Chapter 2
TWO
DARIO
I arrive at the gym twenty minutes before Rafael Valenti. Always twenty minutes early—enough time to secure the ideal vantage point and watch him try not to notice me. His schedule is a masterpiece of precision: Monday, Wednesday, Friday, 6:45 AM. Like fucking clockwork. The kind of routine that makes stalking him almost too easy, though no less entertaining.
The early morning crew barely glances my way as I claim the bench press near the mirror wall. They know better. Three weeks of showing up here, and even the meathead regulars have learned to give me space. Smart boys. Wish I could say the same for my security detail, hovering by the smoothie bar like a pair of obvious assholes. I catch Marco's eye in the mirror and jerk my chin toward the door. He hesitates—Dad's orders and all that shit—but eventually leads his partner outside. Good. I don't need babysitters for this.
I start a lazy set of presses, barely feeling the weight. My mind is already racing ahead to Rafael's arrival, anticipating the tight line of his shoulders when he spots me. The way he'll try to pretend I don't exist while his body betrays every moment of awareness. Fucking beautiful, his control. Makes me want to shatter it piece by piece.
The gym's floor-to-ceiling windows paint the weight room in early morning light, all clean lines and professional polish. Everything here is designed to look legitimate, respectable. Just like Rafael in his perfectly pressed shirts and color-coded notes. But I saw the truth in his eyes last night in the library. The predator's instinct he tries so hard to bury. He might have fooled anyone else with that ice-cold law student act, but I know what hides under expensive cotton shirts and careful manners. I recognize my own kind.
6:43 AM. Right on schedule, Rafael pushes through the glass doors. His gym clothes are as methodically chosen as his study spot: black shorts, gray shirt, everything fitted but not tight. Nothing flashy. Nothing to draw attention. My lips curl into a smile as I watch his reflection. All that effort to blend in just makes him stand out more, like a wolf trying to play at being a sheep.
He clocks me instantly—I see it in the microscopic pause in his stride—but keeps walking to the cardio section. Sets up at his usual treadmill with mechanical precision. Every movement measured, controlled. It's fucking mesmerizing. I add another plate to the bar, metal clanging loud enough to make him twitch. Just slightly. Just enough.
The morning crowd starts to fill in around us. College kids and early-bird professionals, all wrapped up in their own little worlds. None of them have a clue what they're sharing space with. Two predators playing at being normal, though only one of us is still pretending.
I take my time with each rep, letting Rafael feel the weight of my attention. His form on the treadmill is perfect, because of course it fucking is. But I can see the tension coiling through him with each stride. The way his eyes flick to my reflection when he thinks I'm not watching. He's burning to know why I'm here, what game I'm playing. Good. Let him wonder.
The real fun is watching his control slip, degree by degree. It's there in the sweat darkening his shirt faster than his careful workout should cause. The way his fingers clench too tightly on the treadmill's handles. Every crack in his composure feeds something hungry in my chest. Makes me want to push harder, dig deeper, find out what it takes to make him snap.
My phone buzzes, probably Dad, wanting an update on my "college attendance." Like that matters. The only subject I'm studying is the way Rafael's jaw clenches when I rack my weights too loud. The subtle tells that betray his training. Three years of playing student haven't erased the killer's instincts bred into Valenti bones. He's just buried them under law books and respectability.
Time to change that.
Behind him, the sun breaks through the morning clouds, painting his silhouette in sharp relief. It's almost poetic, this little scene he's built for himself—the dedicated law student getting in his morning workout before class. All clean lines and productive energy. But I can read the violence in the way he runs, each stride too precise, too measured. No wasted movement. No weakness shown. He runs like someone used to being chased.
Dad would tell me I'm wasting my time here. That if we're going to move against the Valentis, it should be something direct. Bloody. Send a real message. But he doesn't see what I see. Doesn't understand how much sweeter it'll be to take apart all this careful control piece by piece. To make Rafael remember exactly what he is and what blood runs in his veins.
The same blood I'm going to spill, one way or another.
