Chapter 15
Rafe
Ichecked my watch for the tenth time in as many minutes as I paced the penthouse. Four hours. Cecelia had been gone for four fucking hours, and her phone had gone straight to voicemail the last eight times I'd called. Something was wrong. I could feel it in the hollow pit of my stomach.
This city swallowed people whole every day. Pretty girls disappeared without a trace. And I'd let her walk out that door alone, angry and hurt because I was too much of a coward to face the ghost that had followed me for twenty-two years.
“Where the fuck are you, Cecelia?” I muttered, staring out at the Manhattan skyline as if it might answer me.
The city lights blurred together, a constellation of artificial stars that usually calmed me.
Not tonight. Not when she was out there somewhere, possibly in danger. Possibly with someone else.
That thought sent a fresh spike of something acidic through my chest. I'd pushed her away. Practically shoved her into the arms of whatever man might be waiting to catch her.
I'd fucked up. Again. Gabriel's name had sent me spiraling back to that place of ice and isolation, and I'd locked Cecelia out. When she’d walked into my office and offered an ear, offered understanding... I'd shut her down.
Now I'd give anything to rewind time. To pull her to me instead of pushing her away. To tell her the truth about Gabriel, about the accident, about the weight I'd carried since I was seventeen. To explain why my parents' words cut so deep.
But I hadn't.
And now she was gone, her phone dead or turned off, while New York's predators circled like sharks scenting blood in the water.
I pulled out my own phone again, thumb hovering over Cecelia's name.
What would one more call accomplish? If she was ignoring me, she'd continue to ignore me.
If her phone was dead, it would still be dead.
If someone had taken her phone… No. Nausea rose in my throat and I quickly cut that thought off before it could fully form.
I scrolled past her name to Tristan's.
The phone rang three times before he answered with a sleep-heavy groan. “It's past midnight, Rafe. What the hell?”
“Cecelia's gone.” The words scraped my throat raw. “She left four hours ago after a fight, and her phone's off. I need help.”
A rustling sound came through the line and I could picture Tristan sitting up in the bed he shared with Kate.
“Define gone,” he said carefully.
“She went out with Izzy.” I resumed pacing, running my fingers through my hair for the hundredth time. “We had a fight about... about Gabriel.”
The name still stuck in my throat, a jagged stone I had to force past my lips.
Tristan went silent for a moment. He knew about Gabriel, about what had happened. He and Liam were among the few who did. “When was the last time you heard from her?”
“When she left.” I glanced at my watch again. Fours fucking hours. “Her phone's been off for the last hour at least.”
“Did you try Izzy?”
“Don't have her number.” I pinched the bridge of my nose, my frustration mounting. “Look, I wouldn't have called if—”
“I know.” Tristan cut me off, his voice gentler now. More rustling, then the distinct sound of a zipper. He was getting dressed. “I'll ask Kate to call Izzy and I'll call Mac. If anyone can find her quickly, it's him.”
Detective Mackenyu Tanaka wasn't someone you called for everyday problems. He was the kind of man you turned to when the normal channels wouldn't cut it.
I'd met him through Tristan during the nightmare with Kate's ward being kidnapped, and the man had left an impression.
Dangerous didn't begin to cover it. Mac operated in the gray areas where law and justice didn't always align, and he got results when others couldn't.
Relief washed through me, momentarily dulling the edge of my fear. “Thank you.”
“Don't thank me yet. Just try not to do anything stupid until I call you back.”
The line went dead, and I was alone again with my thoughts and the echo of my footsteps against marble.
The minutes stretched like taffy, each second an eternity as I alternated between checking my phone and staring at the door as if I could will her to walk through it. When my phone finally rang again, I lunged for it with embarrassing desperation.
“We found her,” Tristan said without preamble. “She's still at The Mirage. Mac's there now.”
I closed my eyes, relief making my knees weak. “Is she okay?”
“She's...” Tristan hesitated, and that single pause sent ice through my veins. “She's had a lot to drink, according to Mac's contact.”
I was already moving toward the door, grabbing my keys and jacket from the entry table. “I'm going to get her.”
“Mac's already there. He can bring her home—”
“I'm going.”
Another sigh from Tristan. “Fine. But don't do anything stupid. The last thing we need is you getting arrested for assault.”
