Chapter 9 Rafael
RAFAEL
The warehouse reeks of damp concrete and motor oil, but it’s neutral ground, agreed upon because it belongs to nobody, because it has no blood history soaked into the walls.
It’s the kind of place where truces are held, deals are made—and if things go sideways, it won’t escalate into something I can’t contain.
Because it’s not lost on me that when it comes to the Murrays, even with the alliance we’ve sealed through a marriage contract, violence could erupt if anyone so much as sneezes the wrong way.
I stand with my brothers, arms folded, facing the loading door that hasn’t opened yet.
I shouldn’t feel as restless as I do, but I know exactly why my pulse keeps buzzing through my veins like bees trapped inside a shaken jar.
It’s been one week since I got married, one week of sleeping beside Aisling Murray, every night a new form of torture—a torture of my own making.
Because every night, I go to sleep on one side of the bed and wake on the other, with her curves pressed against me, soft and warm, as she breathes that gentle, feminine rhythm that messes with my head.
I don’t think she’s noticed yet.
But it’s only a matter of time, because most nights, I wake to find I’m harder than I’ve ever been in my life.
And most mornings, I drag myself into the shower to bring some relief before she wakes, thinking about my wife—my real wife—as I do so, only to have Aisling crash into the vision like a fist through glass.
When I try to focus on Genevieve’s smile, it’s Aisling’s lips I recall.
Genevieve’s voice, then Aisling’s breath. Genevieve’s body beneath mine, then Aisling’s sinfully sweet arousal on my tongue.
And even if I do manage to finish, it’s tainted. Wrong. Dirty. I don’t hate myself for wanting a woman again, for needing that release.
Humans crave, they ache, they fuck. It’s our nature, and I know that.
But I hate that it’s her, the woman who buried a knife in my back and yet hates me for ending things—the same woman who now shares my name, my bed, my air but will walk away as soon as her family gets what they want—who plagues my every thought.
I shift my weight, jaw tightening, dragging myself mentally back into the warehouse, back into the meeting that actually matters.
“Stop pacing,” Miko mutters from behind me, leaning his shoulder against a rusted pillar, arms crossed, looking bored. “You’re making the floor nervous.”
“I’m not pacing.” I am, which is ironic, because usually, I’m the one telling my twin to calm down.
But Sandro sits on a crate, his legs outstretched—his back’s still not fully healed, but he’s ignoring every doctor’s order because that’s who he is. All engine, no brakes. “You’re pissed off,” he says, not asking, just reading me the way only my twin can. “And you’re not sleeping.”
“None of us are sleeping,” I growl.
“True,” Miko says. “But we’re not sleeping next to someone who’s—”
“Finish that sentence, and I’ll throw you through the wall.”
My older brother holds up his hands in surrender. “I’m not judging. Just saying. To me, it seems like you’ve jumped into a new marriage too soon after Genevieve’s death. It’s screwing with your head, and we need your head screwed on straight today.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re angry,” Sandro says, voice low. “And you feel guilty.”
The word lands like a hammer. “Knock it off,” I mutter.
But they’re not wrong.
Every time I want Aisling, it feels like I’m cheating on my dead wife.
Not just betraying Genevieve’s memory—but betraying the rage that keeps me alive.
And the worst part is, they don’t even know I’m supposed to be faking these feelings.
I have every reason to make a show of feeling the way I do, and yet my nerves are twice as raw, my guilt twice as heavy—because as much as I want to deny it, I do want Aisling.
Even if I haven’t so much as kissed her since our wedding day.
The door rolls open, metal screeching, letting in daylight that slices across the shadows.
The Murray brothers—Ryan, Cillian, and Patrick—walk in like they own the place, tall, dressed in their dark cable-knit sweaters and tweed Irish caps, shoulders squared with that typical arrogance that comes with old-world entitlement.
Their eyes sweep over us—calculating, hostile, and unimpressed.
Patrick snorts when he catches my gaze, like even looking at me is offensive, and Cillian’s mouth twitches, somewhere between a smile and a sneer.
