Chapter 10 Rafael
RAFAEL
I surface through blackness with someone shouting my name like they’re hauling me up from underwater.
“Raf. Raf! Jesus Christ—” Miko sounds near panic, a rare occurrence for my adopted brother, and it drags me back to the world of the living with impressive urgency.
The world tilts dangerously when I open my eyes, making my stomach lurch.
My head throbs in time with my heartbeat, and my cheek feels like someone took a wrecking ball to it.
I slowly rock up onto my elbows to find Miko and Sandro shoulder to shoulder, muscles tense, fists balled, yelling over each other as they stand between me and the perceived threat.
And across from them—three Irish bastards laughing their asses off.
Ryan, Cillian, and Patrick are all doubled over with mirth, their six-foot-something frames, all built like they eat bricks for breakfast, shaking as they struggle to hold back their amusement.
I blink, and for a second I can’t remember why I’m on the floor or why my face feels like a damn meteor crater.
Then memory catches up.
Right.
I offered them each a free punch.
And Cillian must have knocked me the hell out.
Sandro’s voice is a low growl. “You think that’s funny? You think putting my brother in the hospital is a joke?”
Patrick grins. “Hospital? He’s not dead. Look—he’s already getting up. Tough bastard.”
Ryan gives a lazy shrug. “Italian boys get so dramatic when someone knocks ’em down. It’s adorable.”
They laugh again.
Miko steps forward, pointing at Ryan’s chest like an angry lawyer. “You slimy bastard. I don’t care if you three crawled out of the Chicago sewer system. You don’t—”
“Leave it alone, Miko,” I command, my voice like gravel. I groan and roll onto my side, pushing up.
My palms slip on something wet. Blood.
Yeah, that tracks.
Sandro kneels beside me, face tight. “Raf. You good? They hit you too hard.”
“Relax,” I mutter. “I’m fine.”
The Murrays’ laughter slowly tapers off as I rise and spit blood onto the concrete.
“You shouldn’t have taken the risk,” Sandro growls. “I’m the boxer. I know how to take a hit.”
“I said I’m fine,” I snap, brushing off his concern as I face the Murrays once again. It’s not like I haven’t taken my fair share of hits in my life—even if I don’t actively seek fist fights like my twin.
Miko stares at me like I’ve become a new species of moron. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he hisses under his breath. “That could have gone wrong in so many different ways.”
“That’s how the Irish settle a debt, no?” I say, voice steady despite my ribs screaming. “We had unresolved business. They wanted to hit something with my face on it. I said yes. Now we can move on.”
I never told my brothers about me and Aisling—not even Sandro—because I didn’t want to breathe life into the worst mistake of my life.
And I wouldn’t risk word getting out that might come back to hurt Aisling’s reputation, even if I trust my brothers with my life.
But now they’re looking at me like I’ve completely lost my mind.
Rather than offering an explanation, I fix my gaze on the oldest Murray brother.
Ryan’s mouth curves, not friendly but at least respectful, and the Irish brothers exchange a look.
There’s a silent but unmistakable agreement in it.
Ryan nods, slow and serious now. “Alright. You took what we owed you.” Then his tone hardens. “But hear this, if you ever hurt our sister…”
Is it just me, or does he pause long enough for an unspoken “again”?
“The next time, we won’t stop until your brains are on the sidewalk. You understand?”
I don’t flinch. “I understand.”
Patrick claps once, big and theatrical. “Well! Since we have an understanding, we owe you a drink. Irish tradition. Man takes his punches like a champ, you toast him before moving on to business.”
I would much rather we get to our plans for revenge, but after finally earning a modicum of respect from the brothers I’ll be working with closely, I’m not about to spit on their traditions.
Miko seems far less willing as he throws up his hand. “We’re not drinking with them—”
But I elbow him to shut him up. “How can we pass up a toast to our… newfound understanding?” I quip.
My brothers just scowl at the Murrays as the Irishmen grin with satisfaction.
An hour later, we’re back in the newly renovated cigar room of the Chiaroscuro house, the Murray brothers toting a bottle of Irish Redbreast that looks older than anyone in the room.
Ryan slaps it down on the wet bar like he’s presenting a newborn. “Imported. Contraband. Don’t tell customs.”
Patrick winks. “We bribed them.”
Miko rolls his eyes as Cillian hunts for glasses, humming like this is the best night of his life.
Then the brothers join us on the Chesterfields placed spaciously around the room.
“To new understandings,” Ryan says, lifting his glass once we all have one, and we mirror his toast. “Sláinte.”
“Sláinte,” I echo, my brothers notably silent as we all tip our glasses back and swallow the generous shot.
The whiskey hits hard and clean.
It’s the kind of drink that punches back, and even as they pour another round, I can feel the simmering frustration in my chest starting to cool, my muscles unwinding in a way that only alcohol can manage anymore.
We don’t stop at two drinks, either, and though I know we should be using this time for something more productive, I can’t help relishing the sweet relief that comes with the numbing effects of hard liquor.
The Murray brothers get louder as my brothers start to loosen up, and suddenly, it feels like a boxing ring disguised as a family get-together—the familiar cheeky banter reminding me of all the nights that Sandro and I snuck out as teenagers to slum it in the Murray fighting pits without our father’s knowledge.
Ryan raises a glass at me as he makes yet another toast, his eyes starting to glaze under the influence of alcohol. “To the man who let us rearrange his face. For closure.”
“And for not crying about it,” Cillian adds, his grin wicked.
“It wasn’t that bad,” I say, though I’m fairly certain I could have a mild concussion from it.
Patrick gestures to my cheek. “Mate. Your face looks like it’s about to give birth to a potato.”
