Chapter 12 Rafe
RAFE
The gates open like they’ve been expecting me for hours.
They probably have. Leonardo’s estate looms in the distance—black steel and limestone, pristine landscaping carved with the kind of precision only blood money can buy.
It’s quiet here. Always is. Too clean. Too cold.
No scent of sweat, no blood on the walls, no music through the halls.
Just power. Controlled, curated power. The kind that doesn’t raise its voice because it never needs to.
The kind that whispers and the world burns for it.
I pull into the circular drive and kill the engine.
I sit there a second, hand still on the wheel, thumb tapping once, twice.
I hate leaving the compound. I hate leaving Julian.
Even when he’s technically surrounded by allies.
Even when Finn is probably clinging to him like a horny koala and Kai is feeding him enough tranquilizers to knock out a horse.
Doesn’t matter. The rookie’s still a fucking menace, stitched-up leg or not.
This morning, he was already halfway into his skates before Kai caught him and jabbed him with another dose.
They were still arguing when I left. Julian whining.
Kai smirking. Finn recording it like the feral little shit he is.
I didn’t smile. But I didn’t stop it either.
Because that sound—Julian’s voice, high and bratty and alive—was the only reason I left in the first place.
If he can scream at Kai, he’s not dying.
If he can pout at Finn, he’s still got fight.
So I walked out, slid into the car, and drove to this marble-lined hellhole because Leonardo summoned me.
Only me.
Ezio comes and goes whenever he wants—nobody questions him.
I’m the only other one who doesn’t need an escort, a tracker, or a fucking leash.
I earned that right. Through violence. Through years.
Through ice that ran red under my blades.
But even so, the moment I step out of the car and hear the front doors open like a breath before a command, I know this isn’t about me.
This is about Julian.
And that means blood.
The gun presses into the waistband of my jeans beneath my coat.
Always there. Always loaded. It rode with me through every game, every street job, every conversation that could turn into a bloodbath with the wrong word.
It was useful during the last game, when the rink turned into a fucking warzone.
Hell, it bought me time. Bought Julian a heartbeat. Bought us another breath.
I don’t come here without it.
The estate doors part with a hiss of hydraulics—Leonardo never could resist his little touches of theater—and I step through into marble and silence.
The place hasn’t changed. It never does.
Cold light. Black floors that shine like ice.
White walls that never hold the echo of laughter.
No family pictures. No warmth. Just the smell of old power, clean steel, and wine that costs more than any soul ever sold here.
“My dear boy!” Leonardo greets me like I’m some long-lost fucking son come home for Christmas.
I’m not his son.
Never was.
He scooped me up off the street when I was twelve—too fast for cops, too angry for school, too good on blades for anyone’s comfort.
I didn’t know who he was at first. Just that he had a clean coat, sharp shoes, and a laugh like a knife.
I was a stray dog with blood on my hands and frostbite in my lungs.
He fed me. Gave me heat. And when I tried to run years later—tried to choose hockey over murder—he didn’t stop me.
Didn’t need to.
Because fate pulled me right back anyway.
And now I wouldn’t last a week in civilian life. Not after the blood. Not after the rink turned red. Not after Julian.
“Leonardo.” My voice is flat as I step into the dining room, past the guards with blank faces and loaded rifles. No smile. No warmth. Just acknowledgment.
The table is already set—long, dark wood and high-backed chairs that make everyone feel like kings at a last supper. Crystal glasses, silver cutlery, wine poured, food untouched. A show. Always a show.
Damiano sits near the head of the table, sharp-eyed and silent. Ezio lounges with one leg hooked over the arm of his chair, dressed like a bored prince. And Viktor—ever the executioner—sits perfectly straight, knife already in hand, cutting into a piece of veal like it insulted his family.
I don’t sit until Leonardo gestures.
Then I do. Because we all follow rules. Even me.
Leonardo raises his glass before I’ve even touched mine, swirling the wine like it’s blood in a chalice, smiling like we’re celebrating a fucking wedding instead of dissecting a war. “To your rookie,” he purrs, voice silk-wrapped venom. “What a show.”
Ezio chuckles from his seat like he’s been waiting to speak.
“I haven’t seen a crowd that bloodthirsty and happy since the Bratva slit that man’s throat mid-period in ‘09.” He lifts his own glass in salute, barely hiding the delight curling at the edge of his lips.
