Chapter 14 Rafael
RAFAEL
The Chicago wind whips around me like an annoyed spirit as I tromp down the city streets.
Sandro and Miko are flanking me, their heads on a swivel as if mentally calculating how many bullets someone could fire off before hitting something important.
I should be thinking about the same thing. We’re taking a risk, pounding pavement rather than sending someone to spread the word in our place.
But the Murray brothers are busy holding up their end of the deal, and in the meantime, we need to reestablish our hold on the North Side.
The most effective way to do that is by showing our faces, rebuilding the connections with our benefactors and ensuring we’re back and stronger than ever.
I’m trying to focus on the job.
I really am.
But a certain fiery redhead’s face keeps flashing in my damn head. And the conundrum of where we stand plagues my every thought.
If I imagined one night tangled up with Aisling Murray could smooth the sharp corners between us, I was delusional.
The kind of delusional reserved for men who think they can fix a gunshot wound with duct tape or negotiate with a hungry wolf.
Because since that night, it would seem she’s ready to set me on fire every time she looks my way—and not in an enjoyable way.
Meanwhile, I can’t stop thinking about it. Can’t stop picturing her sprawled beneath me, her perfect body speared by my cock. It’s slowly driving me crazy.
As is the fact that, if anything, it’s only reinforced the walls that stand between us.
Not that I should mind.
It was a mistake to sleep with her.
And the guilt eating at me for betraying Genevieve’s memory sits just as heavily as the frustration at knowing how thoroughly I’ve mucked things up with Aisling.
All I can do is hope she doesn’t decide to sic her family on mine over it—again. I wouldn’t put it past her after last time, and I don’t doubt a second betrayal would destroy the Chiaroscuro empire completely.
I was playing with fire to share one sinful night together, and I can’t afford the luxury of being so reckless.
Not with so much on the line.
We need this alliance, which means I can’t afford to piss Aisling off more than she already is.
But I’ve never had much control when it comes to Aisling, and walking us back from our drunken foray is proving harder than I would have thought.
Every time I walk into a room, she walks out.
No glare, no sarcasm, no dagger-sharp line thrown over her shoulder.
Just absence. One long, painful week of chasing my fake wife’s shadow through the house.
And while I should be grateful for the lack of confrontation, it stings more than I want to admit.
“Hey,” Sandro says softly as we near our destination. “You alright?”
“Fine,” I bite out, snapping back to the present moment and kicking myself for letting my mind wander once again.
“It’s just… I can’t help but notice there seems to be some tension between you and Aisling lately.”
I stiffen. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Sandro studies me, his brow lifting. “She left the kitchen the second you walked in today. And the upstairs hall. And the foyer.”
“She left dinner early last night too,” Miko adds helpfully.
Truth be told, Aisling hasn’t said more than three words to me all week.
She’s been glued to Evi’s side, hauling furniture around the house, fixing curtains, restoring the place to its former shine. If she hates the work, she hides it well.
But every time I show up, she abandons the room—to the point that it would seem even my brothers have taken notice.
That will have to stop.
If she truly wants to make this fake marriage work, we have to demonstrate a more united front—or my brothers might not be so willing to put everything on the line.
“I appreciate the cataloguing,” I mutter. “Very helpful.”
They fall silent as we reach Vassallo’s Bakery on Sedgwick Street, one of the many places that used to pay tribute to my family under the table.
We step inside, and the bell above the door gives a half-hearted jingle as the smell of sourdough greets us boldly.
But no one’s behind the counter, and my skin prickles at the still silence.
Sandro steps closer, lowering his voice. “You didn’t do something stupid, did you?”
“Define stupid.”
“Did you piss Aisling off?”
I give him a look.
He shrugs. “She’s a woman, Raf. The list of possible offenses is long.”
“She’s mad,” Miko says around a mouthful of biscotti he stole off the counter, “but she’s also avoiding him like he’s contagious. That’s not normal anger. That’s premeditated.” He pauses, then points at me. “What did you do?”
