The Don’s Possession

10. Raphael

CHAPTER 10

RAPHAEL

The security footage plays on endless loop in my private office, each frame a fresh torment. Kit moves through his old apartment with dancer's grace, though exhaustion clearly weighs on him. The bandage on his shoulder stands out stark against his skin—a reminder of how close I came to losing him completely. Three days since I sent him away, and the hollow ache in my chest only deepens.

"Sir." Marcus appears in the doorway, his expression carefully neutral. "The Colombians are waiting in the conference room."

I wave him silent, eyes fixed on the screen. Kit settles onto his narrow bed, curling around a pillow like he's trying to hold himself together. Even through grainy surveillance footage, his pain is evident. My fingers itch to touch him, to gather him close and never let go.

"The meeting, sir," Marcus prompts. "They're getting restless."

"Let them wait." My voice carries an edge that makes him stiffen. "What's the latest on Dominik's movements?"

"Increased activity at the docks. Our sources say he's planning something big, but details are scarce." He hesitates. "Lady Ashworth has been seen at his compound twice this week."

The crystal tumbler shatters in my grip. Blood and scotch drip onto imported wood, but I barely notice the sting. On screen, Kit paces his apartment like a caged tiger, that restless energy I first noticed at Obsidian now turned inward.

"Sir," Marcus ventures carefully, "perhaps if you spoke to him?—"

"Enough." I stand, adjusting my cuffs with mechanical precision. "The Colombians. What exactly do they want?"

The meeting drags endlessly, their demands for increased territory falling on deaf ears. My mind keeps drifting to Kit—his fierce defiance the night I sent him away, the broken look in his eyes when he realized I meant it. The memory of his warmth in my bed haunts me, making the emptiness of my estate unbearable.

"Problems with the boy?" Vicente, the Colombian lieutenant, studies me with shrewd eyes. "We heard rumors about your little dancer's... adventure."

My hand tightens on the arm of my chair. "My personal affairs are not your concern."

"They are when they affect business." He leans forward, age-wizened face creasing. "You're distracted, Kova?. And distraction gets men killed in our world."

Before I can respond, the door bursts open. Kit stands there, breathing hard, his dancer's outfit incongruous in my world of suits and weapons. Blood stains his shoulder—the wound reopened by whatever mad chase brought him here.

"Raphael." His voice carries desperate urgency. "Dominik's moving tonight. The shipyard. They know about the weapons cache."

My men react instantly, weapons drawn. But Kit doesn't flinch, his eyes locked on mine. "I overheard Lady Ashworth on the phone. They're hitting all your major holdings simultaneously. The ballet company's annual gala is just cover for getting their people in position."

"How did you?—"

"Because I was supposed to help them." The words tumble out in a rush. "Lady Ashworth approached me again, tried to recruit me. Said she'd make me principal dancer if I helped them access the gala's security. I played along to learn their plans."

Pride and fury war in my chest. "You risked yourself again? After everything?—"

"Yes!" He steps closer, ignoring the guns still trained on him. "Because I love you, you stubborn bastard. Because I'd rather die than let them hurt you."

The confession hangs in the air like smoke after gunfire. Vicente chuckles softly. "Perhaps not so distracted after all, eh Kova??"

My mind races, analyzing angles, calculating responses. "The gala. When?"

"Two hours." Kit's expression turns fierce. "But I have a plan. The entire ballet company will be there—dancers who owe me favors, stage crew I've worked with for years. We can use them to outmaneuver Dominik's people."

"It's too dangerous." The words come automatically, that deep-seated need to protect him rising like a tide.

His chin lifts in that familiar defiant tilt. "I'm not asking permission. I'm offering you an army they'll never see coming. Your call if you want to use it."

I study him—the determination in his stance, the tactical brilliance of his suggestion. This is not the reckless boy who tried to prove himself in Lady Ashworth's office. This is a strategist, a partner worthy of standing beside me.

"Vicente." I turn to the Colombian, who watches us with open fascination. "I trust you'll find tonight's entertainment worth staying for?"

