Chapter 8 Aisling
AISLING
The quiet hum of the bustling kitchen does nothing to slow my pulse.
I’m sitting at the small table with my second cup of coffee, still trying to defuse the lingering electricity buzzing under my skin from this morning.
And the humiliation.
Christ.
I replay it—waking up feeling warm, safe, held, only to find Raf’s hand on my breast, his body pressed into me like he was meant to be there.
And the traitorous thoughts that entered my mind before I could decide how best to handle the situation.
I shut my eyes briefly and let the coffee scald my tongue because I deserve the punishment for letting myself feel anything other than disgust.
I hear footsteps behind me, the sound of the door swinging open, and I brace for company.
Not him. Not now.
But when I finally dare to glance up, it’s not Raf.
It’s Evi Chiaroscuro.
I recognize her from the wedding yesterday, though I didn’t have time to say more than a handful of words to her in all the chaos.
She looks just as beautiful as she did dressed to the nines in formal wear, her hair pinned into a complex updo and makeup gracing her face.
Today, her face is washed clean, her chestnut hair tumbling over her shoulders in loose waves, soft cotton lounge pants and an oversized sweater hanging off her slender frame.
She looks obscenely cozy for someone living in an active war zone dressed up like a mansion.
The moment she sees me, her face lights up—like she’s genuinely happy I exist.
It’s a stark contrast to the kitchen staff, who continue to cast me sidelong glances like I’ve walked dog shit in on my shoes.
“Good morning!” Evi says, voice warm and musical as she crosses to the table.
“I wasn’t expecting you to be up. First night sleeping here is always the hardest. New surroundings, weird sounds, nightmares…
” She cuts herself off with a quick, awkward little laugh.
“Not that you’ll have nightmares. I mean, hopefully not.
Sandro and I still do sometimes, but it’s mostly just because of… well, everything.”
I stare at her, stunned by the easy honesty.
I don’t know whether she’s na?ve, heartbreakingly open, or simply too exhausted to filter. Maybe all three.
“Hot chocolate for you, signora?” the woman who seems to be in charge of the kitchen offers, setting the steaming mug down as if she already knew the answer before asking the question.
Evi takes the mug, a warm smile gracing her lips. “Thank you, Isabelle,” she says gratefully.
The woman gives her hand an affectionate pat that makes me wonder how Evi has so thoroughly won over the kitchen staff, but before I have the chance to overthink it, Sandro’s wife has turned her attention back to me.
“I’m so happy you’re here,” she says, like being married off to a strategic enemy is the newest form of self-care.
I snort before I can stop myself. “Really? Because I think most people here would disagree.” I cast a sidelong glance toward Isabelle, noting the way her lips pinch into a disapproving pout.
Evi just shrugs, tightening both hands around her mug like it’s a lifeline. “Maybe. But I’m choosing to be optimistic. Sandro needs hope. We all do. And your marriage—this alliance—might be the thing that lets him stop fighting every single day.”
The hopeful earnestness in her voice makes something sharp twist under my ribs.
She truly believes in this plan, thinks that after one last battle, the fighting will be done.
But that’s never the case in our world.
To hide my cynicism, I raise an eyebrow. “You think this is going to end the conflict?”
“I think it could,” she replies softly. “I also think it’s the most generous thing your family could’ve offered—to bridge the gap, when it would’ve been easier to just… stay enemies.”
My laugh is quiet.
Dry.
A little cruel. “I would hardly say it was out of generosity. We’re doing this for revenge as much as you are.”
“Maybe,” she says gently. “But someone had to take the first step. And I’m grateful you did.”
I shift uncomfortably, because she has no clue how on the nose that observation is.
I don’t know how to respond to that, so I look away, running my thumb along the edge of my mug.
She watches me for a moment, as if weighing something unspoken, then takes a sip of her hot cocoa and rests her cheek against her palm, her lips curving into a soft, thoughtful smile.
“You know, when I married Sandro, everyone thought he would destroy me. That the Chiaroscuros would crush me—that I might be better off dead. Even my parents had their doubts.”
“Then why did they ever let you go through with it?” I ask, shock and horror lacing my tone.
