Chapter 12
Rafaele
Istep into the bar and spot Dale slouched in a sticky vinyl booth. I weave through a haze of smoke and spilled beer, past guys hollering over the thumping rock music. He hasn't noticed me yet. Classic Dale, letting the world come to him.
I sidestep a group of drunk bros and take a breath. The job. Focus on the job. Not Sloane. She's a distraction I can't afford right now.
Outside, the street is wild with Saturday-night chaos. The Callahan problem needs my full attention. The fighting ring is bleeding money, and I need to find out where it's going. That's what matters here. That's why I called Dale.
She's entirely wrong for me anyway. Smart girl, nice background, ex-cop for a dad.
I bet he shines his badge every night before bed and drinks decaf until the pot's empty.
Didn't take me long to figure that out—her old man is a small-time legend for cleaning up a precinct in Jersey that was dirtier than I am.
And her? Post-grad student studying criminal psychology.
Like she's holding a magnifying glass up to me and my whole life.
A girl like that should be running from guys like me, not chasing after answers about her dead friend.
She's in over her head, and staying clear of her is the smart move for both of us.
I've got real problems to deal with. Missing money. Family business. The Callahans. No time for distractions, no matter how green her eyes are or how stubbornly she refuses to stay away from trouble.
I drag myself back to the moment. The job. Focus on the job.
I take the last steps to the booth. Dale looks up and grins.
"Rosetti," he says, lifting his beer. "Thought you'd bailed on me."
I slide in across from him. The vinyl seat cracks under me. "You're not that lucky."
The waitress notices me as I sit down and brings over a shot of whisky. I don't even wait for her to leave before I down it in one quick gulp. It's harsh, burning down my throat, just how I like it.
"Never been a beer guy, huh?" Dale quirks an eyebrow while he takes a sip from his own drink. There's a little taunting in his voice, like he's trying for a casual tone.
"I don't drink water from the Hudson either," I reply, setting the empty glass down with a hard thunk. "But I'm guessing we're not here to talk about that."
I lean back, watching him closely for any hint of what's coming next.
Dale isn't bad blood. I've known him a while, but we don't meet up just for chit-chat, and I don't like wasting time. Still, it's not like him to call me over if he didn't have something important on his mind. He wouldn't be sitting there waiting for me if this was nothing.
"You look serious," I add, cutting through the noise of the bar.
His eyes narrow a bit, like he's trying to gauge my reaction to something big. A strand of that scruffy blond hair falls into his face as he tilts forward.
"I think someone's skimming our take," he says.
My mind kicks into high gear. The Callahan and Rosetti families joined forces in the middle of last year to open an underground fighting ring.
The gym where we worked out turned bloody most days anyway, so we just decided to monetize it.
The Rosettis run the fights, and the Callahans take care of the betting.
It's a wild success. Most nights, you couldn't squeeze an extra pimple into that room, and cash is flying around almost as fast as the booze.
But the numbers don't stack up. There's a hole. A leak. I had one of my brainiacs calculate it, sitting ringside and watching every damn bet. I even had Emilio poke around in the Callahan computers, and we can't find the leak, but I'm sure it's there.
So, the missing money isn't news to me, but the fact that Dale knows about it is. And the fact he's coming to me with it says he's probably not the guy behind it.
"You think it's one of our guys?" I ask, testing the waters to see if he knows more than he's saying.
His narrow eyes hold mine, and I can't tell if he's got a name or if this is just one of his wild hunches that he's hoping I'll run with.
"I don't know," he admits after a beat, frustration lacing his voice.
I lean in. The dim light throws shadows on his face.
"What do you know, exactly?"
He slams his bottle down. The table vibrates.
"A ton of cash just vanished," he says.
"What about Chase? He know?" My voice drops to a whisper.
Dale shivers. "No way. If I told my old man, you know what he'd do. What your old man would do." He pauses. "It'd be a bloodbath. I thought you might help. Quietly."
"How long's this been going on?" I already have a guess.
"Couple months," he says. "It's getting worse."
I take a slow sip.
"Can't you have someone in your crew handle it?"
He shakes his head.
"My dad would skewer me for needing help. I have to prove I've got this."
I study him. There's a flicker of worry behind his eyes.
"You sure it's not your old man?"
He shakes his head. "Not this time. He wouldn't risk it with you Rosettis in the mix. I'm trying to do right by him. And the business."
I smirk. "You think I'll cover your ass just 'cos we're juvie buddies."
"Well…," he says.
I almost laugh, but there's something in his voice, a crack I tuck away for later.
"Fine," I tell him. "Say I believe you. Think it's one of our guys?"
"Could be anyone." He meets my eyes. "We go way back. Who else can I trust?"
I shrug. "Another of your messes. I'm used to them."
He half-grins. "You're still a bastard, but at least you listen."
Silence stretches.
I consider asking him about Maddy Torres. I lean back in my seat and fold my arms, watching Dale closely as I mull over the risk.
Sloane's been poking around, looking for answers about who killed her friend.
She's got theories about rival gangs and secret boyfriends.
All we know for sure is that the Callahans ordered the hit.
I could ask Dale what he knows, see if he's heard anything that might help, but the danger is real.
He's high up, maybe even second in command.
If he sniffs out Sloane's connection to this, that she's been digging around where the Callahan family is involved, it could end badly for her.
If word got back to Chase Callahan that some girl is snooping around... I've seen what happens to people who get in their way. Quick and brutal. End of story.
Better to keep my mouth shut for now. Get what info I can on the missing money, solve our immediate problem. Sloane will have to handle her own mess, preferably from a safe distance.
Then he stands, swinging on his leather jacket.
"Thanks for not deckin' me, Rosetti. I'll be waiting for your call."
Before I can answer, he melts into the crowd. I watch him go, knowing he's clean but wondering about his old man.
A shadow falls across the table, and I look up. She's a vision, blond, leggy, all curves and a smile that could swallow me whole. The kind of woman I usually don't walk away from.
"You Rafe Rosetti?" she asks, leaning close enough for me to smell her perfume.
This time, it's different. I shake my head. "Not interested."
She slides into the booth, pressing up against me, thigh to thigh. "C'mon, let me buy you a drink. I've heard you're fun."
"Bad rumor," I say, sliding her ass right back across the sticky vinyl seat then hopping out of the booth.
The bar is loud and packed, a sea of bad ideas. This one? This time? An easy no. I stand and start to button my jacket.
She pouts and kicks out a hip.
"Don't be like that, sexy, I—"
I cut her off, looking her dead in the eye.
"Is your name Sloane Carter?"
She blinks, thrown off, and I see I've got her right where I want her.
"Er, no," she says.
"Then fuck off."
I don't wait to see her reaction. I've got more important shit to deal with. I need to find where the money's going, and I need to keep Sloane from getting herself killed. The second one shouldn't matter as much as it does, but I don't have time to analyze that problem right now.
I stalk away and push open the bar door with my black-gloved hand.
Outside, the cool air slaps me awake. I head for my car—a stupid move, but I'm doing it anyway. I'll drive by her place, make sure she's safe, then get back to what I should be focused on: the missing money, the Callahans, and keeping the Rosetti business intact.
The second I do anything more than that—the second I let her know I'm watching, or worse, let myself care too much—we're both screwed. And in my world, "screwed" usually means "dead."