Chapter 8
Sloane
The crowd is loud and close, its restless energy pulsating through me with each moment.
Voices call out from all sides, raw and eager, while fists and flesh clash in the center ring.
I know I shouldn't be here, but after days of hitting dead ends, I need to find Rafaele.
He's leaning against the far wall, as relaxed as he can be in this mess.
This is his turf—where sweat and smoke mix in the stale underground air, and bodies and bruised egos collide—and he watches it all with a cool detachment.
I head toward him, one eye on the fighters and the other fixed on the one person I know in this chaos.
My heart stutters as I draw closer. Even half-hidden in the basement's dim lighting, he stands out, all hard edges and barely contained power.
The yellow lights hanging from the low ceiling catch on his profile, highlighting the sharp cut of his jaw, the intensity in his eyes as he watches the fight.
I can't help but notice how his black t-shirt stretches across his shoulders, how his hands flex almost imperceptibly at his sides. My mouth goes suddenly dry.
Someone bumps my arm, and a whiff of beer-scented breath hits my face.
I nudge past a bunch of guys hollering numbers and swapping cash like it's no big deal.
In the ring, two fighters grunt and bleed as they exchange blows.
The crowd erupts in shouts and cheers, a wall of sound that echoes off the concrete walls and leaves my ears buzzing.
I'm used to noise these days, but the idea of coming up empty isn't something I can settle with.
If I want answers, I have to go through him.
Rafaele leans casually against a concrete support beam, calm in the middle of all this madness.
He's in a black shirt and jeans that match the shadow on his face.
Even from a distance, his intensity is crystal clear.
Everything I'm not. My pulse starts racing, and for a split second, I wonder if this was a mistake.
I keep moving toward him, my boots sticking slightly to the beer-slick floor.
The closer I get, the more my nerve endings seem to spark to life.
The air down here is heavy with moisture and the tang of blood and sweat, but there's something about him that draws me in, a gravitational pull I can't explain and don't particularly want to examine.
He catches sight of me before I reach him, and his ice-blue eyes narrow in surprise.
I'm probably the last person he expected to see at an illegal underground fight.
Well, that makes two of us. As his gaze locks with mine, heat floods my cheeks despite the damp chill of the basement. I silently curse my body's betrayal.
I make it just in time to see the bigger fighter slam the smaller one to the floor.
Shouts rise, wild and sharp, a pack of wolves going in for the kill.
Even amid the chaos, I'm hyperaware of Rafe—the subtle shift in his posture as I approach, the way his eyes track my every move.
The air between us feels charged, electric, despite the heavy atmosphere of the crowded basement.
"I thought you'd be buried in schoolbooks and coffee mugs," Rafaele says, his voice slicing through the noise. "What brings you here, Sloane?"
Hearing my name like that twists something inside me, but I straighten my back and reply, "I need your help."
He raises an eyebrow and offers a half-smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. His scent reaches me, leather, clean sweat, and something darker, more primal. It stands out against the musty underground odors of beer and blood. It makes my head spin for a moment before I regain my focus.
"You seem pretty good at doing things on your own."
Not good enough, though. After a small pause, I push on: "It's about Maddy."
That wipes the smile clean off his face.
He folds his arms and leans back, acting like he couldn't care less.
The movement pulls his shirt tighter across his chest, and I have to force my eyes to stay on his face.
A drop of condensation falls from a pipe above us, landing on the concrete floor beside my boot.
"She had a boyfriend I never knew about, and he's into some pretty nasty stuff. I've tried tracking him, but he's like a ghost. I was hoping—"
"That I'd find him for you?" he finishes flatly, his tone unimpressed.
His words sting a bit, and I ignore the heat that creeps up my neck.
"You're the only one who can."
"You don't know many people then." He tilts his head toward the fight. "Some of these guys are pretty good at getting things done."
