Chapter 10
Sloane
It's been days since I walked away from Rafe at the fighting ring, his refusal to help still stinging.
"I can't do this," he'd said, dismissing me and my quest for answers about Maddy's death.
Fine. If the mighty Rafaele Rosetti won't help me, I'll find the truth myself.
That's why I'm here, standing outside this seedy bar in the worst part of town, heart hammering against my ribs.
I know it's dangerous, exactly what Rafe warned me about, but I'm out of options.
I take a deep breath and push the door open.
The smell hits me first, like the whole of Brooklyn's been crammed into one grubby room.
It's sweat and smoke, and I'm already a walking ashtray.
I've got to make this quick. Find someone who knows what Maddy got mixed up in before they killed her.
Someone who knows why. It's darker than the inside of a guilty mind, so I squint toward the bar.
Everything here is sticky—floors, stools, even the glares from the men lined up like predators.
I pull my jacket close and order a drink, anything to look like I belong.
"Corona?" I croak. "Please?"
The bartender gives me a once-over that screams fresh meat before slamming the bottle down in front of me.
I perch on a stool and watch the crowd. It’s not comforting.
Big men with bad tattoos and worse attitudes fill the room.
A guy at a corner table has a knife out, idly stabbing it between his fingers.
I wonder if he’d loan it to me for a minute. Just until I’m done here.
The Callahans run this place. It took a few days digging around the seediest Irish bars in New York to discover that, and I pat myself on the back for making progress.
Maddy had some connection to the Callahans, one I need to know about if I’m going to figure out why she’s dead.
My confidence unravels as fast as the label on my beer.
The one that says IMPORTED FROM MEXICO but feels about as authentic as I do right now.
The bartender's still watching. If this whole psych thing doesn't work out, maybe I’ll take up acting. Right. Because I’m definitely fooling everyone.
The front door opens, and I flinch, hoping, half expecting to see Rafaele Rosetti. But of course it isn’t him. He made it very clear he has no intention of helping me, and that I’m on my own. Fine, that’s how I operate best anyway.
Instead, it's some guy in a leather jacket, all mean angles and greasy hair, and he’s heading my way.
Definitely not on my Christmas card list. He weaves through the crowd, eyes fixated on me like I’m his own personal bullseye.
My pulse kicks up a notch as he gets closer.
He looks like trouble, the kind that’s got no problem dealing with outsiders.
My mind starts running in circles, wondering what exactly I’m going to say when he reaches me.
And who else might show up if I say the wrong thing?
Men around him part like he's Moses and they're the Red Sea, all of them just as rough-looking, but none with the same air of menace. He's almost here now. No point pretending I don't see him, so I set my drink down and try not to flinch as he stops in front of me.
"You lost?" he asks, hovering over me like a rain cloud.
"I'm looking for a friend," I say. "Madeleine Torres? Maddy."
I study his face, waiting, when I see a flicker in his eyes.
A flash so quick I almost miss it, but it’s there.
He knows her. He knows exactly who she is.
But more importantly, he knows what she was doing mixed up with the Callahans.
He recovers fast, eyes going hard again as he looks me over like he’s deciding whether I'm worth the hassle.
I hold my breath. For a moment, I think he might actually answer.
Then he snorts. A sound that's almost like a laugh.
"You a cop or something?" he asks. He leans in closer, voice low, all threat now. I can practically taste the danger. "Get out now. You got no business here."
The noise of the bar fades. All I can hear is the blood pounding in my ears.
"Maybe she was working with someone," I say, pushing. "With the Callahans?"
I grit my teeth to stop my voice from shaking, knowing if I look scared, I'm screwed.
I watch his face, praying for another tell. Anything. Around us, the room teems with men who look like they'd rather smash a bottle over my head than answer a single question.
"Maddy's dead, sweetheart," he finally says, like he’s picking each word to hurt. He takes a swig from my beer and smirks. "Better off than you’ll be if you keep asking around."
I try to keep my voice steady. "What was she doing for the Callahans? What do you know about her?"
He grins. It’s mean and crooked. "A lot. None of it you want to hear."
His hand is on my arm, tight, closing around my wrist.
"Let go," I say, yanking back. It’s not very convincing, and even less successful.
He drags me off my stool toward the back of the room, moving fast through the crowd. I’m struggling to keep up, tottering on my spiked heels and trying to keep my balance.
“Where are you taking me?”
He sneers. “Just out back for a personal conversation. Your friend stuck her nose in Callahan business too," the man says, like we're having a friendly chat. "Ask me real nice, and maybe I’ll tell you why it got her killed."
"Tell me here," I say.
"Nah." He jerks me around. "Private conversation."
We’re at the back of the room, right next to the bathrooms. A door with a gun decal, and another with a pink lipstick kiss. His and hers, I guess.
The man slams me into the wall. Pain shoots through me, and my vision blurs at the edges.
How did I get myself into this? My mind races as fast as my pulse, and my legs feel like spaghetti.
He’s stronger than I expected, and I’m starting to think this was a very bad idea.
I should’ve waited, maybe come with Lucas.
But waiting means doing nothing, and doing nothing never got anyone anywhere.
I try to focus. His grip shifts lower. His hand reaches under my shirt, in slow motion, his sweaty palm running around my hip. Everything goes white with rage.
I wrestle to get free, picturing Maddy, how this might have been her last moments, too.
No way am I letting that happen. My wrist’s still caught in his vice-grip of a hand, and I gasp when he jerks me closer, the sharpness of his movement rattling my teeth.
I’m in over my head, sinking fast, but I refuse to drown.
I need a plan, some way out, but my options are shrinking as fast as my breath. I clench my teeth. I should’ve brought back-up. Now I’m going to end up as a chalk outline, and the only one to blame is me.