Ryan, the oldest, just stares like he’s doing the math on exactly how much blood my death would save the world.
Sandro stands up beside me, calm, steady, lethal, and Miko straightens, his hands in his pockets, all silent predator as he eyes the Murray brothers with unbridled suspicion.
But this is my meeting, my alliance, my war to command. And everyone damn well knows it.
Ryan speaks first. “So. Did you ladies drag us out here to actually talk strategy, or are you just desperate for some real leadership?” He has the same deep brogue as his father, the lilting edge to his accent making it impossible to tell if the jab is genuine or just banter.
Sandro steps forward, but I put a hand out, blocking him.
“Easy,” I say, eyes still on Ryan. “They’re Irish. They don’t know how to communicate without insulting someone.”
Cillian barks a laugh.
Patrick doesn’t. “We’re still waiting for proof you lads know what the hell you’re doing,” he says.
“You’re standing in a warehouse with three men who lost everything and are still standing, stronger than ever,” Miko replies, voice flat. “That’s proof enough.”
Ryan waves him off. “Sure. And now you want to drag our family into the mess you created.”
“The mess we created?” Sandro snarls. “Forgive me if I’ve confused my facts, but I’m pretty sure it was your men that came to our home without provocation and decided to light it on fire. All for an empty promise of some territory you weren’t strong enough to claim on your own.”
“Well, we can’t all be blessed with a secret Bratva inheritance that will allow us to weasel our way into claiming territory we didn’t take for our own,” Ryan snaps, his eyes casting toward Miko.
My patience fractures. “You agreed to the alliance,” I remind them. “Your father agreed to this. We’re here today to outline the plan, not cast stones.”
Patrick raises a brow. “Funny. It seems like you’ve outlined what you want. But we aren’t agreeing to anything until we hear terms that don’t sound like we’re handing you a kingdom on a silver platter.”
I bite back a laugh. “Let me explain this slowly so you understand. We’re not asking you to help us rebuild—even if it is our territory that was taken in the first place, largely with your help. We’re asking you to help us destroy the people whose greedy eyes were too big for their stomachs.”
Cillian leans back on his heels. “Oh, don’t worry. We’re very good at that part.”
“Then let’s get on with it.” I drag a crate out with my boot, flip a map across it, and anchor it with my hands.
“The Yakuza still control most of our docks, half the nightclubs, the casinos, the import channels. We take them block by block, business by business. We choke supply, cut communication, drain their revenue, slowly and quietly.”
Patrick scoffs. “Sounds boring. I thought we were in for a fight.”
“It’s smart,” I say. “If they think they’re losing territory to random violence, they’ll respond with violence. But if they think they’re losing business to market shifts, they’ll try to negotiate. Which buys us time and spares lives.”
Ryan eyes me carefully. “And then what?”
“Then,” I say, leaning in, “we corner them until they have no resources, no allies, and no place to run. And when they can’t afford to breathe…” I snap my fingers. “We crush what’s left.”
Cillian exhales, seeming mildly impressed, despite himself.
Patrick doesn’t look convinced. “And what do we get,” he asks, “besides blood on our hands and someone we hate coming to our Sunday dinners?”
Ah. There it is. The undertone has been building since they walked in, but now it sharpens into something vocal, pointed, unavoidable.
Aisling’s brothers don’t like me, and I get the distinct feeling it’s because I’m now her husband.
“You got something to say to me?” I demand.
Ryan crosses his arms. “Our father may want peace, but we don’t see why our sister had to marry a prick like you to make that happen.”
Sandro stiffens. Miko’s gaze flicks between the Murrays, alert.
I stay still. “Considering it’s your family who’s proven untrustworthy, I hardly think it’s your place to question the need for collateral to support our alliance.
After all, you’re not only the ones who attacked my family unwarranted.
You’ve now proven just how fickle your loyalty is as you stab your former Yakuza allies in the back. ”
“You know why,” Patrick snarls, his lip curling. “You want to question our loyalty, but you know damn well that our actions were justified on both accounts.”
