9. Kit
CHAPTER 9
KIT
Lady Ashworth's confidential files lie spread across my bed in Raphael's estate, each document a piece of the puzzle I've been assembling for weeks. The papers detail shell companies, offshore accounts, strategic weaknesses in Raphael's territory—all the intelligence she gathered through my unwitting betrayal. My hands shake as I sort through them, memories of those private dances rising like bile in my throat.
I was such a fool, desperate and naive, letting her manipulate me with promises of supporting my dance career. Now I understand exactly what she was doing—using me to help Dominik infiltrate Raphael's organization. The guilt eats at me, not just for the betrayal, but for how close I came to destroying everything Raphael's built.
Raphael claims he's forgiven me, says he understands I was just trying to survive. But I see the shadow in his eyes when he looks at me sometimes, the slight hesitation before he touches me. He keeps me close now, protected in this gilded cage, but is it because he wants me or because he doesn't trust me loose in the world?
I need to prove myself. Need to show him I'm more than just a liability to be contained, more than just a pretty distraction in his bed. The intelligence I've gathered suggests Lady Ashworth keeps her most damning evidence in her private office safe. One clean extraction, and I can hand Raphael everything he needs to crush his enemies.
The plan crystallizes as I change into dark clothes, my dancer's grace an advantage for tonight's performance. I've memorized the security patterns, studied the blueprints, identified the perfect window of opportunity. I'm more than just a captive now—I understand how this world works, how to move through shadows and secrets.
"Going somewhere?"
Marcus's voice freezes me at the service entrance. Raphael's most trusted lieutenant studies me with knowing eyes.
"Just getting some air," I lie smoothly. "The walls feel close tonight."
He doesn't believe me—we both know it—but he steps aside. "Be careful, Kit. The boss won't survive losing you."
Marcus's words follow me into the night, settling like a weight in my chest. The city stretches below Raphael's estate, a glittering map of possibility. My fingers brush the keycard I lifted from one of the cleaning staff at Lady Ashworth's building—not stolen, just borrowed. I've learned enough from watching Raphael's operation to know the importance of having a backup plan.
The night air carries the promise of rain, and I pull my dark jacket tighter. Every shadow feels alive with potential threat, but my dancer's training keeps my movements fluid, controlled. I've spent weeks studying the building's security patterns, memorizing guard rotations. Knowledge is power—another lesson learned at Raphael's feet, though probably not how he intended me to use it.
Lady Ashworth's private office occupies the top floor's northwest corner. The cleaning staff's entrance route gives me access to the service elevator, then it's just two hallways and a lock to pick. My hands stay steady as I work the mechanism—yet another skill gleaned from late-night observation of Raphael's security team.
The office still carries traces of her signature perfume, roses and spite. The safe beckons from behind a Monet that's probably worth more than my entire dance career. My pulse quickens as I spin the dial, remembering the numbers I saw her use during one private session. Her late husband's birthday—a sentimental weakness I never expected from someone so coldly calculating.
The mechanism clicks. Inside, manila folders lie stacked with military precision. My breath catches as I scan the labels—shipping manifests, security protocols, personnel files. My fingers tremble as I pull out a thick folder marked "Project Eclipse." The first page makes my blood run cold.
"Jesus," I whisper, scanning detailed plans for infiltrating Raphael's organization. Names of planted agents, scheduled attacks, contingency plans that would tear his empire apart. My stomach lurches as I recognize events I helped make possible, information I unknowingly fed her during those private dances.
A floorboard creaks.
I freeze, muscles locking into performance stillness. Heavy footsteps approach, accompanied by the metallic sound of weapons being readied.
"Check everywhere," a gruff voice orders. "Lady A says someone's been accessing her files."
"Copy that. Start with the office."
I slide the damning folder into my jacket, every movement measured like a pas de deux. The massive desk offers minimal cover, but the thick curtains flanking the window might buy precious seconds. I ease behind them just as the door opens.
Flashlight beams sweep the room. "Place looks clean. No signs of forced entry."
"Keep looking. Something tipped off her security system."
The voices move closer. I press against the wall, barely breathing. Just like performance anxiety before a show—control the breath, control the body. One wrong move and-
"Hold up." Footsteps pause inches from my hiding place. "You smell that?"
My heart stutters. Raphael's cologne—the custom French blend he insists I wear, marking me as his. Even here, his possession of me becomes my undoing.
The curtain rips back. Two men in tactical gear stare at me, expressions shifting from surprise to recognition. The larger one's scarred face splits in a predatory grin.
"Well, well. If it isn't Kova?'s pretty little plaything."
Training takes over. I drop and roll as the first grab misses, years of dance conditioning lending impossible grace to the movement. My shoulder clips the smaller guard's knee as I surge upward, using his stumble as momentum to launch myself over the desk.
"Stop him!"
The hallway becomes a blur of motion. I run full-out, every muscle singing with controlled power. A bullet whines past my ear, plaster dust exploding from the wall. No time for fear. Focus on form, on movement, on survival.
I hit the stairwell at speed, taking the steps three at a time. My phone vibrates—Raphael's ringtone. He must know I'm gone, must have realized what I'm attempting. The thought of his disappointment makes my chest ache, but I silence the call. I'll explain everything once I have proof, once I can show him I'm more than just a beautiful distraction.
