Bonus Epilogue
RAFAEL
Five years ago…
“Well, well, well… What brings the great Rafael Moretti to my humble abode?” Neil Gallagher’s smirk crawls across his face while he rolls his unlit cigar between his fingers.
I pick up the lighter on the table and flick it on. “Business, Gallagher. Purely business.”
He raises a single brow as he leans forward, touching the cigar’s tip to the flame. The tobacco catches, glowing ember-red, and the sharp scent of burning leaves fills my nostrils. I snap the lighter shut, watching him take a deep pull before blowing the smoke directly into my face—a cheap power play that almost makes me laugh. I don’t even blink.
“Is that so?” He finally drawls after two more long drags. “And might this business concern a certain feisty little lass I currently have in my… care?” His voice drips with insinuation and it takes every ounce of my considerable control not to lunge across the table and shake the information out of him.
He’s a smart one, I’ll give him that.
But then he had to be—to successfully claw his way up from a lowly foot solder to the boss of his own mafia outfit, with no familial or royal ties to smooth his climb. “Funny you should mention that, Neil. Yes, it was brought to my attention that you have in your possession something that belongs to me.”
“Ah, but you see, the lass got a wee bit too curious, started stickin’ her pretty little nose where it don’t belong. I can’t just be handin’ her over all willy-nilly like and—” He cuts off abruptly when one of his men appears at his side, bending to whisper urgently into his ear.
Neil stiffens. His eyes, previously heavy-lidded with false ease, now burn with rage as he glares at me. “Ye wouldn’t have anything to do with her sudden disappearance now, would ye boyo?” His Irish brogue thickens, his temper rising with it.
Fuck. “She’s gone? You mean you lost her?” I launch myself from the booth, cursing viciously. My phone is already in my hand as I sprint through the club, dialing my investigator—the one who I tasked with watching her here in Boston.
He was supposed to make sure nothing happened to her—well, nothing more . Because the last I’d heard, my little trouble maker had gone and gotten herself kidnapped.
“Bryan–”
“I was just about to call you, Mr. Moretti. It seems Miss Rossi has managed to pull a Houdini on her captors. Slipped right out of that little brownstone they were keeping her in. I’m following her trail now, but I’m afraid she’s got at least a dozen seriously pissed-off Irishmen on her heels.”
“Where are you right now?” I demand as I get into my car, connecting my device to the Bluetooth so I can talk to him as I drive.
“I’m on the move. I’ll share my location—just follow me.” A pause. “Come with backup.”
I end the call without telling him there’s no backup.
It’s just me and Lorenzo, who gives me a flat, unimpressed look. “Are you sure about this? You risk turning Neil into an enemy. And for what? Some woman who betrayed you years ago and seems to have an unending vendetta against us all? Rafael, this isn’t you, I?—”
“Shut the fuck up or get out of my fucking car.” The words rip from my throat as I tear out of the parking lot. Lorenzo grunts as he grabs hold of the handlebar, but he wisely keeps quiet.
The engine roars as I push it well past any legal limit, weaving through traffic like a man possessed. And maybe I am—possessed by the ghost of what Emilia and I once were, by the demons of what we’ve become.
Bryan’s text flashes on my phone.
SHE’S SURROUNDED. THEY’RE HERDING HER WEST
Lorenzo sees it too, and I feel his stare burning into the side of my face before he speaks. “She’s being herded that way for a reason, Rafael. It’s a trap. We can’t just waltz in there.”
He’s right. Of course, he’s right. I know it’s a trap.
If I were in Neil’s shoes and discovered an FBI agent investigating my business, I wouldn’t let her escape. I’d make damn sure she never left my city alive to tell her bosses what she learned.
“Fuck!” My fist slams into the steering wheel, and the car jerks into the opposite lane with a squeal. An oncoming truck’s horn blares, but I barely flinch as I yank us back on course.
“Mother of God,” my asshole second-in-command mutters, gripping the handlebar tighter.
I should forget about her. Turn this car around, go back to New York, and let Gallagher deal with her however he damn well pleases. She fucking betrayed me. Ripped my heart out and stomped on it with her dainty little feet—then had the nerve to act like I’m the villain in our story, like she was the one wronged. She’s fucking tripping. I need to find a way to cut myself loose from this twisted, toxic, love-hate mess before it drags me under.
But I can’t.
I just need to fucking understand—once and for all—what her issue is. What changed? What made her turn on me like a rabid dog after everything we shared? That question has haunted me the past five years, ever since I kicked her out of my penthouse. I should never have let her go. I should have fucking locked her away, somewhere safe, until my wounded rage subsided enough for me to get my answers.
Maybe then I wouldn’t be stuck in this endless cycle—hunting for answers, sending investigators after her, chasing her around the fucking country like some lovesick dog. Which I most definitely am not.
“Please tell me you have some kind of plan beyond storming in and getting us both killed.” Lorenzo breaks the tense silence.
I glance down at my phone, slowing the car as I realize Bryan’s stopped moving—we’re right behind him. His latest text makes my stomach drop.