I grind my teeth, but mercifully, I’m saved from answering the question as the baker emerges from the back, flour smeared on his apron, worry pulling at the corners of his mouth.
“Signori Chiaroscuro. You’re… back?” He says it like a question, like we might vanish again if he blinks too hard.
“We’re back,” I say. “And things are returning to normal.”
Relief flashes over his face before he tries to hide it. “The Japanese have been coming by, demanding double—sometimes triple—the usual rent… and smashing things up when I can’t keep up.”
There it is. Another small business bled dry because of Kenji’s greed. I’m starting to think he didn’t want to rule our territory. He wanted to suck it dry so we would have nothing to come back to if we ever tried to reclaim our turf.
“We’ll handle them,” Sandro says, leaning against the counter with the casual confidence that makes his authority unquestionable. “Your rent pays for our protection, so they won’t be bothering you anymore.”
The man nods so fast, I think his head might pop off.
“We’ll give you a month’s reprieve on rent.” Then I slap a thick stack of cash onto the counter. “To help cover the repairs you’ve had to make,” I add. “Keep doing what you’re doing. We’ll take care of the rest.”
Relief breaks openly across his face now. “Grazie. Thank you, truly.”
With a nod, we head back out the front door, and I scan the street to ensure the extra men I’ve assigned to the area are on full alert.
They look natural enough, but it isn’t hard to spot them with my practiced eye as they loiter in doorways or chat up the convenience store cops.
Sandro waits until we’re a block away before circling back to the real problem. “You never answered my question.”
“Which one?” I say, though I already know.
“The one about whether you screwed things up with your wife.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Everything with you is complicated,” he says. “Except your aim. That’s the only simple thing about you.”
Miko laughs. “He’s not wrong.”
I should tell Sandro to drop it. I should tell him it doesn’t matter, because our marriage is fake anyway.
But that’s the one thing I can’t say, and the guilt of keeping something from my brothers is like acid in my throat—just another thing to weigh on my conscience.
The price I’m having to pay to make this alliance work is slowly eating away at me.
Not for the first time, I debate if it wouldn’t be better to just come clean.
To find another way to achieve the vengeance that we’re seeking.
But I don’t know how many more stumbling stones my brothers will be willing to take. I’ve already lost Leo and Gio’s support.
They want nothing to do with our father’s shady business dealings any longer.
Who’s to say that Miko and Sandro might not see the sense in cutting their losses?
Miko has his own empire to run now, after all, and Sandro is so smitten with Evi, I don’t doubt he would abandon everything we’ve fought so hard for if she asked him to.
No, I need to crush the Tanakas while I still have Miko and Sandro at my back.
It needs to happen fast.
And that means I need this alliance with the Murrays, which means sticking to the deal I made with Aisling—no matter the cost.
I agreed to keep our arrangement private, even from my brothers, and it could all fall apart if I don’t hold up my end of the bargain.
I’ve already slipped up once, breaking our no-sex rule.
I can’t afford to make any more missteps.
Sandro nudges me with his elbow. “Is it about Genevieve?” he asks softly.
My stomach drops—because Sandro never brings up my late wife. He knows better.
And the pain that sluices through me is enough to bring me up short.
A slick, unwelcome memory of Genevieve’s smile flickers through me like candlelight, soft, gentle, then gone.
“No,” I say sharply.
“It’s okay if it is.”
My twin and I don’t do deep emotional conversations.
We might know each other better than we know ourselves, but part of that comes with the understanding that reopening old wounds is off limits—because in our world, moving forward is the only way to survive.
So I scowl at him with the silent warning that he’s pushing his luck. “It’s not.”
But Sandro studies me in that way that says he can see straight through my lie. “You just… sometimes, you get that look.”
“What look?”
“Like you’re punishing yourself for living without her.”
“You’re starting to sound insightful,” I grumble. “Knock it off.”
Sandro’s stoic expression turns rueful, one corner of his mouth lifting sadly. “All I’m saying is maybe we expected too much of you, asking you to marry Aisling so soon after…”
“You didn’t ask me to do anything. I chose to marry Aisling entirely of my own volition,” I argue.