“What are you doing?” I shout, my voice cracking. I'm overwhelmed and desperate, but I won't let him hear that. "Let me go!"
“What do you think, sweetheart?” He towers over me, every word oozing with threat and cheap cologne. “Callahan doesn’t like company. Doesn’t like nosy girls poking around.”
We’re past the bathrooms, edging toward the alley exit. I’m running out of time, running out of straws to grasp at. I twist, trying to get loose, trying to think on my feet.
He cuts off my escape routes, one by one.
I plant my foot and yank back with all the force my noodle arms can muster.
He laughs, like this is a game we’re playing. Then he’s on me again, holding my wrists so I can’t move. Panic is screaming at me to do something, do anything, when suddenly he’s the one against the wall.
Rafe’s got him by the throat. It happens so fast I almost miss it, one second I’m about to be fertilizer and the next this angry avenging angel’s snarling at my attacker, shoving him hard into the cinderblock wall.
The guy’s sputtering, eyes bulging, caught completely off guard. I am, too. I’d convinced myself that Rafe wanted nothing to do with me, that he was letting me fall on my face, or get my face smashed in.
The guy loses his grip on my arm, but Rafe doesn’t lose his on him. Not for a second. He pinches his windpipe like a soda straw, and the guy looks terrified. I don’t blame him. I feel pretty terrified myself, but I won’t let that show.
"Touch her again," Rafe says, his voice calm. "I fucking dare you."
My heart stops. Everything stops.
The man doesn’t get a chance to reply before Rafe kicks him to the floor.
Then he’s got his gun out and trained on the entire bar. Everyone's really interested in their drinks now. A couple of them stand up, like they’re going to do something, but Rafe doesn’t look worried.
"She walks in here, you show respect," Rafe says. "She breathes near you, you shut your fucking mouths. You see her again, you better pray it’s with me."
No one speaks. No one moves. He hauls me out of there like I’m the next thing he’s going to kill. His grip on my elbow is iron, and I’m tottering and praying for balance as I chase after him, getting a strong sense of deja vu.
Outside, I stumble into the biting cold, and my legs are jelly.
I shiver uncontrollably, half from fear, half from relief.
Thank god he showed up. I slump against the wall, struggling to catch my breath as Rafe watches like I'm about to explode.
I meet his eyes, and anger flares up above my embarrassment.
I feel small. Exposed. But mostly confused.
"You said you wouldn't help me," I say.
It comes out small, embarrassed.
"Changed my mind."
He glares down at me, voice low and furious. His hold on my arm is tighter than a constrictor.
"What the hell were you thinking?" he asks.
I’m trying to stand my ground, but it feels like sand under my feet.
"You were following me," I say.
Even I can hear how pathetic it sounds. My own voice betrays me, thin and shaky in the night air.
"Yeah, and it's just as well for you," he snaps back. "What were you doing in that Callahan cesspit?"
"Looking for answers," I say, trying to sound stronger than I feel. "I figured that was obvious."
Rafe huffs, and it’s like a gust of wind hitting me square in the chest.
"From the outside, it’s hard to tell if you want to find out who killed your friend or if you want to join her," he says. "If I hadn’t shown up, you’d be lying in an alley somewhere."
His words are sharp, each one a dagger. His eyes flash like ice in the sun, cold and cutting. He shakes his head, disbelieving.
I press my lips together, trying not to show that he’s getting to me.
"I don’t need a bodyguard," I say. "I’ve been doing fine on my own."
"Is that what you call almost getting yourself killed?" His voice is like a growl. "You got a death wish or something?"
"Wouldn’t be the first time," I shoot back, my frustration boiling over. "I’ve been on my own forever, Rafe. I can handle it."
"Not anymore," he barks, cutting me off. "From now on, you don’t go anywhere without me. If you want justice, you get it through me. We do this my way."
The words hang heavy between us. He's so sure of himself, of everything, and I hate that he might be right. Desperation claws at my insides, but so does anger. He’s not going to control me like this. I'm not going to let him.
"Your way?" I say, practically shouting.
I stop short. I’m fuming and shivering. He takes a step, maybe two, and I’m caged between him and the wall of a filthy building. It’s a heartbeat before he adds, "You don't walk alone anymore. You don’t talk to men like that anymore. You don’t even breathe without me knowing about it."
He leans in, the heat of his body wrapping around me, and suddenly I’m drowning in him.
He’s so close I can feel his blood pulsing in his neck, and my own pulse echoes it, frantic and hopeful.
He’s closing the space between us, narrowing in like he’s actually going to kiss me, but I don’t know if I want it or if I want to shove him away.
I think I might be shaking, but I can’t tell if it’s the cold, the adrenaline, or just him.
He stops short, and his breath comes hot and steady against my lips. I suck in air that tastes like whiskey and anger, but I don’t dare move. I don’t even blink. I can barely breathe, and he just hovers there, so damn sure of himself, so damn sure of me.
He lifts his hand, and it’s the slowest, most deliberate motion in the world. Like he’s got all the time to savor how off-balance I am. Like this is another kind of fight that he’s winning, and I’m too stunned to even put up a defense.
His thumb brushes my cheek, gentle, and it sends shockwaves all the way to my fingertips. He wipes off a smear of blood that I didn’t even know was there, and for a moment I forget how to think, how to breathe, how to be.
Rafe’s thumb lingers, and I’m torn between wishing it would stay forever and wishing he would just back the hell off.
The touch is still warm on my skin when he finally pulls away.
"Next time you go somewhere like this without me, I won’t stop at threats."
And just like that, he’s got my hand in his and he’s dragging me through the snow.