HER CAR brOKE DOWN. SHE’S NOW ON FOOT.
I’m out of the car before it comes to a complete stop, scanning the area with narrowed eyes. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and figure something out, genius?”
EMILIA
“Fucking piece of shit junk car,” I grumble viciously under my breath, glancing over my shoulder briefly as I weave through the crowd at the park. I earn a few weird looks, so I slow my sprint down into a light jog.
Did I lose them? Somehow, I doubt it. I can still feel eyes on me. Those Irish thugs are persistent motherfuckers.
Up ahead, I spot a thick line of trees—perfect. Less populated. A good place to lose my tail. One last glance behind me, and I nearly choke on my tongue. Damn it! There they are, faces I’ve memorized during my captivity, now twisted with murderous intent. To hell with appearances.
I break into a run again and rush through the thick foliage, ignoring the stinging pain of the branches scraping against my skin and snagging at my clothes.
Once I’m safely past the worst of it, I drop into a crouch, moving silent as death towards a massive oak tree. The sound of pursuit closes in—low curses and snapping twigs. I press my back against the rough bark, hardly daring to breathe, as the men chasing me burst through the foliage like a herd of enraged buffalo. They barrel right past my impromptu hiding spot without so much as a sideways glance, and it takes all I have not to let out a victorious laugh.
I’m about to blow out a relieved sigh when a hand suddenly clamps over my mouth from behind. Panic surges through my veins with the force of a tsunami, and I thrash wildly, kicking back at my captor’s shin. But it’s useless—I barely manage more than a weak tap, nowhere near enough to do any real damage. Every self-defense technique I know rendered useless by the iron grip around my waist.
“Shhh, it’s okay, piccola. It’s me.” The deep, masculine voice washes over me, and despite everything, my body betrays me—I go slack, melting into his familiar heat. But the moment I realize what I’m doing, I jolt upright, stiffening as I wrench myself away from him with a muffled curse.
“What the hell are you doing here, Rafael?” I whisper-yell, whirling to face him, and my heart nearly stops when I spot a man behind him—gun raised, aimed right at us.
Neil Gallagher.
“Hands up, the both of ye,” the Irish mobster commands, his expression all fury.
“Great, you brought a tail with you,” I grumble, slowly raising my hands to shoulder height.
“Is that the thank you I get for trying to rescue your ass?” Rafael’s tone is light, playful even, but I know better. Behind those silver eyes, the gears are already turning. He raises his hands as well, but it’s not surrender. He’s planning something. He’s always planning something.
“Oh please. I’m not some damsel in distress.” I roll my eyes, exasperated. This isn’t the first fucking time he’s pulled this shit. “You need to stop, Rafael. As you can see, I did just fine rescuing myself until you interfered.”
“I–”
“Jesus Christ, will the pair of ye shut up and step forward?” Neil snaps, cutting off Rafael’s words.
I share a glance with Rafael, an entire conversation passing between us in the space of a heartbeat. And as one, we move, lunging at Gallagher in a chaotic tangle of limbs and curses. The gun goes off with a deafening crack, and I flinch reflexively, expecting the sharp, tearing pain of a bullet—but thankfully it never comes.
Still, the sound alone is enough to screw us. Gallagher’s men are nearby, and they most likely heard the shot. We don’t have much time.
Rafael grapples for the gun, slamming Gallagher’s wrist against the ground until the man’s fingers spasm and the weapon tumbles free. Just then another man bursts into the clearing. I scramble to my feet, fists up and ready to fight, but I recognize him as one of Rafael’s most trusted men and allow a tiny bit of tension to drain from my shoulders.
“Damn it, Rafael,” he grumbles as he moves to cuff the struggling Neil Gallagher.
“I hope you don’t take this too personally, Neil,” Rafael says, patting the man’s shoulder as he stands up. “But you have to understand, she’s mine.”
Excuse me? “Yours? I don’t belong to you, you arrogant–” The rest of my tirade is lost in a grunt as Rafael grabs my hand, lacing his fingers through mine in an unbreakable grip.
“Run.” At the same moment, I hear the footsteps closing in.
On autopilot, my legs start moving with his, and we fly through the park, leaping over picnicking families and dodging baffled dog walkers. Past the river where a group of awestruck children are tossing bits of bread at the ducks, Across the grass and into the parking lot, skidding to a stop beside a black SUV with windows tinted so dark they’re nearly opaque.
Rafael opens the backdoor, “Get in.” And like some sheep, I fucking do. It isn’t until we’re cruising down the road at 30 miles per hour that I finally snap out of it.
What the fuck am I doing?
My training kicks in. I slide closer to the driver’s seat and wrap my elbow around it until my arm locks around Rafael’s throat. “Stop the car. Right now.”
The metallic click of a gun being cocked splits the air.
“I wouldn't do that if I were you, sweetheart,” comes the soft, almost bored drawl from the passenger seat. “I’ll blow your brains out faster than you can choke him to death.”
I believe him. My heart pounds fiercely, hot sweat slicking down my back despite the AC blasting in the car.