He grins, revealing gold teeth. "Wouldn't miss it, my friend. A night at the ballet? How civilized."

The next two hours transform the theater into a war room. Kit moves between dancers and stagehands with fluid grace, his quiet authority a revelation. These people trust him, would follow him into hell itself. I watch from the shadows as he positions them with tactical precision I never taught him.

"Maria, you'll have the best view from stage left," he tells a willowy dancer. "If you spot Dominik's men moving through the wings, drop your prop fan. That's Marcus's signal to move."

She nods, eyes sharp despite her delicate appearance. "What about the second act transition? That's when we're most exposed."

"That's why Thomas and his crew will be in the fly space above." Kit gestures to the catwalks where my men are already taking position. "Any hostile movement, they have clean shots."

My breath catches as I watch him work.

"Impressed?" Vicente materializes beside me, his weathered face thoughtful. "Your boy has hidden depths."

"He's not my boy anymore." The words taste bitter. "He's his own man."

Vicente's knowing smile makes me want to shoot him. "Perhaps that's why he's perfect for you."

Before I can respond, Kit approaches. The practice clothes he wore earlier have been replaced by his costume—all clean lines and subtle power. Our eyes meet, and electricity crackles between us.

"Dominik's people will be in the audience by now," he says, all business despite the heat in his gaze. "First three rows, scattered through the boxes. Lady Ashworth's in her usual seat."

I reach out without thinking, straightening his collar. He shivers at the contact but doesn't pull away. "Are you sure about this?"

His chin lifts. "I was born for this stage. Let me use it to protect what matters."

The house lights dim. Kit squeezes my hand once, then takes his place in the wings. I position myself in the shadows, gun a comfortable weight against my ribs. The music swells, and the performance begins.

Kit moves like living art, every gesture precise and deadly in its beauty. I know he's scanning the audience, coordinating with our people, but he never breaks character. When the first shot comes—silenced but still audible to trained ears—he doesn't even miss a step.

"Now," I breathe into my comm unit. The response is immediate and devastating.

Thomas and his men drop from the fly space, taking out Dominik's snipers with surgical precision. Maria's fan hits the stage, and Marcus's team surges forward from the shadows. The audience gasps, thinking it's part of the show as dancers and criminals clash in lethal choreography.

Kit spins through the chaos like mercury, his ballet training transformed into something darkly beautiful. A kick that should be a grand battement becomes a neck-snapping strike. His turns carry him through the guards' blind spots, letting him disarm them with terrifying grace.

"Raphael!" His voice cuts through the mayhem. "Lady Ashworth—stage left!"

I spot her trying to slip away through the emergency exit. But Kit is already moving, his body describing an impossible arc through the air. The grand jeté carries him over the fighting, and he lands directly in her path. The look of shock on her face is almost comical as he takes her down with a dancer's precise brutality.

"You ungrateful little—" Her words cut off as Kit pins her, all that careful training now turned against his former patron.

"I learned from the best," he tells her, voice cold. Then he looks up at me, eyes burning. "She's all yours, love."

The endearment, so casual in the midst of violence, steals my breath. I move forward to secure Lady Ashworth, but my eyes never leave Kit. He's disheveled, bleeding slightly from a split lip, and absolutely magnificent.

Vicente's slow applause breaks the moment. "Bravo," he calls from his box. "Best performance I've seen in years." His smile shows gold teeth. "Worth every penny of our new arrangement, wouldn't you say, Kova??"

I incline my head, acknowledging the debt while my men secure the scene. The audience files out, convinced they've witnessed some avant-garde artistic statement. Only the bodies being quietly removed tell the true story.

Kit approaches slowly, his dancer's grace undiminished by violence. Blood and sweat make his costume cling in ways that test my control. "Well?" he asks, voice rough. "Did I prove myself useful?"

Instead of answering, I pull him close, claiming his mouth in a kiss that carries all the fear and pride and need of the past hours. He melts against me, hands fisting in my jacket, and for a moment nothing else matters.