It took all my powers of persuasion to convince my parents to let me go through with this.
And never did they doubt I couldn’t handle myself.
Even then, I’m certain my family would take me back in a heartbeat if I told them I was unhappy.
I can’t imagine a family letting their daughter marry someone they worried might hurt her.
Evi’s smile turns sad, her eyes dropping to her mug as she picks at a chip in the handle. “We needed the alliance to protect my brothers. They’re soldiers, you see, and my marriage to Sandro ensured them high enough positions with the Chiaroscuros to take them out of the direct line of fire.”
As if that were possible in our world.
But still, it bothers me that her parents would consider that a reasonable explanation for her sacrifice.
Evi seems to read my opinion in my expression, however, and she quickly waves it away.
“That’s not why I wanted to tell you about it, though.
I’ve made peace with my parents and their decisions, and I would do anything for my brothers.
But my point is, when I first married Sandro, I felt so scared and alone.
I didn’t know anyone, felt so far from home.
And then Anika—Miko’s wife—sat down with me, kind of like this, actually, just over a cup of coffee.
She told me something that kept me going, and I hope knowing the truth of it might help you adjust too. ”
I don’t want to bite.
I don’t want to engage.
But curiosity tugs anyway. “What did she say?”
“That the Chiaroscuro brothers might seem terrifying, but they’re softies underneath it all.”
I scoff. Loudly. “Sure. Maybe the other brothers. But Raf? I doubt there’s a compassionate bone in his body.”
Evi doesn’t look offended. If anything, she seems… surprised, and my gut clenches as I realize my bitterness toward him has made me reveal more than I should have. “You know him, then?” she asks, her question not accusing but laced with doubt.
“I…” Shoot. There’s no way to dig myself out of this hole without risking a very dangerous truth.
“No, I suppose not. I’ve just heard as much…
from a few of the girls who work in my family’s house.
” It’s a flat-out lie, and it tastes sour on my tongue, but I don’t have a safer way to make my opinion sound warranted.
“Well, maybe they don’t know him as well as they think,” she says slowly, “because most people only see the front he puts on… but can I tell you a secret?” Evi leans forward, her voice dropping conspiratorially as she glances around as if to make sure no one’s watching, and it’s painfully reminiscent of the days I spent gossiping with Hannah and Kelly in the kitchen.
Leaning forward as my curiosity gets the better of me, I nod, a smile curving my lips at the sudden and unexpected sense of camaraderie.
“On the day Sandro and I got married, Sandro slipped away to the fighting pits while the reception was still going,” she says, her cheeks turning a delicate shade of rose.
Though she doesn’t say which fighting pits she’s talking about, I know she’s referring to the ones my family owns—because they’re the only ones in Chicago.
And I’m mildly surprised that Sandro would risk something so dangerous when my family had all but declared war on the Chiaroscuros.
“It was time for our grand send-off, but I couldn’t find Sandro anywhere—and if I failed to consummate our marriage on our wedding night… If people found out…”
It’s not lost on me that that’s exactly what happened for me and Raf last night, but I know what she means, and it reminds me that—as painful as it was to sleep in the same bed as Raf, it really was necessary.
“The alliance would have been ruined.”
God, I’m so glad Raf drew the line of no sex before the wedding, that I didn’t have that on my plate to think about during our fake marriage.
Evi nods, her soft gold-flecked eyes widening until they’re almost doe-like. “Raf stepped in when he realized what was happening. Offered me his arm and escorted me from the reception as if he were Sandro. He made sure no one humiliated me. He protected me.”
I blink, stunned. “What?”
Evi nods. “He didn’t announce it, didn’t make a show of it, and no one was the wiser.”
I stare at her, trying to reconcile her story with the cold, calculating man I know.
Then the pieces fall into place.
Of course he didn’t do it for Evi.
He needed the Lombardis’ support as much as her family needed the increase in status.
“He didn’t do it for you,” I mutter. “He did it for optics.”
“Maybe,” she says quietly. “But the result was the same. I wasn’t humiliated. He looked out for me, and he has since the moment I became Sandro’s wife. I don’t doubt he’ll show you that kind of loyalty as well—if you’ll give him the opportunity.”
