Chapter 28
Rafaele
Morning light spills across the bedroom floor as Sloane stirs beside me.
After last night on the rooftop, after everything we shared, I'm still surprised she's here.
That she didn't run when she saw the darkness in me, when I told her I'd kill for her.
Instead, she'd pulled me closer, like maybe that darkness was something she needed.
She shifts against me, her breath warm on my skin. "What time is it?"
I check the clock. "Almost ten."
"Late," she murmurs, burying her face in the crook of my neck.
"We deserved the rest."
Her hand slides up my chest, tracing the tattoo over my heart. The one that marks me as a Rosetti. As a killer.
"I keep thinking about what Ethan said," she says, her voice more alert now. "About Maddy finding out they were using her accounts."
I run my fingers through her hair, gentle in a way I'm still getting used to. "She wasn't part of it. Not willingly."
"No," Sloane agrees. "She was trying to stop it."
The weight that's been crushing her since Maddy died seems lighter today. Not gone—it may never be gone—but different. Shared.
"She was brave," I tell her. "Like someone else I know."
This time, she smiles, small but real.
"What happens now?" she asks, propping herself up on one elbow to look at me.
I trace the line of her jaw, still not quite believing she's real. That she's mine.
"We find out who got her involved."
"And then?" There's no judgment in her voice. Just certainty.
"Then they pay."
She nods, accepting this part of me, this world she's stepped into. "I want to help."
"There are parts of this life you don't need to see, Sloane."
"I've already seen plenty."
We lie there, quiet for a moment. The mansion hums around us, alive with secrets and power.
"Nanna called," I say finally. "She wants us for dinner tonight."
Sloane sits up, the sheet pooling around her waist. "Us? As in, you and me?"
"Yeah."
"That's... that's a big deal, isn't it?"
I nod, watching her process this. After everything, Ethan's confession, the rooftop, the way she's seen right through to the core of me, a family dinner shouldn't feel significant. But it is.
"No one's ever taken me to meet their family before," she says.
The vulnerability in her voice makes my chest tighten. I sit up beside her, pulling her close.
"Rosettis are different," I warn her. "Louder. More dangerous."
"I've handled you so far."
I laugh, surprising myself. "That's debatable."
She smiles against my shoulder. "So, dinner with the family. After everything that's happened."
"It'll be good," I tell her. "A chance to breathe. To forget about the Callahans for a few hours."
"I'd like that."
We shower and dress, moving around each other like we've been doing it for years instead of days.
Sloane wears one of her new dresses, a deep green gown that makes her eyes look like emeralds.
I watch her get ready, memorizing each movement, each smile.
She's softer today, the edges of her grief smoothed by what we learned from Ethan, by what we shared on the rooftop.
By the time we're in the car, the afternoon sun is warm on the dashboard. Sloane's hand finds mine as I drive, her fingers fitting between mine like they were made to be there.
"Tell me about Nanna Toni," she says.
"She's fierce. Doesn't take shit from anyone, not even Dom. Or Dad."
"Sounds like my kind of woman."
The road stretches ahead, winding through neighborhoods that grow more exclusive, more old-world with each mile. I glance at Sloane, watching her take it all in.
"Nervous?" I ask.
"Should I be?"
I consider it. "Maybe a little. Nanna will grill you about your intentions."
"My intentions?" she laughs. "With you?"
"With all of us. The family."
She sobers. "What should I tell her?"
I pause, choosing my words carefully. "The truth. That you're in this. That you're not walking away."
Our eyes meet for a moment before I turn back to the road.
"I'm not," she says quietly. "Walking away."
Something in my chest expands, warm and unfamiliar. I squeeze her hand.
"Nanna will love you," I tell her. "Not as much as I do, but enough."
The words slip out before I can catch them. I don't take them back.
She stares at me, eyes wide. Then a slow smile spreads across her face, bright enough to chase away the last shadows of what we've been through.
"I can handle your grandmother, Rosetti."
"We'll see."
Nanna Toni’s house smells like roasted garlic and crushed basil, the kind of scent that seeps into your clothes and makes you hungry even if you just ate. The kitchen is warm, loud, full of overlapping conversations and clattering pots.
“You stir until your arm hurts, capisci? If it doesn’t hurt, you’re not doing it right.”
Nanna Toni’s voice slices through the chaos of the kitchen as she presses a battered wooden spoon into Sloane’s hand like it’s a holy relic. Sloane, sleeves rolled up, already dotted with flour, doesn’t flinch.
“Got it,” she says, accepting the spoon with a grin. “Pain is flavor.”
She stands at the stove, sleeves rolled up, hair pinned back in some half-done twist that’s already slipping loose.
Her forearms are splattered with sauce, her cheeks flushed from the heat.
She looks like she belongs here, even if she’s still a little too careful, still measuring how much space she’s allowed to take up.
It’s the most dangerous thing I’ve ever seen. I lean against a doorframe, arms folded across my chest, letting my upper back press into the hard edge.