The gym manager hovers near the front desk, pretending not to watch me. Smart man. He's already figured out that trouble follows me, even if he doesn't know exactly what kind. I roll my shoulders, enjoying the way he flinches when I stand. Everyone in this place operates on instinct, even if they don't know it. Pure animal awareness of the apex predator in their midst .
Everyone except Rafael. He just keeps running, spine straight, eyes forward. But I know better. I know exactly how aware he is of every move I make.
It's a dance we're starting, him and me. And I plan to lead.
Thirty minutes. That's how long I let him pretend I don't exist. Let him finish his careful cardio routine and move to the weight section, his every movement rigid with restraint. Now he's at the leg press, and I can't help but admire the raw strength he tries to disguise. Another crack in his perfect facade. Another tell he can't quite hide.
I take my time approaching, circling around the machines like I'm deciding what to hit next. The weight room's cleared out a bit; something about the energy rolling off me tends to send the morning crowd scurrying to their corporate jobs. Fine by me. Fewer witnesses to what comes next.
"That's some heavy weight for a law student," I say, positioning myself where he can't ignore me. His form doesn't break and he finishes his rep with the same controlled precision, but I catch the slight flutter of his pulse at his throat. "Then again, you're not just any law student, are you?"
He doesn't answer, just starts his next set. The weights clash with carefully regulated force, his breathing measured and even. But I see the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers grip the handles too tight. Every inch of him screaming awareness while he plays deaf and dumb.
"You know, I've been watching you," I continue, leaning against the adjacent machine. "All these perfect little routines. Same schedule, same machines, same controlled bullshit. Must be exhausting trying so hard to be normal." I let my voice drop lower, intimate. "Tell me, Rafael, do you actually enjoy any of it? Or is it just another piece of your costume?"
His rhythm falters for a fraction of a second. Barely noticeable, but to me, it's like blood in the water. I step closer, into his peripheral vision. "I bet you miss it sometimes. The real training. The kind that actually matters in our world. All this..." I gesture at the gym's polished equipment, the pristine mirrors, the motivational posters. "It's just playing pretend, isn't it?"
He racks the weights with precise control and sits up, finally looking at me. His eyes are cold, but there's fire banked behind them. Good.
"Do you need something?" His voice is perfectly neutral. Perfectly fake. "The trainers can help you with proper form if you're having trouble."
I laugh, letting him hear the edge in it. "There it is. That Valenti bite hiding under all that prep school polish." I move closer, watching his muscles tense for action he won't let himself take. "Bet it kills you, having to swallow that pride. Having to let some Greco trash talk down to you in your fancy gym."
"I have class in twenty minutes," he says, standing with measured grace. Every movement is calculated to avoid contact, to maintain that precious control. But I'm already blocking his easiest path of retreat, forcing him to either engage or show weakness by taking the long way around.
"Funny thing about routines," I say, not moving an inch. "They make you predictable. Easy to find. Easy to"—I reach out, adjusting one of the weight plates on his machine with deliberate slowness—"access."
The threat lands. I see it in the micro- expressions he can't quite suppress, the combat calculations running behind those cold eyes. He's running scenarios, just like he was trained. Exactly like he was trained. Another crack in his paper-thin mask of normalcy.
"Thanks for the concern," he says, voice still steady. But I catch the slight Italian lilt bleeding through his careful pronunciation. Stress showing in the smallest ways. "But I like my routines."
"No," I say, smiling slowly and sharply. "You hate them. You hate every second of pretending to be something you're not. I can see it eating at you." I step fully into his space now, close enough to catch his scent—clean sweat and expensive soap and something uniquely him that makes my mouth water. "Want to know what else I see, Rafael?"
He holds his ground, but I feel the once-latent violence in him, so close to the surface now. One wrong move—or maybe one exactly right move—from snapping. The other gym-goers give us a wide berth, instinctively sensing the predators in their midst. Even the staff keeps their distance, though I catch them whispering into phones. Probably calling security. Like that would make a difference.
"I see someone playing a very dangerous game," I continue, my voice pitched for his ears alone. "Someone pretending he can just walk away from what he is. What he was born to be." I let my eyes drag over him, taking in every detail of his carefully maintained facade. "But blood always tells, doesn't it? And yours is screaming right now."
