Epilogue
ISLA
Three weeks later
I didn’t take Raffael up on his offer.
Not immediately.
I insisted I needed more time, even though my heart was in my throat, my life already rewritten to revolve around him.
He didn’t argue. Didn’t crowd me, interject, or negotiate.
He digested the rejection with composure, revealing the return of his control. That admirable, obnoxiously sexy restraint that never ceases to make my toes curl.
But I also saw the cost. Witnessed the straightening of his shoulders and the steely rise of his chin that announced the punishment I’d inflicted.
I soothed the sting by caving to his insistence to drive me home—the ride painstaking, my request for time coming back to bite me because all I wanted was to set fire to caution and indulge in what felt right.
He’d pulled to the curb in front of my building, gripped the steering wheel like it was the only thing holding him back from dragging me onto his lap, and told me to “sleep well” while looking at me as if trying to memorize my face in case he never saw me again.
Sleep. Well.
As if sleep were at all possible with the heat still in my veins and the longing that ate at my chest.
The fact he’d been willing to let me walk, given his aversion to defeat, only made me want him more.
So I don’t exactly blame myself for unclasping my belt, climbing across the center console, and instigating what will forever be known as the spectacularly ill-advised and overly indulgent reconciliation that laughed in the face of self-preservation.
Was there potential for being charged with public indecency? Yes.
Was I too lust-drunk to contemplate the legal ramifications? Obviously.
But I haven’t regretted the choice for a second.
Not during the early hours of that morning when I lay in Raffael’s bed, tucked against his chest, the world finally sliding into alignment after years of friction and denial.
And not in the weeks since, where every day has held a highlight of him, either through a shared meal, a stolen morning, an intimate phone call, or dangerously domesticated menial chores like when he shadows me while I buy groceries.
“Morning.” His lips quirk in that low-key confident way that makes my insides melt as he strolls into his living room, chest bare, sleep pants slung low on his hips.
“Morning.” I bury my face in my coffee mug and take a sip, hoping to hide my enamored grin. He’s so incredibly gorgeous I swear his parents must have sold their souls for the genetic perfection. “I need to get home and do laundry. Your bedroom is becoming a dumping ground for my dirty clothes.”
He continues toward me seated at his dining table, places a kiss to my temple, and ignores the knock at the front door that catches me off guard.
“Or I can save you the inconvenience and have your things moved here,” he murmurs against my skin, devilish and deep, as if his statement isn’t a huge change in the trajectory of our relationship.
I gulp a mouthful of coffee, the temptation of him outweighing my better judgment.
The offer should feel like a noose. Instead, a rush of joy washes through me. A giddy inevitability.
The knock sounds again. A harsh rat-a-tat-tat.
“Cavallo,” a woman shouts from the hall.
Raffael groans.
I snap my gaze to the entry. “Is that Quinn?”
“Jesus Christ. Not again.” Raffael exhales like a man bracing for torture and crosses the room, yanking the front door wide. “What—”
“Your brother is itching for an early grave.” Quinn storms in.
“And if he’s not careful, his incarceration is going to become one of those padded-cell, straightjacket-type situa—” She spots me at the dining table and stops short, her frazzled irritation melting into something that tries to be amusement but doesn’t quite land.
“Well, well, well. Look who got caught out in a lie about taking things slow.”
Her attention sweeps over me—my crinkled pajamas, my finger-combed hair—her conclusions unmistakably X-rated if the glint in her eye is anything to go by.
My face heats, the bite of jealousy I once felt learning about my best friend communicating with Raffael behind my back no longer an issue. Instead, warmth infuses me. A fever of happiness I should’ve shared with Quinn weeks ago.
“We are taking things slow.” Raffael closes the front door and returns to stand behind me. “And maintaining this pace is an ongoing exercise of restraint.”
I snort.
“If only my brother’s prison warden could stand to show the same control, instead of making house calls to vent her frustrations.” His hands settle on my shoulders, his tone turning sardonically reverent. “Despite those visits being such a fucking delight.”
“I wouldn’t have to come all this way if you answered your phone,” she argues, a glimpse of exhaustion seeping through. “I’ve called five times this morning.”
“When I’m with Isla I don’t tolerate interruptions,” he counters.
“Aww. That’s disgusting. I’m thrilled for you.