“Maybe. But we could have found another way. I mean, you’ve barely had time to process—”
“Who says I need to process anything?” I bristle.
“You’ve hardly spoken about her, Raf,” Miko adds, his voice low and restrained.
I can see the pity in their faces, hear the worry in my brothers’ tones, and it unleashes a bomb inside me, sending shrapnel tearing through my chest and gut.
I really don’t have the strength to humor their attempt at compassion—even if they’re right.
I’ve been avoiding my grief over Genevieve like the plague.
Because if I face the loss, it also means facing the guilt I feel over her death.
Because I failed to protect my wife—failed her in the worst way imaginable—and it cost Genevieve her life.
And secretly, in some dark, unspoken place inside me, I wonder if this isn’t the punishment I deserve.
But that has nothing to do with why Aisling hates me, and that’s what they want answers for.
I know my brothers.
They won’t let this go until I give them something.
So I huff a breath of frustration and pinch the bridge of my nose. “It’s not about Genevieve.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure,” I snap.
They wait, standing patiently on the sidewalk beside me.
I exhale, watching vapor bloom in the cold air. “Fine. Aisling and I have history.”
Sandro frowns. “History like… you knew each other before the wedding?”
“Yeah.”
They wait for more, Miko’s blue eyes penetrating, Sandro’s hazel ones expectant.
Fine. “We slept together,” I say. “Five years ago. A few times.”
Miko’s head jerks back. “What?”
Sandro whistles low. “That’s a bold move—even for you.”
“She didn’t tell me who she was,” I defend myself. “How was I supposed to know one of the Murray girls would waltz into Portentia’s?”
“And you think she didn’t know who you were?” Sandro says it lightly, but there’s a question buried under it. “Her family could have sent her as a spy.”
“Not a chance. She definitely didn’t want her parents finding out I took her virginity.” I rub a hand over my jaw.
“You what?” Miko barks, his eyes widening.
“Yeah, my thoughts exactly. I knew it could start a conflict—that it definitely wouldn’t be good for our family—so I cut things off when I found out who she was.”
“No wonder she hates you,” Sandro says, eyebrows lifting. “I’m shocked she agreed to marry you at all.”
“She doesn’t hate him,” Miko mutters. “She wants to hate him. There’s a big difference.”
“Not helping,” I say.
Sandro sighs. “But she never forgave you.”
“No.”
“Because you broke her heart,” he says.
I look away. “Apparently.”
He walks a few quiet steps with me before he speaks again. “So, why not try talking to her? Get to know her now, not the version of her in your head from five years ago.”
“Because it doesn’t matter,” I say, and it’s the truest lie I’ve ever told.
Because our marriage is fake—and we’ll dissolve it the second things are settled with the Yakuza.
“What matters is that our alliance is stable, and this marriage—however rocky it might be—is the only thing ensuring the Murrays will keep their word.”
“It’ll matter fifty years down the road,” Sandro says quietly, his expression grave. “You don’t want to spend a lifetime with someone who can’t stand to be in the same room as you, Brother.”
If only he knew how right he is. “Who’s to say I’ll live that long anyway, right?” I joke darkly, clapping him on the shoulder.
Sandro frowns. “You’ll drive yourself crazy if you don’t talk to her.”
I nod, because arguing clearly isn’t going to end this discussion. “Thanks,” I say. And I mean it, because Sandro is my anchor. He always has been.
But the guilt sits heavily anyway.
Guilt that I can’t tell my brothers that my marriage is a sham.
Guilt that I can’t fix what I ruined five years ago.
Guilt that Genevieve’s ghost still sits between me and any possible future.
Guilt over the way Aisling can no longer meet my eye.
I never should have lost control with her.
Because every time she walks out of a room to avoid me, something in my chest twists tighter, and I’m starting to think the tension between us isn’t going anywhere.
But God help me, I’m not sure I have what it takes to keep my hands off her.