Chapter 22 Rafael
RAFAEL
The butcher shop smells like iron and old sawdust, a scent I’ve known since childhood. The Top Chop is one of the businesses my father floated years ago, back when Chicago still remembered who protected it.
It was a mutually beneficial agreement the two came to, since Luigi Bennati is one of those men who never could seem to stay away from the appeal of fast money and hot dice.
But since the cash flow on our end has taken a minor dip, Luigi’s services have become much more erratic—and his penchant for spending beyond his means is starting to cause problems.
Which is exactly what brings us here today.
The Murray brothers—always up for a bit of roughhousing—decided to tag along with us this time as Sandro, Miko, and I pound pavement, reclaiming territory, block by block, door by door, calling in long-overdue debts that didn’t stop existing just because Don Augusta’s heart quit.
Most of the shop owners have seemed relieved to see us.
That part might surprise people who don’t understand how this city actually works.
Honest businessmen like stability.
They like knowing whom they owe and what they get in return. From the Chiaroscuros, it’s respect and protection.
But in our absence, the Tanakas have squeezed too hard, doubling payments and threatening families when the local shopkeepers couldn’t pay up.
Protection starts to feel too much like extortion without the courtesy of keeping the people safe—and that’s what our benefactors have been facing since the Yakuza invaded our territory.
Now that we’re back in power, my men are more than willing to make up for lost time, bringing to rights all the violence and intimidation the residents of our territory have faced in our absence—especially if it means they get to bleed some Yakuza scum.
So, when we walk into a local business, most men straighten their backs and exhale like they’ve been holding their breath for months.
But not Luigi Bennati.
As soon as we step through the door, the ruddy-faced butcher stiffens behind the counter, eyes darting, hands already damp with sweat, and immediately, I know this conversation is going to be an unpleasant one.
Despite the near constant distraction I’ve been wrestling with since Sunday, I can clock the silent signals of his nerves.
Luigi’s always been more trouble than he’s worth, in my opinion.
My father used to say he gambled the way some men prayed—desperately and without sense.
And based on the stricken look on his face, I’d say that’s exactly what he did with the sum of money he borrowed from my father shortly before the old man kicked the bucket.
“Afternoon, Luigi,” I say, keeping my tone casual. “I hope you’ve been enjoying your interest-free loan these past few months because today, the bill’s come due.”
“L-Loan?” Luigi stammers, wiping his sweaty hands on his gore-stained apron.
Sandro steps forward, all sharp angles and quiet menace. “You borrowed forty thousand from Don Augusta. You’re six months overdue.”
The butcher licks his lips. “I thought… I thought, with what happened to your father… God rest his soul…”
“What, you thought that the Chiaroscuros were finished?” Miko prompts.
“We’re not,” Sandro says flatly.
Leaning against a refrigerated case, I cross my arms, trying to anchor myself in the room and focus.
I should be listening closely, but my thoughts keep drifting as I take a back seat to the confrontation.
My brothers know how to handle deadbeats like Luigi, and thoughts of Aisling keep intruding on my mind—like they have every damn day since Riley went home.
I can’t stop seeing Aisling’s tear-stained face, her achingly vulnerable eyes and pouting lips that were too close and far too tempting to expect any red-blooded man to resist.
I can’t stop thinking about the way she looked at me like I was the one solid support she could count on rather than a man built out of ruin.
My thoughts of her are driving me to distraction, and I don’t know what to do about it.
Then Sandro’s voice regains my wandering attention. “You took the money. You pay it back.”
“I don’t have it,” the butcher snaps too quickly.
“What do you mean, you don’t have it?” Sandro presses.
“I mean I had a bad run,” Luigi whines, his expression pinched, like he’s hoping we might take pity on him.
Miko scoffs. “You always do.”
The Murray brothers keep their distance, standing near the door, arms crossed over their chests, expressions amused as the tension in the butchery starts to rise with the voices.
I should step in.
It’s my responsibility to get these strays firmly back under my thumb before they can cause too much damage.
I know that.
But my mind shifts again, traitorously replaying the feel of Aisling in my arms, the way she buried her face against me, and when she rested her chin on my chest, I almost let myself forget who I am—what I owe to the dead.
The butcher moves with a panicky quickness, his hands shaking as he comes out from behind the counter, a butcher knife clutched in his fist. “I said I don’t have the money!
” he shouts, fear bleeding into aggression.
“Your threats won’t change that fact. It’s gone, okay?
How was I supposed to know you’d show up today? Please, I have a family to feed.”
“What do you think you’re going to do with that knife, Luigi?” Sandro mocks, taking a warning step in the butcher’s direction.
“If you come closer, I’ll stab you,” the potbellied man threatens, his voice quivering nearly as violently as his hands.
The threat snaps me back into the moment. I’ve let this go far enough.
“Easy, signore,” I say, raising my hands slowly, palms up, my tone calm and measured. “No one wants this to get messy.”
The last thing I need is for Sandro to lose his temper and get himself hurt in my name.
