Chapter 15
Rafaele
Family duty pounds into my head with every heartbeat. The air in Dad's old gym tastes like warm metal and sticky sweat. I inhale, and Domenico's fist cuts through it, sharp as lightning. I stay on my feet. He grins, and we start circling, brother versus brother, each of us waiting for an opening.
"Keep up, Rafe," he teases, bouncing on the balls of his feet like it's all a game.
I swing. My glove connects, and he stumbles back. He wipes at his mouth, red smudging on his knuckles. Feels good.
My jaw reminds me of his earlier shot—he's still smiling about that. Domenico is always happy to remind me who's older. I spit, tasting copper on my tongue.
The ring's empty, except for us. Above, beyond the ropes, I hear city life: engines humming, distant sirens. This place used to be a proper gym before Dom turned it into something less legitimate. Now it's a place for bare knuckles and blood.
"Dad says the councilman's getting nervous," Dom says between punches. "The development deal in Queens is drawing too much attention."
I block easily. "Tell him to use the construction unions as cover. That's what worked with the Hudson Yards project."
"Already handled. The union boss is on our monthly payroll now." Dom lands a blow to my side. "The police commissioner sends his regards, by the way. His daughter's wedding gift was... appreciated."
I smirk. "Good. We need him happy with the increase in activity since the Albanians moved into our territory last month."
Domenico lunges. He's sneaky-fast under that tailored-suit look he usually carries. I dodge, and his punch whispers past my shoulder. I love fighting here, in the heat, the dim light. It slices through everything else. Except today I can't focus. Her words loop in my head.
Sloane. She sounded like a dare when she hung up the phone this morning.
"Thanks for the support, Rafe," she'd said, dripping venom. She'd planned to meet Ethan Reyes alone despite my warnings. And now I can't shake the feeling I've made a critical error letting her go by herself.
Reyes. Red Hooks. A group of low-level thugs who'd slit their own mother's throat for the right price. And she thinks she can just walk in there and demand answers about her friend?
Domenico throws again. His eyes flick to my side and shift, but not fast enough. His fist lands in my gut. I double over, and the air whooshes out of me. He laughs. I glare up, icier than December.
"You're distracted," he says.
"Still standing," I snap.
"Not for long," he warns, nodding at the smooth cement floor slick with sweat.
He stops, his face turning serious.
"We need to talk about the books."
We both reach for water bottles. My breath's still jagged as I twist off the cap. The cold water is a relief against my raw throat.
"You think it's one of our guys?" he asks.
I shake my head.
"Still checking it out," I say.
I can't name Old Man Callahan without proof. No sense starting a turf war over rumors.
"Fix it, Rafe," Domenico says softly.
I hate it when he plays boss. I want to tell him to swap his ledger for a handgun, but he's been right. Cash flow keeps the fights running. I press my palms to the tape roll and wrap my hands tight. My knuckles go white.
"Obviously," I drawl.
I snap out a jab and connect with his ribs, earning myself a groan.
"You trust too easy," I say.
He steps forward and punches. I block easily.
"And you don't trust anyone," he says.
He pulls back, watching me, careful now. He's a planner, deliberate in his words and his hits.
This morning on the phone, Sloane ignored every word out of my mouth. Pretty head too stubborn for her own good.
"Thanks for the support, Rafe," she said, dripping with attitude.
I block Domenico's next blow with a crack of skin on skin. I wish another hit could erase the sting of that argument—her request for "backup", her humorless laugh when I told her no.
She doesn't want me to stop her, I get it. I don't need to stop her. Just need to make sure she doesn't die. Need to know she's still breathing when she decides to call me again.
If she does.
That thought guts me more than Dom's last punch. What if she doesn't call? What if I find out too late that I should have been there?
"What's eating you?" Dom asks, catching my expression. "Haven't seen you this worked up in years."
I shrug, trying to keep it casual. "Nothing important."
"Bullshit," he says, lowering his gloves. "Talk or I'll beat it out of you."
"You can try," I snap, but there's no heart in it.
Dom steps back, eyeing me with that look I've known all my life, the one that says I'm not fooling anyone, least of all him.
"It's the girl," he guesses, his voice too knowing. "The friend of the dead one. What was her name again?"