The parking garage looms ahead, shadows offering temporary sanctuary. I weave between luxury vehicles, counting exits, calculating odds. Three more rows to the service entrance, then-
White-hot pain explodes through my shoulder. I stumble, catching myself against a sleek Mercedes. Warm wetness seeps through my shirt—just a graze, but the shock steals precious seconds. Footsteps converge from multiple directions.
"End of the line, dancer." The scarred guard's voice carries genuine regret. "Nothing personal, but orders are orders."
I straighten, pressing my back against cold metal. "Lady Ashworth's orders? Or Dominik's?"
His slight flinch confirms everything. I glance around, counting shadows. Six armed men, all with clear shots. The folder weighs heavy against my chest, its secrets burning like brands.
"Just give us the documents," he offers. "We'll make it quick."
A familiar engine snarls in the distance—the distinctive roar of Raphael's Aston Martin. Hope flares, then dies. He's too far. Too late. I meet the guard's eyes, lifting my chin. "You'll have to kill me first."
He sighs, weapon rising. "Have it your way, beautiful."
I close my eyes, thinking of Raphael—his touch, his voice, the way he makes me feel simultaneously trapped and free. At least I tried to prove myself worthy of more than just his desire.
The first shot cracks like thunder, but not from the guard's gun. He crumples, crimson blooming across his chest. The garage erupts into chaos—muzzle flashes, shouts of pain, the deafening orchestra of professional violence. I curl into a protective ball, my wounded shoulder screaming protest.
Silence falls like a curtain. Italian leather shoes appear in my limited vision. I look up into Raphael's face, expecting fury. Instead, I see something far worse—disappointment layered over bone-deep fear.
"Sir," one of his men approaches. "Area's secure. Five dead, one wounded for questioning."
Raphael doesn't look away from me. "Get him to medical. Then we'll discuss his punishment for disobeying direct orders."
The doctor is gentle but efficient, cleaning and bandaging the graze while avoiding my eyes. Everyone in the household can feel the storm building. By the time I enter Raphael's study, my shoulder aches less than my heart.
He stands at the window, backlit by city lights, power radiating from his rigid shoulders. "Explain."
"I had to prove myself." The words sound weak even to me. "Had to show you I could be more than just?—"
"More than what?" He turns, eyes blazing. "More than the man I trust enough to share my home? More than the partner I've been grooming to help run my organization? More than someone I lo—" He cuts himself off, jaw tight.
The unfinished word hangs between us, making it hard to breathe. "You keep me locked away," I whisper. "Protected. Controlled. How am I supposed to believe I'm anything but a possession?"
"I keep you safe because the thought of losing you terrifies me." His voice cracks slightly. "But I can't protect someone who's determined to get himself killed."
"I'm not trying to?—"
"No?" He stalks closer, radiating dangerous energy. "Running off alone, infiltrating an enemy's stronghold, risking everything we've built? What would you call it?"
"I call it fighting for us!" The words explode from me. "Proving I'm strong enough to stand beside you, not just warm your bed!"
His expression hardens into something terrible. "If that's all you think this is, then clearly I've failed completely." He turns away, shoulders rigid. "Go. Your old apartment is still available. There's enough money in your account to restart your life."
"Raphael—"
"Leave!" The word cracks like a whip. "Since freedom is so important to you, take it. The door was never locked."
My legs carry me to the door automatically, ballet training taking over when emotion threatens to overwhelm me. I pause at the threshold, looking back at his unyielding form. "I never wanted freedom from you," I whisper. "I just wanted to be worthy of you."
He doesn't answer. Doesn't turn. The click of the door closing behind me echoes with finality.
The drive to my old apartment passes in a blur. Everything I own at Raphael's estate can stay there—I can't bear to pack up the pieces of the life we were building. The familiar squeals of my building's elevator sound alien after months of luxury, but it's the silence of my dusty apartment that finally breaks me.
I slide down the wall, wrapping my arms around my knees as the tears come. All my attempts to prove myself worthy have only proven how much I don't deserve him. The bed where I used to dream of escape now feels empty without his warmth. The mirrors where I used to practice now reflect only my own broken expression.
My phone buzzes—Marcus, probably checking I made it home safely. I silence it without looking. The brotherhood I thought I was earning through tonight's mission dissolves like smoke. I'm just a dancer again, a nobody with nothing but a new set of scars to show for my ambition.
The night deepens outside my windows, the city's lights blurring through my tears. Somewhere out there, Raphael is probably already erasing the traces of my presence from his life. The thought sends fresh pain through my chest. I curl tighter, pressing my face against my knees.
I finally had everything I never knew I wanted—not just safety and luxury, but purpose, belonging, love. And I threw it all away trying to prove I deserved it.
Dawn finds me still on the floor, empty of tears but heavy with regret. My shoulder throbs, a physical reminder of my reckless crusade. Outside, the city wakes to another ordinary day, unaware that my whole world has shattered.
Time to be practical. I'll need to contact the ballet company, see if my old spot in the corps is still open. Need to figure out how to survive on a dancer's salary again after months of comfort. Need to learn how to breathe around the Raphael-shaped hole in my chest.
But first, I need to sleep. My old bed feels wrong—too small, too cold, too empty. I curl around a pillow, pretending it's warm and solid like Raphael's chest. In the growing light, I whisper the words I never dared say to him:
"I love you. I'm sorry. Please don't let me go."
Only silence answers.