“You’ve become so ungrateful, piccola .” Rafael’s voice rumbles against my arm, his stubble scratching my skin in a way that sends unwanted shivers down my spine. “A man comes to your rescue, and this is the thanks he gets? This is how you repay me for looking out for you these past few years? For?—”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I stammer, trying to ignore the part of my brain whispering that I know exactly what he’s talking about. He’s been a fucking albatross around my neck for the last three years. I’d be on missions and catch glimpses of him.
Critical moments where I’d almost lose my life or freedom—someone dies, and then I’m free. And in the distance, I’d see someone watching me. Watching over me like some guardian angel. More like guardian demon.
Someone who looked suspiciously like him.
At first, I thought I was going crazy—torn between guilt for betraying him and anger at what he did. But then six months ago, I knew for sure.
I got pushed off that yacht into the frigid, churning ocean. The currents were relentless and kept dragging me under. I was so sure I’d really die that time. But then strong arms wrapped around my waist, towing me up, up, up until I broke the surface, coughing and sputtering.
I don’t know when I passed out, but by the time I came to on the shore, my rescuer was long gone. All that was left was a single petal from an azalea flower, half-buried in the sand beside me.
He’s the only one who teases me with azaleas.
“It doesn’t fucking matter,” I grit out before he can respond. It doesn’t. It doesn’t. It doesn’t. I won’t let it matter. “Just unlock the doors and stop the fucking car.”
He takes one hand off the steering wheel, moving slowly—not towards the controls, but as if to reach for something.
I tighten my grip on his throat.
He grunts, “Easy now, kitten.”
Fuck me. He’s not going to stop or unlock the doors just because I asked nicely. And I know I’m not going to kill him. We both know that. Which means we’re at a standstill, tension thick as hell. The gun his man has trained on me doesn’t waver either.
But then Rafael produces a square box, about the size of his head, and waves it up. “Take this, and I’ll let you go.” A pause. Then, because he’s an asshole, “For now.”
The addition makes me want to scream. He’ll never truly let me go—we’re caught in each other’s orbits like binary stars, destined to circle each other until we finally collide and destroy everything in our wake.
“Lorenzo.” He flicks a glance at his man, who thins his lips in disapproval but lowers his gun.
I relax slightly, but I don’t let my guard down. With my free hand, I snatch the box, then slowly—so fucking slowly—loosen my grip around his throat. Rafael clears his throat dramatically, fingers brushing where I squeezed, and finally hits the unlock button.
I don’t wait for him to slow down. The second the locks click, I’m launching myself onto the street before rational thought can intervene.
Horns blare. Tires screech. Pain explodes in my leg as a car clips me, but I roll with the impact, already pushing myself up. In front of me, Rafael’s car skids to a halt.
“ Are you fucking crazy?! ” His roar carries over the chaos of traffic, genuine fear threading through his anger.
Maybe. Probably. But I don’t stop. I wince but push forward, limping away from him as fast as my throbbing leg allows, out of the traffic and blending into the sidewalk.
At the corner, I can’t resist one final look back. He’s standing in the street, his usual composed mask cracked to reveal something raw and desperate that makes my chest ache.
I wrench my gaze away, clutching the box tighter as I turn the corner. I couldn’t risk him going back on his word, because if he decided not to let me go, there’d be nothing I could do about it—not without one of us getting seriously hurt.
And a part of me—just a tiny part—wanted him to keep me.
But I’m not giving into that weak side of me.
Not today. Not ever .
It isn’t until hours later, when I’m safely tucked into the small private plane my colleague—and closest thing I have to a best friend—Katie chartered for me, and headed back to Quantico, that I find the courage to finally open the box.
The stench hits me first. I gag, but my eyes stay locked on the box.
Because inside, staring up at me, is a severed head. The head of Jackson Delaware. The FBI agent who was partnered with me on this mission. His mouth is wide open, like he was screaming when he was killed, eyes squeezed shut, and face twisted in terror.
My stomach churns, but not with grief.
Jackson fucked up.
His cover got blown by the slut he was fucking, and when Neil Gallagher got his hands on him, he sang like a fucking canary, throwing me under the bus in exchange for his freedom.
I watched him walk out of the Gallagher’s nest in disbelief, knowing damn well there was no way he’d go back to headquarters to report what happened. Because he’d gone rogue. And for that, he’d be punished.
I figure he must have gone into hiding to protect himself from both the agency and the Irish mafia. And if there’s one thing rats like him are good at, it’s finding the deepest, darkest holes on earth to hide in.
So how the hell did Rafael find him? No—how the hell did he even know what Jackson did in the first place? And why kill him? Revenge for me? Some fucked-up attempt to impress me?
Whatever his reason, I am indeed impressed.
Despite myself, I smile as I shut the box and hug it to my chest. It makes me feel safe. Like no matter what’s going on between us, he’s always watching. Always looking out for me.
But that doesn’t mean I’ll ever let my guard down. I can’t let this gesture, however grand and bloody, deter me from my path.
No matter what, I won’t be denied my revenge.