I hung up as the elevator doors closed, my reflection in the polished metal a stranger to me—hair wild from running my hands through it, eyes dark with worry. I looked exactly like what I was: a man on the edge.
The garage was eerily quiet at this hour, my footsteps echoing as I strode to my car.
The engine roared to life, the sound reverberating off concrete walls as I peeled out of the parking space with enough force to leave rubber on the floor.
The night security guard barely had time to raise the gate before I was through it.
I drove like a man possessed, weaving between taxis and late-night delivery trucks with reckless precision. My knuckles whitened on the steering wheel as I ran a yellow light, then another. Each minute that separated me from Cecelia felt like an hour.
Mirage sat in the Meatpacking District, its entrance marked by a line of people still waiting to get in despite the late hour.
I parked illegally, not giving a single fuck about the ticket I'd inevitably receive.
Mac waited by the entrance, his tall figure instantly recognizable even from a distance.
He watched my approach with the careful neutrality that made him such a good detective. No judgment, no surprise, just calm assessment as I stalked toward him.
“De Luca.” He nodded once “Your wife's inside.”
“Is she okay?” I demanded, already moving toward the door.
Mac's hand on my arm stopped me. His grip was firm but not hostile. “She's drunk. Very drunk. But physically fine.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “Calm down before you go in there. The last thing she needs is you causing a scene.”
I inhaled deeply, forcing air into lungs that felt too tight. “I'm calm.”
“No, you're not. But you're going to pretend to be.” He released my arm.
“Isabella Rivera is with her. According to my contact, they've been approached by multiple men throughout the night. Currently, Isabella is talking with one guy by the bar. Your wife was there too but she’s since moved to the dance floor.
There's a man who's been dancing with her for the last ten minutes.”
My jaw clenched so hard I heard my teeth grind. “And you're just standing out here?”
“I was waiting for you.” Mac's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes hardened. “But if you'd been five minutes later, I would have gone in and handled it myself.”
The implication was clear—he wouldn't have let anything happen to her. That knowledge should have soothed me. It didn't.
“Let's go.” I pushed past him toward the entrance, where the bouncer took one look at Mac's badge and stepped aside.
Inside, base pounded and vibrated up through the soles of my shoes, strobe lights fractured the darkness into disorienting flashes as bodies pressed together in a writhing mass on the dance floor.
Mac moved through the crowd with practiced ease, and I followed in his wake, my eyes scanning for Cecelia.
We passed the bar where Izzy stood talking to a tall man in a designer shirt, she had her hand on his arm as she laughed at something he said.
The moment she caught sight of us, her eyes widened before narrowing with what looked like irritation.
Before she could approach, Mac pointed toward the dance floor. “There.”
I followed his gesture and my heart stopped, then restarted with painful force.
Cecelia moved to the music with the fluid grace of the dancer she was. Her hair clung to her neck in damp tendrils, her skin glistening under the pulsing lights.
And there was a man behind her. Tall, well-dressed, his hands hovering near her waist as he tried to close the distance between them.
Even from here, I could see her shaking her head and attempt to move away only to bump into another couple.
The asshole took the opportunity to step closer, and his hands finally made contact with her body.
Something snapped inside me—an audible crack like ice breaking under too much pressure. I moved before I registered the decision to do so, shoving through the crowd with single-minded focus.
I reached them in seconds, grabbing the man's shoulder and yanking him backward with enough force that he stumbled. He almost fell before catching himself on a nearby table. My fist was already cocked back, ready to connect with his jaw, when a strong hand closed around my wrist.
“I'll handle this,” Mac said, his voice cutting through the music with quiet authority. He stepped between me and the man, his badge already out. “Walk away,” he told the stranger, who needed no further encouragement.
I turned to Cecelia. She swayed slightly as recognition dawned and her lips parted in surprise.
“Rafe?” She blinked up at me, her pupils huge. “What are you doing here?”
“Taking you home.” I reached for her arm to steady her. “How much have you had to drink?”
She giggled—an actual giggle, so unlike her usual sharp wit that it would have been charming under different circumstances. “I lost count after the fifth shot.” She swayed again, and I instinctively moved closer to catch her if she fell. “Or was it the sixth? Izzy would know.”