Chapter 24
Rafaele
"Isn't there anywhere cozy in this house?" she asks, trailing a finger along a vast white wall in the entryway.
Long lines, smooth surfaces, and harsh edges. I can see her point.
"Cozy isn't the vibe we're going for," I answer, watching as her eyes sweep the stretch of the hallway.
The stark emptiness of the house echoes her question back, almost tauntingly. We've just returned from Il Lusso, and she's still in that killer blue dress that does things to me, but her mood is changing, getting serious.
"No, I suppose not," she says.
She gives a light laugh, but there's a touch of longing to it.
The sound is small in the massive space, like it might get lost before it reaches me.
I pause, unsure, one foot pointed toward the guest room.
I linger, hesitant to face the emptiness of my spartan room.
There's reluctance in the way I shift my weight, not wanting to be alone with so little comfort around me.
"You're still heading back to the east wing?" I ask, trying to sound casual.
She raises an eyebrow. "Where else would I go?"
I shrug, suddenly uncertain. "Dom called a family meeting this morning. About you."
"About me?" Her voice rises slightly, a hint of anxiety creeping in. "What did they say?"
"That you're no longer a security risk." I watch her face carefully. "You've proven yourself. No more locked doors. No more restricted access."
Her eyes widen slightly. "So I'm officially... what? A guest with privileges?"
"Something like that." I take a step closer to her. "You could stay in my room. If you want."
The offer hangs between us, weighted with everything unsaid. I watch a series of emotions cross her face, surprise, consideration, and finally, a small smile that sends my heart racing.
"Forward of you, Rosetti," she says, but there's no rejection in her tone.
"Just practical," I counter, though we both know it's more than that. "Better view. Bigger bathroom."
She laughs softly. "Is that all?"
I move closer, unable to stay away. "Also, I sleep better when you're there."
Her playful expression softens. "Me too."
We stand there for a moment, the silence stretching between us comfortable now, filled with possibility rather than emptiness.
"Wait here," I tell her, breaking the moment.
She cocks her head, curious, as I stride toward the kitchen.
I leave her standing there, filling the cavernous space, and head to the kitchen.
I make her a peppermint tea with two sugars, the way I've seen her drink it.
I stir until the sweetness dissolves, the swirl of steam carrying the scent of mint.
"Just how I like it," she exclaims when I hand it to her, her eyes bright and grateful.
Her fingers wrap around the mug, and some of the tension leaves my shoulders.
"Follow me," I say, leading her away from the cold, sterile rooms and into the smallest library.
The floor creaks under our feet, marking our path.
She strides ahead, and I hurry to keep up, the steam from her tea a warm trail between us.
I don't look back, but I can hear her soft footsteps, quick with excitement, as she pushes the library door open.
I glance around, taking in what's clearly the coziest room in the place.
The glow of the fireplace casts flickering shadows, and the scent of old paper and polished wood fills the air.
I watch as the warmth seeps into her, like she's a part of the room already.
She's holding the mug like a treasure, the heat soaking into her hands.
"Sit," I tell her, gesturing to one of two leather armchairs placed around the fireplace.
She settles in with an almost comical eagerness, and I can't help but notice how right she looks there, like a splash of color in the soft glow of the room. I bend down and start laying a fire, feeling her eyes on me, waiting for her reaction.
"This is my favorite room in the whole place," she says, snuggling into one of the armchairs and pulling a blanket across her lap.
"The big bad brothers have managed to pull off one decent, cozy space," she adds.
I reply with a 'hmph' while I stack larger wood in a teepee over the kindling.
We sit in silence while I build the fire, sitting on my haunches and poking at the wood, blowing on the baby flames, urging the violent heat to destroy the wood.
"You look like you do that a lot," she says softly, curious.
I keep my eyes on the flames as they dance along the log, watching the curl of smoke rise up in a slow spiral, like it's got all the time in the world. It's safer than looking at her.
"I do, whenever I can't sleep," I answer, the words coming out measured. "This is my favorite room too."
"You often awake late?" she asks, the steel edge of her voice softened by her own curiosity.
"Yeah. You?"
I focus on the snap, the pop, the small explosions of the wood.
Sloane shifts, moving away from the chair and sinking down to the floor in front of the fire, like that's where she belongs. I'm reminded how different we are. How wrong I am for her. How I should tell her to leave, to go to bed, to save herself from me. But my mouth won't open.
