Chapter 23 Aisling
AISLING
Mortification burns hotter than any fear I felt for Raf’s safety as I realize just how carelessly I tipped my hand.
His grin is slow and devastating, like he’s savoring every second of my exposed concern as he studies my face with mild amusement.
It’s too late to play it off now. I was so worried Raf’s life might genuinely be in danger, I hadn’t wasted a second thought on maintaining my mask of cool indifference or stopped to consider the ramifications of showing my true emotions.
And now he’s seen just how much I care.
With a knowing glance in my direction, Evi finishes tying off the final suture and gives a satisfied hum.
Then she gently applies gauze over his forearm.
“There,” she says briskly. “You’re lucky it was a clean cut.
It should heal fast as long as you don’t reopen it.
No heavy lifting,” she warns, leveling a slender finger in his direction.
Raf raises a brow. “Heavy lifting? I wouldn’t dream of it. That’s what Sandro’s for.”
Raf’s twin snorts from behind him, his muscle-bound arms crossing over his chest.
Evi just smiles and shakes her head as she gathers her medical kit and stands.
Her gaze flicks between us with open amusement. “Try to keep him out of trouble,” she tells me lightly, like I might have any sway over what Raf does.
I roll my eyes. “He’s a grown man. If he wants to be an idiot, who am I to stop him?”
Evi giggles as she lets Sandro wrap an arm around her waist and steer her toward the door.
“We’ll leave you two to discuss,” he says, giving his brother a rather pointed look that makes me wonder what it is Sandro thinks Raf has to say to me.
The door closes behind them with a decisive click, and silence settles in, thick and intimate.
I’m still standing too close to Raf, and I force myself to take a step back, but his voice catches me, and my heart skips a beat when he rises smoothly to his feet.
“You were actually worried about me, weren’t you?” His eyes glint with amusement as he takes a step closer.
I scoff, crossing my arms. “Don’t get carried away.”
His eyebrows quirk in silent challenge. “Come on, Aisling. You burst into the room like I’d been run through.”
“Because from the way my brothers made it sound, you nearly were,” I shoot back. “I don’t enjoy being caught off guard.”
Something softens in his expression, but his tone is still playful as he keeps on goading me. “It warms my heart to know my wife cares so deeply.” He’s never going to let me live this down.
I huff derisively. “Care is a strong word, but… just because our marriage is fake doesn’t mean I want you dead.”
“No?” Raf teases, taking another step closer. “Because I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what you want—or has that changed?”
Oh, God, he’s right. There was a time in life I definitely would have considered his head in a box the perfect present, but now… I don’t know what I want. “Yeah, well, no one gets to kill you but me. Besides, I don’t want you dying before you’ve served your purpose.”
He laughs, a low, inviting sound that curls through my chest. “And what purpose is that?”
“You know exactly what,” I say sweetly. “I need you alive long enough for my family to claim what they’re owed. After that, if someone’s going to kill you, it should be me.”
His smile turns dangerous. “Ah. So possessive.”
“Practical,” I counter. “I’d hate it if someone robbed me of the satisfaction.”
Raf lifts his chin, looking down the straight edge of his nose as he studies me like I’m something fascinating and volatile. “I’ll do my best to survive,” he says. “For you.”
My pulse stutters traitorously.
I gesture to his arm, careful to keep my voice passive this time. “You’re really okay?”
His gaze dips, then returns to my face, more serious now. “I’ve lived with worse than stitches. I promise.”
I hesitate, then nod. “Good.”
He watches me for a beat longer than necessary before shifting gears. “I’m glad you’re here. I’ve been meaning to tell you, Commissioner Doyle’s secretary reached out. We’re invited to dinner with the commissioner and his wife.”
I inhale. “When?”
“Saturday night,” he says.
My stomach flip-flops, and I smile. “How intimate?”
“Fairly,” Raf confirms. “There should be ten of us.”
“That’ll be a great opportunity,” I acknowledge.
My father’s always said that having Commissioner Doyle in your back pocket is better than a get-out-of-jail-free card, and I know Raf has been working hard to gain his ear.
“He was close with my father,” Raf continues. “Though Leo was the one who spoke with him most recently, it shouldn’t be too hard to extend his good will to us. You and I made a good first impression at the gala, but this is where we seal the deal.”
I meet his eyes. “Then we’ll give them exactly what they want to see.”