Following his gaze, I watch a wiry fighter take a sharp blow to the jaw. It could have easily been Rafaele in a different life, judging by the old break in his nose. But right now, it's me who's scrambling for a solution. My voice is sharper than I meant it to be when I ask:
"Can you help or not?"
He meets my stare steadily, the condensation from the low ceiling making the air between us seem even thicker, more charged.
"I can't."
"Or you just won't?"
His eyes lock onto mine for a long, hard moment.
The basement seems to fade away—the damp walls, the shouting crowd, the stench of spilled beer—all of it recedes until there's just us.
Beneath his cool exterior, I glimpse a flicker, maybe doubt, or even a hint of desire.
I latch onto that spark because Rafaele is my only trusted contact in this underworld, the only one who might care enough about Maddy to step in.
I need him to want to help me. I have to make him want me.
Scanning the confined space for a backup plan, I spot a lean man with tattoos crawling up his arms. His tough look would probably have my brother in a tizzy if I ever brought him home. Perfect. I step toward him, then turn back to Rafaele with an extra confident grin.
"Maybe you're right. Maybe I'll find someone else," I say.
For a second, I think Rafaele might stop me, maybe even agree. But he only shrugs and turns away.
Meanwhile, the tattooed man has been watching the fight, perhaps pretending until I sidle up next to him.
I still feel Rafaele's eyes on me from across the basement, and that gives me a wild burst of recklessness.
I reach for the guy's arm. My fingers brush his skin, and I pull away with a practiced, shy smile.
I can almost hear Maddy laughing. She always was the sexy one, and I like to think she's watching now, urging me on.
His tattoos peek from under his collar, and his grin is cocky yet inviting. He turns to me, his eyes sparkling in the basement's dim light. But they're not blue like Rafe's, not filled with that same intensity that makes my stomach flip.
"Hey there. Didn't expect to see someone like you in a place like this."
I laugh softly, warm and low, "I could say the same thing."
"Really? Looks like I fit right in." He gestures to the chaotic scene, noise, sweat, and heat, all of which seem to energize him.
"You do," I reply, keeping my tone flirty and light, just loud enough that Rafaele might catch it if he's still watching. "And I could use a little help fitting in."
"Is that so?" He leans closer, a move that should make me pull back, but I let him, enjoying the moment. His breath is warm against my ear, but it lacks the electric charge I feel when Rafe stands too close. "What kind of help are we talking about?"
This man seems sleazy, and I just want to get away from him, but I keep up the act, letting my hand rest confidently on his arm.
I lean in, letting the curve of my hips brush against him.
All the while, I'm scanning the crowd for a glimpse of Rafe, wondering if he's watching, if he cares.
The basement's low ceiling seems to press down, making the air between us hotter, more intimate.
"I don't know. Why don't you surprise me?"
His laugh is slimy, but it's like a shot of warm whiskey that makes me feel alive. I'm a careful person, always so damn careful, but tonight it's thrilling to let go. I'm better at this flirting business than I expected. My blood thrums, and I almost lose myself in the game.
I lean in and whisper in his ear. He grins back, eyes shining like he's seen the best thing of the night.
"Yeah, I can do that. Let's get out of here," he says.
Maybe now Rafaele will care. Maybe he'll finally see I'm serious about finding Maddy's mystery boyfriend, even if I have to chase down every tough guy in the city.
My heart pounds with hope and a little fear, with a dash of courage and plenty of recklessness.
I steal a glance back, searching the underground space for Rafe.
There. He's watching me, jaw set, that stern tough-guy look. But there's something dark and possessive in his eyes, too, that sends a shiver down my spine. The air between us seems to crackle with tension even across the crowded basement.
Just one word, and I'd be back at his side. I hold his gaze a moment longer than I should, feeling a wild, electric tension between us, a current I can almost taste. I wait for him to crack, to call my name.
But he doesn't.
I don't hesitate.
"Okay."
The word slips out as easily as a secret, and I let the tattooed man guide me away from the wall. We weave through the crowd, past all the noise and chaos, and out of my own head.
