Chapter 4
Rafaele
Early morning frost clings to the kitchen windows.
I flick the coffee maker on, its click louder than a gunshot in the empty room.
I’m alone, but my thoughts are like shadows, they follow me everywhere.
The girl is upstairs, asleep. I should be gone.
I should have melted into the night like I always do, but here I am, still thinking about her.
She got in way over her head last night.
Best friend dead in an alley, just a few blocks from here.
A big Callahan mess. The wise thing would’ve been to vanish.
But the look in her eyes stopped me. I could see her breaking, and for the first time in years, I gave a damn.
Maybe that’s why I stopped her from calling the cops.
I was doing her a favor, for some unknown damn reason.
The cops wouldn’t find anything, and she’d end up with a target on her back.
I drag a hand over my face. Feels like sandpaper. I haven’t slept, not really.
I tried not to remember the way she sneaked into my bed.
Jesus. Almost had me. I had just started to fall asleep when I felt the mattress shift under me.
Thought I was dreaming at first, but when I opened my eyes, she was there, climbing on top of me.
All soft and warm, her hair spilling over my chest. A sweet, tempting promise that I knew damn well I should ignore.
I was a split-second away from losing control, from plunging my cock into her and making her cry out my name.
Almost did it, too. It would have been so easy to give in, to let her take all that grief and shock and turn it into lust. She was right there, ready, and God, did I want her.
It wasn’t right, though. I made myself stop, held her at arm’s length even when it felt like torture.
The girl was something else. Left me hard all night, even after I jerked off. I should be used to this by now, walking away, leaving them wanting, putting distance between me and them. But she is different. She got to me, and here I am in the morning, still thinking about her.
I pour myself a mug and sit at the table. She’s a pretty thing. Strong, but too trusting. That’s how people get killed in this world. A few months ago, I’d have left her in the alley and forgotten she existed. Now I’m sitting here like a fool.
The floor creaks above me. She’s awake.
I brace myself, sip my coffee. I wonder if she’ll look at me different today. If she’ll finally figure out she should be scared. Then I remember last night, how she didn’t even flinch when I opened the door to my apartment, and I know she won’t.
She walks into the kitchen, her steps quiet but steady. She sees me and stops short, like she’s surprised I’m still here.
“Morning,” she says. Her voice is small, a little broken around the edges.
I nod. “Morning.”
Her hair is loose, a dark mess around her shoulders. Her eyes are red. She rubs her hands on her jeans, like she doesn’t know what to do with them. They land on the table, then jerk away.
“I, uh, didn’t mean to—” she starts. “Last night, I—”
I cut her off. I’m not good at this kind of thing. “Want some coffee?”
She hesitates, then nods. “Sure.”
I pour her a cup. Her fingers brush mine when she takes it. I expect her to flinch, to pull back, but she doesn’t. Her hands are steady. A little scar on her left one is white against her skin.
“I should go,” she says after a moment. She looks at me, and there’s grief written all over her.
“I’ll drive you.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
I take another sip of my coffee. She’s not scared of me. She should be, but she isn’t.
“Let me get dressed, and I’ll take you home.”
She looks like she’s going to argue, but she doesn’t. I can see her deciding, see her shoulders relaxing. She doesn’t trust easily, but she trusts me.
“Okay,” she says. “Thanks.”
I set my mug down and head for the stairs. I feel her eyes on my back the whole way. I change fast, shrugging on a leather jacket and grabbing my helmet.
When I get back to the kitchen, she’s at the window, watching the world go by. It’s quiet. Cold. She looks small, like she’s folding into herself. She doesn’t hear me right away, and I catch myself watching her.
She turns when I’m a few feet away.
“You ride?” she asks, looking at the helmet in my hand.
“Yeah. You ever been on a bike before?”
She shakes her head. There’s a flicker of something in her eyes. Fear? Maybe. But not of me.
“I’m sure I’ll survive.”
“Got an address for me?”
She bites her lip. I wonder if she’s going to change her mind, then she tells me: “South 4th, in Williamsburg.”
I nod. “You ready?”
She puts on a brave face. “I think so.”
“Let’s go.”
We head for the door, and I notice she’s wearing my hoodie. She must have grabbed it this morning, when she was looking for something to cover last night’s shirt. I don’t say anything. It looks good on her.
The air bites when we step outside. My bike’s parked a few feet away, looking lonely on the empty street. She stands there, eyeing it like she’s not sure what she’s gotten herself into. I hand her the helmet.
“Put this on,” I say. “And hold on tight.”
She hesitates, then slips it over her head. I get on, rev the engine, and feel her climb on behind me. Her hands are tentative on my waist.
“You’ll be fine,” I tell her.
For some reason, the image of her grief-stricken face last night in my bed makes me want to reassure her, soothe her. Don’t know why I give a damn.
The bike roars to life, and we’re off. The wind stings, and I feel her grip tighten. We weave through the streets, the city waking up around us. She’s light against my back, warm and alive. It’s too easy to imagine her with me, to pretend this isn’t just a ride home.
Williamsburg comes fast. I pull up in front of an old apartment building, the kind with a broken buzzer and peeling paint. Bad security. The Callahans could waltz in here any time they want.
She climbs off, and I watch her fumble with the helmet. I don’t help her. I don’t trust myself to get that close.
“Thanks,” she says, handing it back.
“Yeah.”
She looks at me, searching for something. I don’t know what she finds, but it makes her smile, just a little. It’s enough to make me wish I could stay.
“Take care of yourself,” I say.
She nods. “You too.”
I watch her head inside. This is the end, I tell myself. The last time I’ll ever see her.