Then I’ll have to explain to his pregnant wife why she needs to stitch up another one of his reckless injuries.
No, thank you.
I’ve seen my twin bleed enough for a lifetime.
Never again will I let it be because of me.
But Luigi’s eyes are wild, his fear getting the better of him. “You people ruin lives.”
“Hey, now, you borrowed from us,” I counter evenly. “No one forced you.”
“I thought you were gone!”
“Then you should feel fortunate,” I reply. “You’ve been living on borrowed time, Luigi. Put the knife down, and I’ll consider giving you a small extension on the loan.”
He hesitates, and for half a second, I think it might work.
Then he lunges, his trajectory shifting from Sandro to me with rather impressive agility for a man of his size.
He’s clearly unfamiliar with wielding a weapon, but his job has given him more than enough practice chopping into things, and he aims the knife with lethal precision as he lunges straight for my abdomen.
It’s only quick reflexes and a strong survival instinct that have me jumping back in time, my arm coming up defensively.
But I have nothing solid to shield myself with, and pain explodes across my forearm, hot and immediate, as his blade parts my skin, the slice brief but vicious.
I grunt, more surprised than hurt, stumbling back as blood wells and drips to the tile floor.
Chaos erupts.
Sandro and Miko are on the butcher in an instant, knocking the knife away with brutal efficiency.
The Murray brothers pile on next, fists and boots and curses flying as they haul Luigi down and teach him exactly how stupid his choice was.
“Enough,” I bark, grasping my arm to staunch the bleeding as best I can.
The Irish brothers pause, their eyes turning to me.
The butcher sobs, curled on the floor at their feet, broken nose bleeding profusely, face swelling, eyes glazed with terror.
I step closer, hot crimson dripping from my fingertips, and crouch so he has to look at me. “Just because my father is dead doesn’t mean your debt died with him,” I say quietly. “It means you got an extension you didn’t earn.”
He nods frantically.
“One week,” I continue. “When we come back, you’ll have every dollar. If you don’t, this conversation is going to get much uglier.”
We leave him broken but alive, which is more mercy than he deserves—more than I think he expected to receive, either.
I’m aware of the hospital visits he’s had after my father sent men to collect on his previous debts.
But right now, we can’t afford the unwanted attention.
Not until we have the right people in our back pocket once more.
Speaking of which, the message on my phone from Commissioner Doyle’s secretary is burning a hole in my pocket.
I need to talk to Aisling about it.
But perhaps it would be best to stop the bleeding first.
Sandro and I part ways with Miko and the Murray brothers at the cars as we head back to the Chiaroscuro estate so Evi can patch me up.
Sandro’s wife is as gifted with sutures as she is with a sewing needle, and I know she’ll stitch me back together without a problem.
I’m just grateful it’s me she’ll be fixing this time.
I know she hates how often she’s had to nurse Sandro back to health—and I imagine that sentiment has only grown since discovering they have a couple of babies on the way.
My arm throbs the entire ride home, but the pain keeps me grounded, and Sandro doesn’t say a word—even if his scowl says it all for him. I was reckless.
My guard was down because I let myself get distracted.
And I know that if Sandro had his way, I wouldn’t be putting my neck on the line at all.
Not when I’m the last willing heir to this cursed family name.
But I also know how important it is to reclaim this territory in my own right.
We lost it to the Tanakas, and nothing short of a personal appearance from the new Mafia Don is going to make people believe that the Chiaroscuros are still alive—that we’re still a force to be reckoned with.
As the car pulls to a stop in the driveway, it takes more than a little effort and a good amount of blood on the leather seats to get me out of the car and up the steps to Evi’s waiting medical aid.
She clucks at me like a mother hen as she guides me onto a leather chair in the cigar room and sets out her fully stocked first aid kit she always keeps close at hand nowadays.
As Sandro pours me a shot of whiskey, his wife stitches me up with steady hands, her sutures neat and precise, her fingers impressively gentle.
I don’t mind the needle’s sting as she works, and I barely register the pain after downing a couple of shots.
Then the cigar room door swings open with astonishing force.
Aisling rushes in, worry etched across her face. “What happened?” she demands, eyes locking onto my arm. “My brothers said you were attacked at a butcher shop.”
I study my fake wife’s expression, at the concern etched across her delicate features, the way her fine brows are pressed into a deep frown, and something warm and dangerous curls in my chest.
She’s not even trying to hide her distress.
She must be really upset, and the realization fills me with far more satisfaction than it should.
I like that she’s worried about me.
“Easy, focosa,” I say lightly. “It’s just a scratch.”
Her glare sharpens as she leans over Evi to try forming her own assessment. “Are you crazy? You’ve left a trail of blood from here to the front door! I could find you without even trying!”
I grin rakishly. “Scared I’ll bleed out, Wifey?”
Aisling’s cheeks darken to an alluring shade of rose as her eyes snap up to mine. I know she’s regretting her momentary lapse in composure and wishing that I would go easy on her for it, but God, I just can’t help myself. I love to tease her.
“I’m touched,” I say, pressing my glass of whiskey to my chest.