Sandro roars with laughter. Miko snorts whiskey up his nose and chokes.
I touch my cheek gingerly. Yeah. It’s big, dark, swollen, but I’ve looked worse.
The thing about the Murrays—they’re dangerous, but they’re funny about it.
They might be easy to anger, but they’re far easier to earn forgiveness from than the other branches of the Mafia, so long as you can handle their form of punishment.
It’s a different flavor of violence from ours.
They’re Irish scrappers, born swinging.
And when the final bell rings, that’s the end of their rage.
I don’t doubt that if Tatsuo Tanaka were smart enough to have relinquished the territory he promised the Murrays, they would easily back down.
I guess it’s our good fortune that the Yakuza are greedy bastards.
Or perhaps Tatsuo is too old and ravaged with grief over the loss of his heir to recognize the precariousness of his position.
Whatever the case, I intend to take full advantage of it, and that means building trust and loyalty with the Murrays in any way I can.
It takes no time at all for Sandro to fit right into my plan.
He’s always liked the Irish.
He tells stories about his experiences in the fighting pits that the brothers might not know, and the Murrays howl, slapping their knees, promising to visit the next time there’s a match.
It’s weird, nice, even, to find camaraderie with the Murray brothers once again.
Because, while our fathers never saw eye to eye, Sandro and I could never quite see them as enemies.
And it’s starting to feel like Ryan, Patrick, and Cillian might feel the same—that is until Aisling enters the room.
A soft smile graces her lips as she listens to whatever Evi is in the middle of telling her.
The girls seem to have struck up something of a friendship and are oblivious to our presence at first.
But when my fake wife’s eyes land on me, she stops dead in the doorway, her smile falling as her gaze goes straight to my broken cheek. “What the hell happened to you?”
Cillian answers proudly, “We happened.”
Patrick raises his glass. “And he lived!”
Aisling glares at me, then them. “You hit him?” she demands, her tone venomous as she releases Evi’s elbow to step forward, fists clenched.
“I go to the painstaking efforts of forging this alliance, convincing Father to agree to it, give myself to the Italians so we can get our vengeance, and you have the nerve to jeopardize all of that by punching my new husband?”
I shrug. “It seemed easier than talking.”
Evi steps closer to Sandro, and he wraps an arm protectively around her waist, reassuring and soft.
“We weren’t jeopardizing anything, Sister. He offered us each a free punch. How could we say no to that?” Ryan asks, his eyes dancing. “That knot on his face is just proof of how much we love ya.”
Aisling rolls her eyes, crossing her arms as she tosses me a scathing glance. “Boys and their stupid bonding rituals…” she mutters.
Ryan tips the bottle toward his sister. “You want in on this stupidity?”
Aisling doesn’t hesitate. Snatching the bottle, she wipes the neck with her hand like she’s done it a thousand times and takes a generous pull straight from it.
Her brothers cheer.
“Atta girl!”
“Classy as ever!”
“Mum would be proud!”
She flips them off, and I laugh without meaning to, the sound quickly dying as she shoots me another lethal look, her blue eyes as dangerous as a live wire.
She hasn’t changed.
Not really.
She might be older, meaner, smarter—prettier in a way that pisses me off—but underneath it all, she’s still that rebellious firecracker I couldn’t take my eyes off that night at the club.
Patrick elbows Miko. “She’s always been a wild one. Got kicked out of Catholic school.”
“Correction,” Aisling says. “I walked out. I didn’t need God watching me all day.”
Miko chokes.
Sandro beams like she’s his new favorite person, then he scrounges up a fresh lowball glass for Aisling as we pour another round.
A short time later, Evi tugs Sandro’s shirt. “Bed. Now,” she murmurs.
Sandro goes without protest, because he loves her and because she controls him with terrifying efficiency.
I’ve never seen anyone have such a positive effect on my twin brother, and that alone would make me adore my sister-in-law.
But the fact that she’s sunshine incarnate makes it impossible for anyone not to love her, and I watch them go with a wistful warmth, knowing that at least half of my soul will live a happy life.
Maybe that’s why God saw fit to make two of us—because he knew Sandro would find a kind of happiness that was strong enough to sustain us both.
Then I bite back a snort of cynicism, because I know there is no God.
If there were, I would find a way to smite him down for taking Genevieve from me like he did.
Miko yawns. “I’m leaving too. My wife is due any day now, and if I’m not home by midnight, she’ll kill me and claim postpartum rage.”
Ryan grins. “Then go, soldier.”
Miko squeezes my shoulder. “You good?”
“For now.”
He exits, muttering to himself about getting too old for nights like this. And suddenly, it’s just me and the Murray brothers—and Aisling drinking like it’s her sole purpose in life.
She levels her eyes at me over the rim of her glass. “You’re still an asshole.”
I smirk lazily. “Consistency is a strength.”
Patrick snorts. “That’s why his face looks like a Picasso painting.”
Aisling points at me. “He deserves worse.”
Ryan nods. “Don’t worry, Sis. We gave him a proper beating.”
She turns, incredulous. “You what?”
Patrick answers. “Man took his punches like a champ, so we let the past go. It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
Aisling slams her glass down. “How did you decide that punching Raf would be at all what I want? If anyone has a right to hit him, it’s me.”
The brothers exchange an ominously amused look.
Ryan stands. “Well. On that note—we’ll get out of your way.”
Cillian tips two fingers in salute as he joins his brothers. “Don’t kill him. We might just be starting to like him.”
They leave laughing, boots thudding, voices fading down the hall. The door shuts, silence following, and then it’s just me and her.
Bleary-eyed, half-drunk, adrenaline humming, I can feel my pulse throbbing in the bruise that’s spreading across my cheek—but I can’t seem to tear my eyes off her.