Yeah right.
I kick the bike to life and tear down the street, back into a world that shouldn’t include her. But it does.
She’s the first thing I think of when I hit the bridge. She’ll probably be the last thing I think of when I get home.
Nanna’s house is an explosion of noise and breakfast. Voices and the smell of eggs crash into each other. I stand near the door, feeling oddly out of place. Carmela sees me and makes a beeline over, all smiles and too much energy.
“Rafe, hon! Sit and eat before it gets cold!”
She’s in my face, and Dom’s behind her, already asking about the fighting ring.
I don't have time for this. I barely have time to drop my leather jacket on the back of a chair before she shoves a plate at me.
Carmela hovers, looking at me with those big, innocent eyes.
“You need to eat, okay?” She calls everyone "hon." She’s like a ray of sunshine in a house full of storm clouds.
“Alright,” I say.
It’s the most she ever gets out of me. I sit down, eggs swimming in grease. The table’s full. Emilio with his eyes glued to a laptop, Matteo flipping that coin, Nanna’s voice rising over everything.
Dom’s the loudest one. Not his voice. His presence. He’s all business, always is.
"Lower East Side's been quiet," Dom says. "Our arrangement with the Chinatown crews is holding up."
"Unlike the shit show in Red Hook," Matteo adds, his coin still moving between his fingers. "Callahans are pushing their dealers into our territory again."
"The construction contracts in Midtown are more important," Dom replies, his tone making it clear the matter is settled. "We need those buildings finished on schedule. Mayor's office is watching those projects closely."
Nanna Toni gives Dom a sharp look. "Your father would never let territory slip. Not even for fancy contracts."
"Times change, Nanna," Dom says, his voice firm but respectful. "The real money isn't in street corners anymore." He turns to me. "Rafe, what do you know about the fighting ring?”
“He doesn’t know how to fight, that’s for sure,” Matteo butts in. He grins like the devil and steals half the eggs off my plate.
“Give it a rest,” Emilio says without looking up. “You can only bullshit if you’ve got a brain.”
“Look who’s talking,” Matteo shoots back. The coin’s moving fast between his fingers, and I know he’s about to lie or eat or both.
Dom ignores them. He’s watching me. “The fighting ring,” he says. “Any idea why it’s bleeding us dry?”
“Sit down and eat before that chair gets cold,” Nanna cuts in. She’s fierce as ever, her voice cutting through the noise. “You all need to eat.”
We sit, but the talk doesn’t stop.
“Where’s Leonardo?” Matteo asks around a mouthful of toast.
“Honeymoon number three,” Emilio says, “or was that last month?”
“You should know, Ghost,” Matteo shoots back. “You know everything.”
“He and Eleanor are in Tokyo,” Dom says, not missing a beat. “And Besa’s at the Aman Hotel, where I should be.” He’s talking about his wife, which is the only time those cold eyes of his get a little glimmer of warmth.
“Aman Hotel? You’re a fuckin’ wimp, Dom,” Leonardo would’ve said if he was here. “You can last two hours without her, can’t you?”
I eat my eggs in silence.
I should be at home, or at the ring, sorting this out in peace. But no. Nanna’s called us in, and that means you show up, even if it kills you. It’s the old ways. The family. You don’t fuck with tradition.
The fighting ring’s losing us money. That’s the talk, but I know better. It’s not lost. It’s stolen.
And I know who’s holding the knife.
Callahans. This has their stink all over it. I bet anything it’s Chase pulling a fast one. But I keep my mouth shut. A rumor like that? It’ll start a war.
“Pass the bacon, hon,” Carmela says, her eyes wide and worried. “I mean, if we’re not bankrupt. If there’s still enough meat to go around.”
I toss the plate across the table. “I’m looking into it,” I tell Domenico.
“You sure?”
Dom’s voice is sharp. Not angry, just making sure. Making damn sure.
“Yeah.”
“Yeah,” Matteo says, a laugh hiding in his voice. “He’s on it like a rash.”
I give him a look that could kill. I’m not in the mood, and he knows it. He’s back to eating in a heartbeat.
Dom leans back, and the world leans with him. “See that you are.”
He doesn’t trust anyone, not even me. Not until I prove it. Not until I show him I can keep us from bleeding out.
And me? I’m wondering about the dead girl last night. Sloane’s friend. The Callahans are in that, too, and now I’m wondering why.
Nanna cuts through it all with a glare that could melt glass.
“You boys talk like old women,” she says. “Eat now, talk later.”
But I don’t feel like eating. I feel like getting the hell out.
Sloane. I can’t get her out of my head. What’s a girl like that doing mixed up in all this? She’s got a target on her, but she doesn’t even know it.
“Where are you going?” Emilio asks, his eyes not leaving the screen.
“Yeah,” Matteo chimes in. “Where’s the fire, Rafe?”
“Can it,” I say.
The house feels too small, too damn crowded. My bike’s waiting outside, and that’s where I need to be. But Sloane’s still in my head.
She wasn’t scared. She should’ve been, but she wasn’t.
And that’s the part that makes me sweat. Especially in that shit-for-security building that she calls home.
I get up, and Carmela’s on her feet. She hugs me and shoves more food at me.
“Take it, hon,” she says. “And look after yourself. You look spooked.”
“That goes for all of you,” Nanna snaps. “Bunch of clowns. Get to work.”
I’m out the door before she can say more. My mind’s a mess, and I need to clear it. I need to find out what the Callahans are up to and how it ties back to Sloane’s friend.
The ride’s cold and sharp, the city waiting for a war. But me? I’m thinking of a girl who shouldn’t mean a damn thing.