Epilogue
EPILOGUE
RAFE
T he warehouse air hung thick with salt and secrets.
I checked my watch—3:27 AM. Right on schedule.
My footsteps echoed against the concrete floor, each step deliberate, the sound sharp in the cavernous space. The overhead light swayed gently, casting shifting shadows across the metal walls and the man slumped in the chair at the center of the room.
Giovanni Abate.
He looked smaller than I remembered. Older. His once-pristine suit was wrinkled and stained, his salt-and-pepper hair matted with sweat. His left eye was swollen shut, a deep purple bloom spreading across his cheekbone. Leo’s handiwork. Efficient, as always.
I stopped a few feet in front of him, the silence stretching between us like a blade.
“You know why you’re here,” I said.
Not a question.
His good eye blinked open, bloodshot and glassy, and found mine. “Rafe,” he rasped. “Please. This is a mistake.”
I didn’t respond. Just slipped off my jacket and folded it neatly, placing it on a nearby crate. The Beretta at my back shifted as I rolled up my sleeves, each movement slow, methodical. Controlled.
Order, even in chaos.
It’s what separates us from animals.
“You’ve been working with the Irish,” I said, my voice even. “Helping them make their moves on our ports. Moving their product. Undercutting our shipments. Feeding them intel.”
Giovanni’s head dropped. “I didn’t?—”
“Don’t lie to me,” I said sharply, and the sound of it cracked through the room like a whip. “We traced the containers. The manifests. The bribes. All of it leads back to you. 10 of your men are dead after that explosion!”
He started shaking. “They threatened my family. My son—he’s just a kid. They said they’d?—”
“We all have families,” I said, stepping closer. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to be afraid? To want to protect what’s yours?”
He looked up at me, his voice trembling. “Then you understand.”
“I do,” I said quietly. “But I also understand loyalty. And you chose them over us.”
The drip of water somewhere in the distance punctuated the silence that followed. I drew the Beretta from my waistband, the weight of it familiar, grounding.
Giovanni’s breath hitched. “Rafe, please?—”
“I’m not doing this because I want to,” I said. “I’m doing this because I have to.”
He started to cry then. Not loud. Just quiet, broken sobs that echoed off the walls.
“I’ll make sure your son is looked after,” I said. “He’ll get through school. Your wife will be taken care of. You were family once. That still means something.”
“Then don’t?—”
I raised the gun.
He closed his eyes.
“Requiescat in pace,” I murmured.
The shot was muffled by the suppressor, but it still rang in my ears.
Giovanni slumped forward, blood pooling beneath the chair.
I stood there for a moment, the gun still warm in my hand, my heart steady. Then I pulled out a handkerchief and wiped a single drop of blood from my shoe.
Italian leather. My father always said it mattered. “You don’t walk into a room looking like a mess and expect to be taken seriously.” He’d taught me how to polish my shoes before he taught me how to shoot.
I turned to the shadows. “Clean this up.”
Two of my men stepped forward. Silent. Efficient. One of them covered the body with a tarp. The other began untying the restraints.
“Make sure he’s found with dignity,” I said. “He was still one of ours.”
They nodded.
I holstered the gun and pulled my phone from my pocket. Three missed calls from Dante.
I sighed and slid the phone back into my pocket.
The car was waiting outside, engine idling, headlights casting long shadows across the gravel.
“Take the long way,” I told my driver as I climbed in. “Past the port.”
He nodded and pulled away from the warehouse, the tires crunching softly beneath us.
I watched the building disappear in the rearview mirror.
Another piece off the board.
That’s what it means to be underboss. You don’t just carry out orders. You make the hard decisions when no one else wants to. You clean up the messes. You protect the family—even from itself.
The port came into view, sprawling and silent beneath the glow of sodium lights. Containers stacked like tombstones, cranes frozen mid-motion like steel giants asleep at their posts. It looked peaceful from a distance—orderly, quiet.
But I knew better.
I knew what was buried under those stacks of steel. What had been smuggled in and out of this place for decades. What deals had been made in the shadows. What blood had been spilled between the cracks in the pavement.
I rolled the window down slightly, letting the salt air cut through the lingering scent of gunpowder and sweat. The breeze was cool, but it didn’t clear my head. Nothing would. Not tonight.
“Slow down,” I told the driver.
He eased off the gas, and we coasted along the outer edge of the port. I scanned the fences, the gates, the towers. My men were out there—watching, waiting. Always on alert. Always ready. But even with all that, we’d still missed it.
Giovanni had betrayed us. Quietly. Methodically. And I’d missed it.
That was on me.
I’d known him since I was a kid. He used to bring me pastries from his wife’s bakery when I was too young to understand what he did for a living. He’d taught me how to play chess. How to bluff. How to lie without blinking.
And he’d lied to me.
I leaned my head back against the seat and closed my eyes for a moment.
I could still hear the shot. Still see the way his body slumped forward, lifeless. Still feel the weight of the gun in my hand.
I didn’t regret it.
But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.
Dante trusted me to handle the city while he and his wife were away on thier extravagant honeymoon.
And I would.
By the time I got back to the estate, the sun was just starting to rise. The sky was painted in soft pinks and oranges, the kind of morning that made you believe in second chances. I didn’t believe in that shit. Not anymore.
I stepped out of the car and nodded to the guards at the gate. They didn’t speak. Just opened the doors and let me through.
Inside, the house was quiet. Most of the staff was still asleep. The only sound was the soft ticking of the grandfather clock in the foyer and the distant hum of the espresso machine warming up in the kitchen.
I didn’t go to the kitchen.
I went to the study.
I needed to think. To plan. To figure out who else had been whispering in the dark. Because Giovanni hadn’t acted alone. He wasn’t smart enough. Someone had helped him. Someone had opened the door.
And I was going to find them.
I poured myself a glass of whiskey and sat behind the desk, the leather chair creaking beneath me. I set the gun on the table beside the glass. Just in case.
The file on the Irish was still open. Names. Numbers. Routes. I flipped through it slowly, methodically, looking for the thread I’d missed.
It was there. I could feel it.
I just had to pull it.
My phone buzzed again.
This time, it was Luca.
Luca: Heard about Giovanni. You good?
I stared at the screen for a long moment before replying.
Rafe : Doesn’t matter. It’s done.
Luca : You need anything?
Rafe : A meeting with the fucking Irish.
Luca : That's a death wish.
Rafe : No it's a declaration of war.