I can't help but think Maddy would be so proud of my flirting success.
We are almost at the door when a blur of movement catches my eye.
Suddenly, Rafaele is there, grabbing the tattooed man by the collar and hurling him against the damp concrete wall.
Standing over him, Rafe is dark and intense, every muscle coiled with purpose, radiating a deadly energy that makes my breath catch.
The basement suddenly feels still and heated.
I can hear my heart pounding as the crowd parts to give us room.
The tattooed man scrambles up, cursing under his breath, while Rafaele's hands clench into fists in his black leather gloves.
His voice drops low, angry, bouncing off the concrete walls around us.
"Nobody in this room is good enough to talk to Sloane Carter, asshole. Least of all you."
Rafaele's fist strikes out, hard and precise, right into the guy's jaw.
The tattooed man's head snaps back, his eyes wide with shock.
Before he has a chance to react, Rafaele hits him again, once, twice, the blows landing with the force of a freight train.
Blood splatters against the wall, and I feel a wild thrill of horror and fascination as I watch, frozen in place.
I've never seen violence like this up close.
It's raw and unfiltered, nothing like how I imagined.
Rafaele doesn't let up, doesn't pause, just keeps at him until the man is nothing but pulp on the floor. My heart is racing, and I can't tell if it's fear or excitement making me so breathless.
Rafaele watches him for a moment, then turns his gaze on me.
I catch the tension in his jaw and step close enough to feel the heat behind his anger, even the roughness of his breath.
The confined space of the basement makes his presence even more overwhelming, like he's taking up all the available air.
"Is that the best you can do, Carter?" he asks.
"I'm not the one who just turned a human into mince meat."
I'm breathless, and I can't figure out why. Something to do with this monster of a man stepping in to protect me. And with the fact that it works. He makes me feel safe.
I stand my ground, a playful challenge in my tone. My heart pounds in a rhythm that has nothing to do with fear as I move closer to him, close enough to catch the metallic tang of blood and the heated scent of his skin.
"Didn't like the competition?"
What the hell is wrong with me? Why am I inciting this monster to violence? Why am I riling him up? And why am I stepping closer to him when I should be running away?
"I don't play games," he replies, his voice icy.
Though his tone sends chills down my spine, I feel no cold, only the warmth of having gotten under his skin. I try my best for an innocent look, wide-eyed and sweet, even though my pulse is racing.
I avoid looking at the bloodied mess on the floor, which now has several people hovering over it, but we both know what I'm talking about.
He steps even closer, but I don't back down.
Our bodies are inches apart now, and I can feel the heat radiating from him, can see the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes.
The basement's cramped quarters make it impossible to ignore his physicality, the way he seems to fill the space around me.
"Go home, Sloane."
"I thought—" I begin.
"You thought wrong. I can't help you," he interjects, pausing as a flicker of something—maybe jealousy or regret—crosses his eyes and makes my heart skip. "And neither will anyone else in here. Not now."
Well, that seems true enough. No sane person would leave with me after witnessing Rafaele's response.
"Leave it alone, Carter. Go back to your normal life and forget any of this ever happened."
I stand there, waiting for him to change his mind, waiting for his anger to fade until Rafaele is just Rafaele again.
"I'm never giving up," I say, quietly, but I know he hears me.
Rafaele stares at me. He beckons someone over and tells them to get me home safe, then, with one final look at me, he turns his back and disappears into the crowd.
Well, fuck him. If he thinks I'm giving up on clearing Maddy's name, he's even crazier than he seems.
As I watch him go, I can still feel the phantom heat of his body near mine, can still smell the leather of his gloves and the faint trace of cologne beneath the sweat and smoke of the underground fighting ring.
I hate that my body reacts to him, hate that even as he walks away, my eyes follow him, drinking in the confident set of his shoulders, the dangerous grace of his movements as he navigates through the basement crowd.
Worst of all, I hate that a part of me wants him to turn around, to come back, to decide I'm worth helping after all.
He doesn't look back.