She draws her knees in, small against the orange light, and I hate how fragile she looks. I hate how badly I want to make her feel safe.
"I get nightmares," she admits quietly.
There it is. The crack. Not in her voice, but in her armor.
"Nightmares about your dog? Bear?" I ask, keeping my distance.
She nods, her eyes far away.
"I used to think if I just kept explaining… if I kept repeating my innocence… it would fix something," she says. "That maybe people would believe me."
I stay still. If I move, if I breathe too loud, she might stop. I can't risk that.
"Everyone blamed me. For years, kids at school whispered about it. Called me the girl who killed her own dog."
My jaw tightens. That's the kind of wound that doesn't scar; it soaks in.
She laughs, but it's the sound you make when something still hurts and you're sick of hiding it.
"I started believing it," she says.
I want to kill those kids. Ridiculous, irrational, but it flashes hot behind my ribs.
"You were a kid," I remind her, trying to pull her back.
"Yeah. A kid who learned fast that once people think you're guilty, you stay guilty. No matter what's true."
I know that story. It's just told in different rooms.
The fire pops. I slide down to the rug beside her.
"That's why you're so set on proving that Maddy wasn't into drugs. That she wasn't asking to be murdered. That she did nothing wrong," I say, keeping my voice steady and pulling my knees up to my chest.
"God, I want to believe that so bad," she says in a voice so small it nearly disappears.
"But now, with all this stuff about Ethan and the Red Hooks, I don't know what to believe.
The more I dig, the more she looks involved.
Maddy was everything. I thought I was the only one who got it, got her. But maybe I didn't."
I don't interrupt. I know better than that.
"She was tough, you know?" Sloane wraps her hands around the mug. "Way tougher than me. She made me feel normal. Like I wasn't weird or broken or this sad, messed-up kid. Like it was us against the world."
I can see the sadness. I can see it digging in.
"And now?"
"And now I don't even know." She bites her lip, that teasing, wicked mouth going serious. Going hard. "Everyone thinks she was just a dumb girl who got herself killed, got mixed up in something bigger than she could handle. And, well, with Ethan and the Red Hooks… maybe she was."
"You don't believe that," I say.
It's not a question.
"I just think maybe, maybe if I was a better friend, if I'd spent less time studying and more time with her, she would have told me about her boyfriend and all the shit she was getting into and I could have helped her get out, warned her, kept her safe, and maybe she never would have…"
Her phone rings, the sound cutting through the room like a gunshot. She jumps, her hand automatically reaching for it like a reflex. I catch the caller ID before she can grab it: Lucas.
She stares at it, something conflicted passing across her face. She turns the ringer off and slips it back into her pocket.
The silence rings louder than the call did.
"Not going to answer?" I ask carefully.
She shakes her head. "Not now. It's late."
Something in her tone makes me push a little harder. "Everything okay with him?"
Sloane's brow furrows. "Yeah, it's just... Lucas has been calling a lot. Like, all the time. At first, I thought it was just him being worried about me getting involved in all this, but..."
"But?" I prompt, watching her face closely.
"I don't know. He's been acting weird lately." She stares into the fire, the flames casting shadows across her face. "Ever since I told him I was looking into the Callahans, he's been... different. Jumpy. Almost scared."
I feel a twinge of concern, more for her sake than anything else.
"Scared how?" I ask, keeping my voice casual.
"It's hard to explain. He keeps asking me who I'm talking to, what I know." She glances at me. "At first, I thought he was just being protective, you know? After losing Maddy. But sometimes it feels like... like he's checking up on me."
"Grief does strange things to people," I offer. "He probably just doesn't want to lose you too."
"Maybe." She shrugs, but I can see the uncertainty in her eyes. "Probably just being paranoid. Lucas loved Maddy more than anyone. If anyone wants justice for her, it's him."
We sit in silence for a while, watching the fire dancing, listening to the crackle of the timber.
"It seems like the Rosettis and Callahans have quite a history," Maddy says.
"You could say that. My grandfather came over in '47," I say, watching the flames dance. "Started with numbers rackets in Little Italy, then protection in the meat-packing district. The Callahans were already established in Hell's Kitchen. Irish mob with connections to the old country."