"You're extraordinary," I breathe against his lips. "And if you ever risk yourself like that again?—"

"You'll punish me properly?" His smile is sharp with promise.

"Later." I squeeze his nape in warning. "First we deal with our guests."

Lady Ashworth kneels before us in the empty theater, her elegant gala dress stained with blood from a split lip. Kit stands at my shoulder, his presence a tangible heat. The violence has left him almost glowing, fierce energy radiating from every line of his body.

"I should have broken you when I had the chance," she spits at Kit. "You were nothing but a desperate little dancer. I made you."

"No." My voice carries deadly quiet. "You tried to use him. But he was never yours to break." My hand finds Kit's lower back, a possessive touch that makes him shiver. "Tell us about Dominik's other operations."

She lifts her chin. "Go to hell."

"After you." I nod to Marcus, who steps forward with a tablet. "Show her."

The surveillance photos make her face go pale—her meetings with Dominik, the money transfers, the weapons shipments. Kit's intelligence gathering proved more thorough than even I expected.

"You've lost everything," I tell her softly. "Your position in society, your connections, your leverage. The only question is whether you lose your life as well."

"Wait." Kit's hand settles on my arm. The touch burns even through my suit jacket. "Let me."

I study his face, seeing not just the dancer I captured all those months ago, but the strategist he's become. After a moment, I step back. "She's yours."

He crouches before Lady Ashworth, his movements liquid grace. "You were right about one thing," he says conversationally. "I was desperate. Hungry. Willing to do anything to survive." His smile turns sharp. "But that's exactly why you never stood a chance. You saw a pretty toy to manipulate. Raphael saw a survivor worth teaching."

"How romantic." Her sneer doesn't quite hide her fear. "And when he tires of you? When the next pretty boy catches his eye?"

"Then I'll still be the man who helped bring you down." He stands in one smooth motion. "The one who turned your own weapons against you. The dancer who outmaneuvered the queen."

"Dominik will kill you both," she hisses. "He has contingencies you haven't even?—"

"The dock operation?" Kit interrupts. "Already dismantled. The safe houses in Queens? Burned. The moles in Raphael's organization? Identified." He leans closer. "I learned more than just dance steps in those private sessions. I learned how to watch, how to listen, how to piece together the things powerful people think they're hiding."

Pride blooms hot in my chest. My fierce, brilliant boy, turning her own lessons against her. I catch Vicente watching with open admiration from his private box.

"You have a choice," I tell her. "Cooperate, give us everything, and retire quietly to a very private estate upstate. Or..." I let the threat hang.

Her shoulders slump. "I want immunity. Written guarantees."

"Done." I gesture to Marcus. "Take her to the safe house. Full security detail."

As my men lead her away, Kit's composure cracks slightly. He sways, adrenaline clearly fading. I catch him around the waist, pulling him against my chest.

"I've got you," I murmur into his hair. "You were perfect. Magnificent."

He turns in my arms, pressing his face into my neck. "Take me home," he whispers. "Please, Raphael. I need..."

"I know exactly what you need." I grip his nape, feeling him melt at the familiar touch. "But first, we have loose ends."

Vicente approaches, his weathered face creased with amusement. "The Colombian cartel would be very interested in expanding our arrangement," he says. "Particularly if your dancer is involved in future negotiations."

Kit stiffens, but I keep him close. "My partner's involvement is not up for discussion."

Vicente's eyebrows rise at the word 'partner.' His gaze travels between us, seeing too much. "Of course. Though I suspect he'll do exactly as he pleases, regardless of our discussions." He bows slightly to Kit. "You've given an old man hope for our future, boy. The next generation may surprise us yet."

After he leaves, Kit turns to me. "Partner?"

"Problem?" I keep my voice neutral, though my heart pounds.

"Say it again." His eyes burn into mine. "Please."

I cup his face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones. "My partner. My equal. My fierce, brilliant love."

His kiss tastes of blood and triumph and coming home. I let myself get lost in it for a moment before pulling back. "Now, about that punishment you've earned..."

His smile is pure sin. "Promise?"