“Your boy has a flair for the dramatic. Knife in the thigh, goal in the net? Delicious.”
I don’t toast. I don’t smile. I don’t even blink. I just lean back, let the wood of the chair dig into my spine, and wait for the part where they stop pretending this is social.
Leonardo sets his glass down with a soft clink, steepling his fingers like a priest about to deliver absolution. “You raised him well, Rafe,” he says, and that’s when I do smile—barely. The edge of a knife, nothing more.
“I didn’t raise him,” I mutter. “I taped his mouth shut. There’s a difference.”
Viktor snorts. Damiano remains silent.
But Leonardo keeps going, as if I haven’t spoken at all.
“He made us money. More than we expected. The bets were wild, unpredictable. A junkie on the ice? The odds were mouthwatering.” His eyes gleam, and I wonder how many zeroes are on the number he’s not saying out loud.
“And yet, the little fucker won anyway.”
Ezio laughs again, low and lazy. “The whole rink was hard for him after that last goal. Blood flying, gunshots echoing, and he’s grinning with a knife in his hand. I saw the Reapers from Southside asking if he was for sale before the body was cold.”
I clench my jaw.
There it is.
The real reason I’m here.
They don’t care that Julian almost bled out. That Kai had to shove a hand into the wound. That I made a fucking tourniquet out of my own laces while Julian choked on pain and still smiled at me.
No. They care about the money. The chaos. The show.
They care about how much more he might make next time.
And who else wants him now.
Leonardo leans back in his chair, fingers laced over his stomach like a king contemplating which vassal to throw the jester to.
“The Bratva’s offer came in first,” he says, almost bored.
“But the Albanians doubled it this morning. Apparently they were very impressed with the theatrics. Said it was like watching ballet with blood.” He glances at Damiano, who’s already got his phone out, scrolling through messages like this is a stock market review and not a conversation about selling off a human being.
Damiano doesn’t lift his head. “Cartel wants a meeting. They’ll come with numbers.”
My fingers curl under the table.
Julian isn’t a fucking number.
Ezio shifts forward suddenly, the smile wiped off his face for once, eyes sharp and focused.
“Idiots, the lot of you,” he snaps, planting his elbows on the table.
“You sell him, you make money once. You keep him here, on our ice, bleeding in our colors? He’ll make us a hundred times that.
Merch, syndicate betting, underground streams, loyalty wagers—hell, we already had someone offer half a million just to sponsor his fucking skates. ”
Leonardo raises an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
“It is,” Ezio says, and for once, I don’t want to put my fist through his face.
“He’s not just good. He’s spectacle. He bled for this team in his first fucking game.
He scored with a knife in his leg. You sell that, you’re selling our brand with it.
You make him ours, and every syndicate in the western hemisphere will have to pay us to see him skate. ”
I don’t move. Don’t speak. But for once, I agree with Leonardo’s son. And that makes me feel sick.
Leonardo sips his wine again, thoughtful. “It’s tempting,” he murmurs. “To keep him close. To make him bleed for us again and again. Especially if people are watching.” He sets the glass down with a soft click and looks at me. “What do you think, Rafe? You’ve been quiet.”
My voice is ice. “He’s not going anywhere.”
Leonardo smiles. So does Damiano.
Ezio grins like he just won something.
And somewhere deep in my chest, I know I’ve just stepped over a line I can’t come back from.
“That’s my good boy,” Leonardo croons, the words slow and mocking, laced with ownership that doesn’t belong to him. Not anymore. Not since I bled for my own name. Not since I started claiming things for myself.
I don’t look at him. I let the words rot in the air between us. “He won’t be skating for at least a month.” My voice is flat, final. Not a suggestion. Not a negotiation. A fact.
Leonardo’s smile falters like I slapped it off his face. His fingers, still resting neatly on the tablecloth, curl slightly. “And why’s that?”
“Because,” I say, slow and deliberate, eyes locked on his now, “for that little stunt that won you that pretty number, he almost bled out. He needs to heal.”
The temperature drops like a blade. Damiano stops scrolling.
Viktor looks up, finally. Ezio raises an eyebrow, intrigued.
Leonardo leans forward, steeples his fingers again, but the warmth’s gone now.
What’s left is cold calculation, sharp as the edge of a garrote.
“You think I’m unaware of what he did, Rafe? ”