The rest of the gym's morning crowd parts around us like water around stones, their instincts warning them away from the violence simmering beneath our quiet conversation. Rafael's trying to find an exit strategy that won't look like retreat. I can practically see the options cycling behind his eyes, each one requiring him to either back down or engage. Each choice a potential crack in his precious redemption story.
"You know what I find interesting?" I lean closer, pitching my voice low enough that he has to stay still to hear it. "The way you write your notes in the library. All those neat little color-coded tabs. But your handwriting, now that's interesting. Tight. Controlled. Like someone trained to write reports about their kills."
His breath catches. Just slightly. Just enough to feed the hunger growing in my chest.
"You've been in my study space." The words come out clipped, that cultured accent he's cultivated fraying at the edges.
"I've been everywhere you've been, Rafael." I let my smile sharpen. "Your coffee shop. Your running trail along the river. That fancy apartment building with the shit security." I tap my fingers against the weight machine, a deliberate echo of last night's gesture in the library. "Amazing what you miss when you're so focused on playing normal."
Other students filter past us toward the locker room, their morning workouts finished. Rafael's window for a clean escape is closing. His next class starts in fifteen minutes; I know his schedule better than he does at this point. He'll have to hit the showers soon if he wants to maintain his perfect attendance record.
"Most people," he says, each word carved from ice, "would call that stalking."
"Most people would call you a traitor." I cock my head, studying the flush rising up his neck. "Walking away from family. From legacy. From everything you were born to be." My fingers itch to grab him, to feel the strength he's trying so hard to hide. "Tell me, does your uncle know you're working out like this? Training that body you pretend is just for show?"
"We're done here." He moves to step around me, but I shift just enough to force him to brush against me if he wants to get past.
"See, that's where you're wrong." I breathe in his scent—sweat and fury and something uniquely Rafael that makes my blood sing. "We're just getting started. You and me? This is going to be fun."
"I don't play games." But there's a tremor in his voice now. Barely there. Beautiful.
"No? Then what do you call this whole act?" I gesture at his expensive workout gear, the pristine gym, the business students doing half-assed sets nearby. "All this legitimate bullshit. Like you could ever be one of them." I lean in closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. "I saw you clock every exit when you walked in. Saw you categorize every potential threat. Those instincts don't just disappear because you decided to play lawyer."
His hands clench at his sides. Such perfect tells, if you know where to look. And I've made studying Rafael Valenti my favorite fucking hobby.
"The only threat here is you," he says, voice dropping into something darker. Something real.
"There he is." My grin feels wild, hungry. "There's the killer under all that polish. Come on, Rafael. Show me more. Show me what you're really made of."
The gym manager's approaching now, phone in hand. Campus security won't be far behind. Rafael sees them, too, and his weight shifts slightly, combat-ready despite his careful mask. The violence between us draws tighter, a wire about to snap.
"You don't know anything about me," he says, but the words lack conviction. He knows better. Knows I've seen too much.
"I know everything about you." I drop my voice lower, making him strain to hear. "I know you wake up at 5:30 every morning and check your security system twice. I know you take your coffee black with one sugar. I know you sit in your car sometimes after class, hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel, fighting the urge to drive somewhere—anywhere—else." I let each detail land like a knife between his ribs. "But mostly? I know what you are. What you're trying so hard not to be. And, baby? You're failing spectacularly."
The muscle in his jaw ticks, another perfect tell. His eyes dart to the approaching manager, then back to me. The calculation is beautiful to watch: if he stays, he risks a scene that'll shatter his carefully maintained image. If he retreats to the locker room, he's giving me exactly what I want. Either way, I win.
"Walk away," he says, but there's a thread of uncertainty in his voice now. The kind that makes me want to pull harder, just to see what unravels.
"After you." I step back just enough to give him space, a mocking invitation. "Don't forget your towel. Wouldn't want you getting cold in the showers."