His gaze flickers, something unreadable passing through it. “Yes,” he says softly. “We will. He and his wife are known for being… wholesomely family-oriented—to an archaic degree. So, be ready. We really need to play up the happy-couple image this time.”
Of course we will.
Saturday arrives like a held breath. Evi was kind enough to dress me again, and as I run my hands over the dusty-rose fabric of the silk halter-top dress, I know I look the pinnacle of elegance.
My hair is done up in a wistful chignon, a few loose curls left to frame my face, and delicate diamonds dangle from my ears, understated and classy.
The mirror reflects a woman who belongs at Don Rafael Chiaroscuro’s side.
A woman who looks like she wants exactly what this life promises, and I smile as I let my mask slide into place.
When I turn to Evi, she gives me a warm hug. “You look perfect,” she says.
It’s not hard to make my smile genuine with her, and I give her a squeeze before collecting my clutch and heading toward the bedroom door. “Thanks. Wish me luck.”
“You won’t need it!” she calls as I enter the hall and make my way toward the stairs.
My descent isn’t all flashy and dramatic like last time.
It’s just me and Raf going to the dinner with a few more of the commissioner’s guests, but still, warmth pools in my belly when I find my fake husband waiting for me at the foot of the stairs.
He’s on the phone, wrapping up a conversation with one of his captains that sounds like hostility between the Italians and the Japanese is really starting to heat up.
From what my mother has told me, it’s getting more intense on our side as well, which means the Yakuza are starting to feel the noose tighten. But that’s not what I care to think about right now.
Raf’s distraction gives me a moment of unobstructed opportunity to study him, and my heart flutters as I take in the crisp lines of his navy-blue Italian suit, the white dress shirt and pink paisley tie that will perfectly coordinate with the color of my dress without looking too matchy.
His cognac brown wingtip leather dress shoes have been polished to a shine, making him just as sharp and well dressed as always.
But it’s the lock of dark hair that’s fallen loose of its perfect styling to hang before his hazel eyes that makes my heart stutter.
It’s a hint of dishevelment that Raf never shows to the world.
But here in his house, as his wife, I get to see the small glimpses of the man behind his pristine image.
The moments when he lets down his guard to play a dragon or feel the emotions life is determined to draw out of him.
And I can’t deny that it’s moments like this that awaken my attraction toward him.
I shouldn’t want him. He’s not mine to desire.
His heart belongs to a woman I’ll never be able to compete with—not that I should want to after our history. But more and more, I can’t seem to help myself. I can’t stop the butterflies that come to life when I see him, can’t ignore the way my pulse quickens when he gets close.
Raf ends the call as my heels meet the cold marble of the foyer, rapping smartly across the hard surface and announcing my presence.
His fingers comb through his hair, returning the rebellious lock back to its place as he turns to look at me, and a smirk tilts his lips into a crooked smile as he takes me in.
“You’re perfect,” he says, a hint of pride edging his tone, and it makes my cheeks warm—even if I know he doesn’t mean it like it sounds.
He means I’m dressed just right for the occasion. But my traitorous heart doesn’t care what he means.
“Shall we?” he says, offering me his elbow, and I take it for stability as we head out the door and onto the gravel drive.
It’s a relatively easy drive into the heart of the city, where we pull up to the curb along Maple Street and step out in front of the three-story gray brick building that hosts one of the finest steakhouses in Chicago.
Two of Raf’s guards step out behind us before the driver pulls away to park the car just down the block. With raised tensions and no Sandro to serve as Raf’s personal bodyguard, the men are here just as a precaution, and they stay near the door as we step inside.
We’re greeted by a distinguished gentleman wearing a black suit, his salt-and-pepper beard and hair styled to perfection as he gives us a polite bow. “Did you have a reservation with us this evening?” he asks.
“Yes, we’re with Commissioner Doyle,” Raf says, and the man’s eyes light up.
“Of course, right this way.” He guides us through the restaurant to a back room enclosed by glass walls, and as soon as we enter, the guests who have already arrived rise to greet us.
We go around the table, sharing introductions with the guests who range from one of the top journalists at the Chicago Tribune to a business tycoon from New York who’s just here with his wife for the weekend.
Then we settle into our seats, Raf at the corner of the table, next to the commissioner, who sits at the head, me across from Kate Doyle and Jenna Jenkis, the wife from New York.
“So, tell me, Aisling,” Kate insists, “my husband says you’re interested in getting involved in some humanitarian efforts?”