"Sloane Carter." The name feels heavy on my tongue, significant in a way I'm not comfortable examining.
Dom doesn't miss my reaction. He never does. "What'd she do?"
"She's walking into Red Hook territory alone." I try to sound unaffected, but I can hear the tension in my voice. "Looking for answers about her friend."
"And you care because...?"
The question hangs in the air between us. I don't have an answer I'm willing to give, not even to myself. I reach for a towel, wiping sweat from my face.
"She's a civilian," I mutter. "Knows nothing about this world."
Dom raises an eyebrow. "Since when do you care about civilians?"
Since never. That's the problem. I've spent years keeping people at a distance, doing what needs to be done, staying focused on family business. But Sloane has gotten under my skin in a way no one has before.
"She could expose things," I say instead. "Make noise."
Dom snorts. "Then let her. We've dealt with worse."
"She's..." I search for the right words. "Different."
"Different how?"
Round over. Arms aching, we step down. I fish my phone from my pocket, heart pounding. No message. No missed call. Great.
"Give it a fucking rest," Domenico says. "She'll call."
I scowl. I never should've told him about her. He shrugs, peeling off his gloves.
The memory of finding Sloane in Reyes' apartment last night hits me with sudden force.
Her wrists bound, her eyes wild with fear and defiance.
The relief that flooded through me when I realized she was alive, followed by a rage so consuming I could barely see straight.
I'd wanted to kill every person who had touched her, who had caused that flicker of fear in her eyes.
It scared me, that intensity. That kind of feeling, it's not professional. It's not rational. It's not me.
But it is me now.
"When did you get so soft?" Dom asks, breaking into my thoughts.
"I'm not soft," I growl.
"No?" He stares me down. "Then why are you still standing here instead of going after her?"
He's right. I'm already moving toward the stairs. A blast of cold air greets me as I burst onto the street.
My bike's nearby. I kick it into life. The engine rumbles in approval.
I weave between yellow cabs and honking horns, cold wind slicing under my jacket like tiny knives.
I let it. I need to feel it cut through me.
Need it to keep me sharp. I drive fast, faster than I should, knowing where she'll be. Where she's stupid enough to go.
She doesn't know men like Reyes. Small fish with big attitudes who want to prove they're sharks and take it out on minnows like her.
And now, she's not picking up. I know what that means, and the more I think about it, the harder I drive.
The cabbies honk and shout, their words lost under the rush of cold February air.
The bridges and buildings blur past me. Our fighting ring sits on the edge of Brooklyn.
It isn't a long drive to Reyes' place in Queens, but it feels endless.
I curse her. I curse the way she gets under my skin. But I keep driving.
Damn it. Why doesn't she listen?
I turn off the expressway, heading deeper into Queens, the buildings growing smaller and dirtier as I go. This part of the borough is bad. Full of people who think they can run their games without cutting the Rosettis or anyone else in. I respect their nerve. Almost always have to kill them for it.
The streets narrow as I get closer to his place, five stories of barred windows and grimy concrete.
I pull the bike up onto the sidewalk and kick the stand. People scatter like rats. I want them to. I don't need an audience. Don't want a scene.
The wind punches me in the face again as I climb over trash bags and broken bottles, elbowing past a woman leaving the blockhouse. I race up the fire escape—two steps at a time—my gloves scraping rusted metal.
I reach the second floor, my feet loud against the metal steps. Don't care. Let them hear me coming.
I knock once, polite. Then I kick. The wood splinters under my boot. A grin tugs at my jaw.
And then I'm inside.
The place swallows me whole. Darkness and noise close around me, broken voices and chaos. I let them. Let it get thick and hot and reckless.
She is in there somewhere, and the thought of her being hurt is enough to push me through. It hits me like a drug.
And then fear is here. Thick as smoke, sharp as meth, eating into their eyes.
One man tries to run, his chair scraping hard across the floor.
Another shouts. All that fear, all for me, and they're fucking right to be scared.
I don't stop. Her name is a fist in my chest. Her face is a bruise in my head.
I let them guide me like a gun. I will break this whole place open if I have to.
Will bury Reyes and his men. Will kill the entire world if it keeps her breathing.
The thought of her being hurt makes my vision go white with rage.