Silence sits, dense and uncomfortable, between us.
I wrap my hands more tightly around my mug, staring at the coffee like it holds all the answers.
Because while Evi might not be wrong about Raf’s actions toward her, she doesn’t have the full picture like I do.
Don’t mistake one calculated action for kindness, I remind myself.
Raf doesn’t do things unless there’s something in it for him.
“I can only hope you’re right,” I finally answer, biting the words off like they’re poisonous as the bitterness leaks through in my tone.
Something flickers across her face.
Sympathy? Curiosity? Suspicion?
I can’t tell.
Before she can dig deeper, footsteps sound from the hallway—boots, heavy and familiar—and my heart skips a beat.
Then Sandro enters, shirtless, a sheen of sweat over sculpted muscle, hair damp and messy.
He looks like Raf, only strapped with muscle and covered in tattoos.
Yellowing bruises and fresh scars mar his ribs and stomach—a gruesome roadmap of what the Yakuza put him through.
Evi’s face transforms when she sees him, lit from within, and she rises to greet him, her hot chocolate forgotten.
He strides to her like a starving man, slides an arm around her waist, and kisses her—deeply, hungrily, like it’s been years, not hours, since he last touched her.
I freeze mid-sip.
I shouldn’t look.
Shouldn’t care.
But I do.
Because this man—who shares Raf’s face, Raf’s movements and expressions—holds his woman like she’s oxygen, like nothing exists outside her.
And she melts into him, hands gripping his shoulders, breath catching against his lips.
It unleashes a dangerous hurricane of emotion behind my ribs—shock, discomfort, warmth, and at the very root of it, a jealousy that makes my cheeks burn.
Not because I want Sandro—but because it’s almost like I’m watching Evi claim what’s mine.
No, not mine.
Mortification strikes hard and fast as I realize just how irrational my reaction is.
Because not only is Sandro entirely the wrong twin, but even Raf doesn’t belong to me.
Whether he’s my husband or not.
And still, I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from the passionate and devastatingly romantic scene unfolding before me.
When Sandro finally pulls back, breaking their kiss as he cradles Evi’s face in his palms, he murmurs, “Come upstairs with me.”
She laughs breathlessly. “But you’re all sweaty—”
“Exactly,” he says, hoisting her up so her legs wrap around his waist. “You can help me shower.”
His tone is entirely suggestive of how she might help him, and I get the distinct impression he doesn’t mean he wants her to soap his back.
“Sandro,” Evi hisses, glancing at me, cheeks flushed. “We have company.”
He barely spares me a glance—like I’m a chair, not a person—and keeps kissing her neck. “Aisling’s family now. She’ll survive.”
My throat tightens.
Family.
What a ridiculous word to apply to whatever the hell I am.
Evi bats at his shoulder, half-heartedly protesting. “I have hot chocolate—”
“I’ll get you another after,” he says, already carrying her toward the hallway.
Evi clings to him, laughing, flushed, alive.
She turns her head and flashes me an apologetic, conspiratorial smile that says sorry—not sorry.
Then they disappear as the kitchen door swings shut.
Silence crashes back in like a wave.
I sit there, staring at the door and the empty space they left behind.
The air still seems thick with affection—possessive, reckless, real—and something heavy lodges in my chest.
I never dreamed I would witness that kind of hungry, unfiltered, shameless love in this house.
Not from one of the Chiaroscuro brothers.
But watching Sandro of all people be so overcome with devotion for his wife is almost enough to break me.
I don’t know if I’ll ever experience that kind of love in my lifetime.
I don’t know that I could survive it even if I did, because a man loving a woman like that is dangerous.
Terrifying. Addictive.
And when it ends, the devastation that follows is catastrophic.
There was a moment once when I thought Raf might love me even close to that fiercely.
But I was stupid.
Naive.
And I won’t make that same mistake twice.
I look down at my coffee, and the knot in my chest tightens until it’s painful.
I can’t stay in the kitchen to untangle it.
Standing, I grab my mug and leave without a word, needing space, distance, walls to hide behind—anything to keep that ache from eating me alive.