Chapter 6
Rafaele
The gunshots ring out like we’re at war. An explosion of sound, an echo in the ears. Down here, no one cares if it’s day or night. Time doesn't work the same when you're below ground, locked in a battle with yourself. The air smells of gunpowder, the kind of place you can lose yourself in.
Emilio's already lost, deep in his zone, eyes narrowed as he squeezes off another round. I fire and miss by a mile.
“You’re distracted,” Emilio says, still aiming at the target.
He’s the quietest brother, the Ghost, the one who slips through shadows. And he can tell I’ve got too much on my mind. I never could keep a secret from him.
“I’m fine,” I grunt.
I’m a lot of things, but fine isn’t one of them. The other guys at the range shout and joke as they blast away at their targets. I should be more like them. Focused. Unfazed. But I can’t get my head straight.
I fire again. The bullet hits, but I’m way off center. I curse under my breath. Emilio lowers his gun, gives me one of those looks that say more than a full sentence ever could. I swear he’s got a sixth sense for when shit's about to go sideways. Or maybe he just knows me too well.
I pull my gloves tighter and try to block out the noise.
“No point being here if you’re gonna shoot like that,” he says, his voice as calm as the eye of a storm.
His gray eyes mirror the steel targets, cold and unyielding.
“Thanks for the pep talk,” I mutter, refusing to meet his gaze. He raises an eyebrow at me, a silent challenge.
I take a deep breath, smelling the acrid smoke, hearing the sharp echo of bullets hitting metal. This time when I shoot, I hit closer to the mark. Not perfect, but better. Emilio gives a small nod of approval.
This isn't just about the missing money; it's about what it represents.
The Rosetti name means something in this city.
It means respect, power, control. When someone skims from us, they're not just taking cash, they're challenging everything we stand for.
Dad drilled that into us since we were kids.
The family business isn't just business; it's who we are.
And I'll be damned if I let anyone undermine that on my watch.
But it's more than pride. The missing money creates cracks in our foundation.
Those cracks don't just threaten me, they threaten Carmela, Matteo, everyone with our blood.
I've spent my life being the enforcer, the one who makes problems disappear so the rest of them don't have to get their hands dirty.
It's my role, my purpose. Failing at it isn't an option.
And now there's Sloane, somehow tangled up in all this through her dead friend.
I shouldn't care. She's not family. She's not even close to being my type.
But something about her desperation, her stubborn refusal to back down, has gotten under my skin.
She doesn't know what she's walking into, and for some reason I can't name, I don't want to see her become collateral damage in a war she doesn't understand.
“Find out why the Callahans ordered the hit on Madeline Torres,” I say.
Emilio reloads his gun, slow and easy. He’s the best person I know with computers, and the best at keeping his mouth shut.
“Thought you didn’t care about those guys,” he says, fishing for information.
“I don’t.” I aim and fire, dead-on this time. “But I need to know.”
“You mean, you need to know if a certain name’s come up,” he says.
He doesn’t even glance my way, just squeezes off another shot.
My gun clatters to the table as I grab Emilio by the shirt and slam him into the wall, and everyone at the shooting range freezes.
Looks shoot our way. No one wants to be around when a Rosetti fight kicks off.
The smart ones start packing up, not risking a glance in our direction.
I know some of these guys will probably spread rumors by the end of the day, but right now, I don’t care.
“How the fuck do you know about Sloane?”
The words come out sharper than a bullet. My fist tightens on his shirt.
Emilio squints at me, more annoyed than afraid. “That’s my thing, bro,” he says, sounding bored. “You do muscles, I do intelligence. There’s not much I don’t know, especially about my own family.”
He doesn’t even flinch, and that just pisses me off more. I shove him away, releasing him with enough force to send him back against the wall.
“Fuck off, Milo,” I snarl.
He shrugs, straightening his hoodie like we’re just having a casual chat. I know he’s not leaving until he’s got the answers he wants. His calmness sends a fresh wave of anger through me.
“Just find out about the hit,” I snap.
But Emilio's right. I want to know if Sloane’s got a target on her back. I want to know how deep she is, and how worried I should be.
The place smells like sweat and leather and adrenaline.
Bullets explode from guns as other men fire away.
The room vibrates with it all, but I’m still stuck on the look on Sloane’s face when I dropped her home.
Like she wasn’t scared at all. Like she wasn’t living in a shitty apartment that needed a brand new front door just to keep it standing.
“I assume we’re keeping this quiet?” Emilio asks.
“As a tomb.”
“Sure, Rafe.” He flips his knife and sets it back on the table. “Whatever you say.”
This was supposed to be a place to get away, to clear my head.
But there’s no escape. I keep thinking about how I should be keeping my distance.
Letting the girl live her life without me hovering.
Instead, I’m beefing up security at her apartment.
Installing alarms. Fixing the goddamn door so she doesn’t freeze to death before anyone gets a chance to kill her.
I fire again. The target shreds.
Emilio smirks. “What happened to staying out of it?”
I ignore him. Just like I ignored the promise I made to myself when I first saw her. A nice girl like that, I told myself, deserves better than a bad boy like me. I was supposed to watch her from afar. I wasn’t supposed to let it get complicated.
She wasn't supposed to smile at me like I wasn’t some kind of monster.
The thought distracts me. I imagine her in that little apartment, crying over her friend, pretending she isn’t scared.
“Jesus, Rafe,” Emilio says, shaking his head. “This is bad. You’re in too deep.”
I don’t know how the hell my brother knows so much without even asking, but he’s not wrong.
I’ve fixed her entire apartment. The way I’ve got it rigged, I’ll get an alert if anyone who doesn’t live there even sneezes near her building. She doesn’t know about it, doesn’t need to, because I won’t be setting foot near her again and risking her life, not unless the alarms get triggered.
Emilio knows better. He’s probably already betting on how long before I crack and stop pretending I don’t care.
I grab the rest of the gear and throw it in the bag.
“Make sure her name stays out of it,” I say. “I don’t want your research being the thing that kicks off alarm bells for the Callahans.”
“You know me better than that, asshole,” Emilio says, arching an eyebrow.
“Just fucking doing it.”
I shoulder the bag and head toward the door. The other guys look up and nod as we pass, their targets shot clean through. I nod back, but my mind's somewhere else. It’s in a tiny apartment with bad heating and an optimistic girl who should’ve been my last job.
Outside, the air’s frigid. January in New York. The wind cuts like a knife. I’m already freezing, and I’ve got three layers and my gloves on. I don’t know how Sloane stands it. Then again, she’s full of surprises.
I swore I'd stay away, but I’ve already broken every other promise I made to myself about her.
What’s one more?