The threat lands exactly as intended. He doesn't quite flinch, but his breathing shifts, becoming more deliberate. More controlled. Always so fucking controlled. But not for long. Not if I have anything to say about it
The manager's still hovering at the edge of my peripheral vision, phone pressed to his ear. Campus security's response time is shit— another detail I've filed away during my surveillance. Still, Rafael knows his window for a dignified exit is closing. When he finally moves, it's with that warrior's grace he can't quite suppress. Each step measured, ensuring he doesn't brush against me as he passes.
I give him thirty seconds' head start. Just enough time to think he might have some control over what happens next. The hallway to the locker room stretches long and white, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. His footsteps echo against the tile, and I match my pace to his rhythm, letting him hear me following. Letting the anticipation build.
Steam fills the locker room like fog, thick enough to blur the edges of things. Perfect. The space is empty except for us; everyone else cleared out when the tension peaked on the gym floor. Smart of them. What's coming isn't meant for an audience.
Water runs in one of the shower stalls. Rafael's still trying to maintain his routine, still trying to pretend this is just another morning workout. But I catch him watching my reflection in the steamed mirrors, tracking my movements with the kind of situational awareness they teach Valenti children before they can walk.
I shed my jacket, letting him see the gun holstered at my hip. His eyes lock onto it for a fraction of a second—another tell. Another crack in his facade. He doesn't carry anymore, not here in his squeaky-clean college life. Must feel naked without the weight of steel against his body.
"You're in the wrong locker room," he says, voice tight as he pulls workout clothes from his bag. Everything is perfectly folded, because of course it fucking is.
"Am I?" I move closer, enjoying how the steam makes everything feel more intimate. More dangerous. "Way I see it, this is exactly where I'm supposed to be."
He doesn't answer, just starts methodically emptying his locker. Each movement is precise, controlled. But I see the tension running through him, the way his shoulders bunch under his sweat-damp shirt, ready for violence he won't let himself initiate.
"You know what I think?" I close the distance between us, slow and deliberate. "I think you like this. The chase. The tension." My voice drops lower, meant for his ears alone, even though we were the only ones in the locker room. "Makes you feel alive, doesn't it? More than all your precious law books ever could."
His hands are still on his towel, just for a moment, but it’s just long enough.
"You don't know what you're playing with," he says, that carefully concealed accent slipping again, pure Sicily bleeding through his Ivy League polish.
"Don't I?" I step closer, forcing him to turn and face me or show his back. He turns. Smart boy. "I know exactly what I'm playing with. The question is..." I reach past him, deliberately invading his space to grab something from his locker. His whole body goes rigid, combat-ready. "Do you?"
I examine the protein bar I've snagged, another piece of his perfect fitness routine. Another prop in his elaborate performance. "All this..." I gesture at his carefully packed gym bag, his pristine workout clothes. "It's not you. Not really. The real you? He's right there, right under the surface. Begging to come out and play."
"You need to leave." The words come out rough, hungry. His control is fraying at the edges.
"Make me." I step fully into his space now, close enough to feel the heat coming off his skin. "Come on, Rafael. Show me what you're really made of. Show me the Valenti blood running through those veins."
His breath catches. His pupils dilate. For one perfect moment, I think he might actually do it—might finally snap and show me the violence he keeps locked away. The steam wraps around us like a shroud, turning the moment thick and heavy with possibility.
Then his phone alarm chimes. Time for class. Always so fucking punctual.
"This was fun," I murmur, not backing away. "We should do it again sometime. Maybe get a little more…physical."
I let my gaze drag down his body, taking in every detail of his barely contained reaction. Every subtle tell that says he's not as immune to this as he pretends. His hands are steady as he grabs his bag, but his breathing—that's another story. Faster. Rougher. Beautiful.
"Stay away from me," he says, but there's no conviction in it. We both know this is just the beginning.
I watch him leave, admiring the rigid line of his spine, the warrior's grace he can't quite hide. Steam curls around me, heavy with the scent of him—clean sweat and expensive soap and pure, delicious fury. His footsteps fade down the hallway, each one measured and precise. Still trying so hard to maintain that perfect control.
"Sweet dreams, Rafael," I call after him, just like last night in the library, just to watch him falter mid-stride before his control snaps back into place.
This is going to be so much fucking fun.