They don't ask questions. They just scoop the man up and vanish into the shadows of the corridor.
Rafael doesn't look at them. He doesn't look at the crowd that has gone silent. He turns to me, his focus narrowing until I’m the only thing in his universe. His face is a mask of cold, terrifying authority, the 'Butcher' in full view, but when his eyes land on mine, the ice cracks.
"Gia," he says, his hand coming up to cup my face. His palm is hot, his thumb grazing my cheek. "Are you hurt? Did he hurt you?"
"No," I rasp, my breath finally returning in a jagged rush. "No, I’m fine. I just... I wasn't expecting it."
"You're shaking," he mutters, his eyes scanning every inch of me, looking for marks, for bruises, for any sign of distress. He ignores the throbbing of his own wounded shoulder, ignores the fact that he just risked a public diplomatic incident for a grope. "Luca! Get the car. Now."
The drive back to the estate is silent.
The tension in the SUV is a physical thing, thick and suffocating. Rafael is sitting next to me, his jaw tight, his right hand locked onto mine so hard I can feel the rhythm of his pulse through my skin. He doesn't look at the window. He just stares ahead, his mind clearly working through the violence of the evening.
"You didn't have to do that," I say quietly, the sass I usually use as a shield feeling too heavy to lift. "It was just a drunk idiot."
"It wasn't just a drunk idiot," Rafael snaps, his voice raw. "He touched you. He made you go somewhere else in your head, Gia. I saw your eyes. You weren't in that club anymore."
I look down at our joined hands. "I haven't... I haven't felt safe like that in a long time. Since before Cosimo."
He pulls the car into the driveway of the estate, the gravel crunching under the tires like breaking bone. He doesn't wait for the driver to open the door. He’s out and around, pulling me from the seat and leading me into the house. The guards melt away as we pass, sensing the storm brewing in the Master’s wake.
We reach the bedroom, the heavy door clicking shut behind us. The room is dim, lit only by the moon and the faint glow of the garden lights. Rafael turns to me, his hands finding my waist, pulling me flush against him.
"I need to know you're here," he murmurs, his forehead resting against mine. "I need to know he didn't take anything from you."
"He didn't," I say, my hands finding the lapels of his jacket, clinging to him like he’s the only solid thing in a world made of smoke. "You’re the first person... the only person, Rafael... who has ever made me feel like I wasn't just a prize to be defended. You made me feel safe. Truly safe."
He freezes.
The silence in the room stretches, thick and heavy with the things we haven't said. I can feel his heart thudding against my chest—slow, powerful, and utterly terrifying. He pulls back just enough to look me in the eye, his green gaze searching mine for the lie.
"I love you, Gia."
The words land like a grenade. I freeze, my breath stopping in my lungs. My mind frantically tries to find a sassy comeback, a stubborn refusal, a way to laugh it off. But the look in his eyes... it’s unguarded.
"Rafael..."