Before I can question what my family has ever done to deserve the Murrays’ wrath, Cillian chimes in, voice deceptively casual. “Honestly, I don’t know how the old man stomached agreeing to give our sister to you, of all people.”
A laugh bursts from me—low, dark, involuntary. “You have a problem with me specifically, or are you just allergic to diplomacy?”
The brothers exchange a look, knowing, mocking, and the fine hairs at the nape of my neck start to rise.
Then Ryan turns a cold gaze on me. “You know what you did, Rafael Chiaroscuro. And just because our goals currently align doesn’t mean we’re going to forget it.”
My blood freezes.
My heart.
My breath.
Do they know I slept with their sister?
Do they know that I took her virginity before I knew she was one—or even who she was?
I don’t confess.
I don’t ask.
I don’t even blink.
Because if they don’t know, if they’re mad at me for some other completely unrelated crime that I’m oblivious to committing, it could destroy Aisling if I came out and said it.
So instead, I just say, “If you have something to say, then say it.”
But they don’t. Cowards.
And as the silence stretches, the tension reaching the brink of explosion, Sandro steps forward. “That’s enough.”
“No,” I say, raising a hand. Because I’m done with this petty vendetta threatening an alliance that could change everything, so I take a step toward them.
“Whatever it is you have against me, we’re dealing with this here and now.
I’m not dragging this passive-aggressive bullshit into a war we won’t win unless we can have each other’s backs.
You want to hit me? Then do it. I’ll give you each a free punch. ”
Miko curses under his breath.
Sandro grabs my arm, dragging me back out of earshot. “Raf, you can’t.”
“I can and I will if it’ll get them to shut up. We need the Murrays, Sandro. We need the Irish. You’ve said it yourself a hundred times. And we can’t work with them if Aisling’s brothers are going to constantly be at my throat, undermining my authority.”
“Then let me take the punches,” Sandro insists. “We need your brain. Not mine.”
I smirk, grasping my twin by the nape of his neck and pressing my forehead against his. “Don’t sell yourself short, Brother. Besides, it’s not you they want to hit.”
I move to step around him, and Sandro grabs for my shoulder.
“Raf,” he growls a warning.
But I shake him off, turning my attention back to the Murrays. “You boys want closure? You want to get your anger out? Take a swing. Each of you. Right now. No repercussions. One hit. But then let’s be done with it.”
Cillian lifts his brows. “You’re serious?”
“As death.”
The brothers glance at each other again—hungry, eager, righteous—and wicked grins stretch across their faces.
I know what they’ve decided without their having to say it, and my stomach somersaults.
It might have been my bad idea, but this is going to hurt.
Patrick steps forward first, rolling his shoulders back as he squares up with me, bare-knuckle Irish style. “Just to be clear,” he says, “this doesn’t mean we have to like you afterward.”
I smirk. “Good. I’d be worried if you did.”
His fist slams into my jaw with a crack that lights up the world, and I stumble back but manage to stay standing as Sandro braces me with a steadying hand against my spine. Shaking my head, I step forward again and stretch my neck, cracking it as I brace for the next hit.
Then Ryan steps up, his green eyes glinting as he takes a body shot, brutal and clean, that nearly drives me to my knees.
The air bursts from my lungs with such force, I cough and wheeze, doubling over to spit blood.
The oldest Murray brother just smiles.
Biting back a groan, I wipe the red-tinged spit from my lip and straighten, fighting every instinct to defend myself as Cillian—the biggest and strongest of the Murray brothers—pops his knuckles and steps forward.
“You asked for it,” he sneers, winding up his punch, and I turn my cheek, closing my eye as I recognize the face shot that’s coming.
“I did,” I agree, and honestly, I don’t know what I was thinking. Because this is so much worse than I imagined.
Cillian moves with lightning speed, his fist coming at my temple with such force, I barely register that he’s moving before he hits me.
Hard.
Then the world blinks out.