” Her face deadpans. “But given Eliseo’s threat to set off the emergency sprinklers, you might want to pause the lovefest and come up with a story to explain why your brother is currently imprisoned in his penthouse for when the fire department rolls in. ”
I sit straighter. “I thought he agreed to the terms of his confinement.”
“He did,” they both say in unison.
“But apparently there’s a caveat where he insists his big brother finally comes to visit.” Quinn crosses her arms over her chest, glowering at Raffael expectantly.
“Ignore him.” His hands slide from my shoulders, and he moves to the kitchen, posture stiff, his guard seeming to shift into place.
“That’s a little hard when some dumb fuck insisted on installing safety call buttons in his penthouse cell.”
I glance between them. “Wasn’t that your idea, Quinn?”
“Yes, Isla. Like I said—some dumb fuck.” She continues to glower at Raffael. “Your boy has been pressing the buttons on repeat like he’s ordering lap dances during happy hour.”
“Then uninstall them.” Raffael pulls a glass tumbler from an overhead cupboard.
“And if there’s a legitimate fire issue?” Her voice jumps an octave. “What then? I live with a crispy Cavallo on my conscience?”
“There won’t be a fire.” Raffael shifts to the island counter, setting the glass down with deliberate finality. “And he won’t set off the sprinklers.”
“That’s a bold assumption given Eliseo’s commitment to moral ambiguity,” she argues. “I can assure you his incarceration hasn’t miraculously granted him sound judgment.”
“I know my brother.” Raffael moves to the fridge and retrieves a bottle of juice. “He’s well aware he’s not escaping punishment, and smart enough to understand messing with his current situation would mean a far less favorable alternative.”
Quinn’s arms fall to her sides, her thumbs flicking over her fingers in that familiar restless rhythm. “So I’m just meant to play along with his game of chicken?”
“If you like, you can inform him there are contingencies in place, organized by me, and orchestrated by our cousins. If he dares to follow through with his threat he’ll go to prison for what he’s done, just under the guise of something that doesn’t involve Isla or the family.”
Raffael would frame Eliseo for another crime?
I push to my feet. “Is that true?”
Raffael meets my gaze, his mouth curving in a sad smile of resignation. “It’s a worst-case scenario that will hopefully never eventuate.” He unscrews the juice lid and casually pours a glass. “Michelo has communicated to our brother where I stand on the matter.”
“Interesting…” Quinn’s thumbs flick faster at her sides.
“But are we sure me throwing that info in his face is a good idea? Because, I’m not gonna lie, the thought of provoking Eliseo after the crap he’s put me through is deeply appealing.
It’s just that this entire situation could be deescalated by you simply visiting him, like he’s asked, continuously, for weeks. ”
Raffael’s jaw ticks as he raises his tumbler and takes a drink, glaring at her over the rim.
“Okay. Fine.” She huffs a sharp sigh and holds up her hands in surrender. “I guess we’re sticking with punitive conditioning.”
I want to say something. Anything. But the whole conversation feels too raw. Too revealing.
“I’m going to leave you both to your slow burn.” Quinn backtracks toward the entry with a wink deployed a beat too fast to feel genuine.
She’s hurt. I should’ve told her about my progress with Raffael.
I’ll have to make it up to her.
“Make good choices.” She pivots to the door, pulls it wide, and disappears into the hall, the latch clicking shut behind her to leave an unsettling void in her wake.
The apartment falls quiet.
My insides churn.
Raffael’s relationship with family is a knot of grief, duty, and ruthless loyalty. He still mourns the loss of parents he barely knew—a mother who was taken too soon, a father who existed more as a shadow than presence, and a surrogate dad whose legacy haunts the offices he works in every day.
He carries the weight of truths kept deliberately hidden. Burdens his sister remains sheltered from, by design and mercy.
I haven’t pried or pestered, so how much Aurelia knows is unclear to me, but from what I can tell, Raffael intends to keep her protected from the worst of it.
Family is his grounding. Also his undoing. And somehow I’d been self-absorbed enough to overlook the weight of his silence where Eliseo is concerned.
“You haven’t seen Eliseo since…?” I start, then falter, not wanting to reopen barely healed wounds.
Raffael takes another gulp of juice, his gaze fixed on the space Quinn occupied moments ago. “The last time I saw my brother I left him bruised and bloodied on the floor of the cell he’d kept you in.”
My chest tightens. Therapy has taught me how to sit with unwanted memories without unraveling. The problem is, this pain I’m feeling isn’t mine. It’s his. “But he’s asked to see you?”