“No, no, no,” Nanna says, tapping Sloane’s wrist. “Stir from the bottom. This sauce doesn’t like lazy wrists.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Sloane says, grinning.
There’s a pink flush on her cheeks that’s got nothing to do with the heat.
“Who even taught you to cook?” Carmela pipes up from the dining table, eyeing Sloane over a glass of Chianti. “You didn’t strike me as the apron-wearing type.”
“My friend Maddy,” Sloane says, glancing back at her.
That sentence hangs in the air like it’s heavier than the saucepot. My stomach tightens. So does my jaw.
“She used to say the only way to learn a sauce was to burn it once,” Maddy adds, softer now. “Which I did. Twice.”
“Oh, babe, your friend who died?” Carmela says, voice softer than usual.
She’s curled at the kitchen table, flipping lazily through a magazine but not really looking at the pages.
Nanna Toni takes the spoon back for one stir. Slow, sure, practiced.
“Then you know how to cook with grief,” she says, handing the spoon back to Sloane with the ceremony of handing over a crown. “That’s the best kind of sauce.”
It hits like a punch to the chest. Quiet. Heavy. But honest. We all sit with it for a second. Sloane’s eyes flick toward me, and the sharp edge of the doorway presses into my back. I look down at my hands, flex my fingers like they’ll explain what I’m feeling, feeling the creak of the leather.
The room falls into that kind of silence only the Rosettis know how to hold, quiet, but never empty. And then, because the universe can’t stand tension longer than ten seconds—
“Buy me a bible,” Matteo calls from the open kitchen window, half hanging out. “Someone’s walking a dog in yoga pants, and I think I believe in God again.”
Nanna Toni doesn’t even blink.
“If you bring another woman to my table who can’t pronounce ‘gnocchi,’ I’ll drown you in the bathtub.”
“She can say pasta,” Matteo says, laughing. “I checked.”
“Does she eat pasta or just take pictures of it for the ‘Gram?” Emilio asks, walking in with one of our cousins’ kids draped over his shoulder like a giggling scarf.
Matteo shrugs. “Don’t judge my journey.”
Sloane snorts. It’s a real laugh. Not polite or careful, not the kind she gives people she’s trying to impress. It’s open, unguarded. And I want to hear it again. And again.
Emilio shuffles the toddler on his shoulder.
“Who taught this one to bite ankles? Matteo?”
“If it was me, she’d go for the throat,” Matteo replies, still hanging out the window like he lives there.
“She doesn’t even talk,” Emilio mutters to no one, giving the toddler a playful bounce. “But if she could, she’d roast you.”
Besiana’s eyes flick up from her espresso, the steam curling around her elegant dress.
“Anyone else notice Rafe hasn’t taken his eyes off her this entire time?” she drawls.
“Shut up,” I say flatly.
Dom doesn’t look up from his cup.
“You bring a woman to Nanna’s house, you better be thinking long-term.”
“I didn’t think Rafe had a long-term,” Matteo calls, clearly delighted with himself, his laughter blending with the chatter echoing off the walls.
Emilio smirks and looks down at the toddler.
“Say ‘Uncle Rafe is whipped.’ Go on, say it.”
“You say that,” I tell the kid, “and I’m feeding you anchovies for a week.”
I can almost taste the salt.
Everyone laughs. Including Sloane. Her shoulders loosen. Her smile softens. And something punches me in the chest because this, this noise, this table, this life, it wasn’t supposed to be for her.
And now I don’t want it without her.
Sloane turns back to Nanna, and I have to strain to hear her over the hum of conversation.
“Does it ever get… easier?” she asks. “Belonging somewhere like this?”
Nanna Toni flips a steak, then nods.
“No. But it gets harder to leave. That’s how you know it’s real.”
Sloane stares into the pot like it might hold the answer to something bigger. My throat tightens. I want to say something. I don’t.
Instead, I just stand there, feeling the gravity shift under my feet. The kind of shift you don’t walk back from.
"Carmela's doing wonders with the nightclub expansion," Dom notes, passing a plate. "Revenue's up thirty percent since she took over management."
"The alcohol import licenses helped," Carmela replies with a modest smile. "And the deal with the Russians for premium vodka cut our costs in half."
Leonardo raises his glass. "To my sister—best money launderer since our grandfather."
"And to Emilio," Matteo adds, "for keeping the NYPD's cybercrime unit chasing their tails while we modernize our betting platforms."
Nanna Toni gives a knowing nod. "Your father would be proud. Each of you managing your territories exactly as a Rosetti should."
It feels like an ordinary family moment. Then Sloane’s phone buzzes.
The sound slices through the warmth like a blade. She wipes her hands on a dish towel, checks the screen, and her expression flattens instantly.
“What is it?” I ask, already moving toward her.
She turns the screen to face me.
Text from Lucas: We need to talk. Now. Alone.
And just like that, the warmth turns into ash in my mouth.
I meet her eyes, and I already know what comes next. We’re going. Together. And if Lucas thinks he’s going to break her with whatever’s waiting at the other end of that message, he’s forgotten exactly whose family she just earned her place in.