Chapter 30 #2
I continue walking forward, my boots scuffing on the concrete floor.
The fighting ring represents barely five percent of our income, but it's symbolic: neutral ground in a city carved up by decades of territorial agreements.
Breaking those unspoken rules meant more than just stealing money; it was a direct challenge to the delicate balance that kept both families prosperous and the streets peaceful.
Dom had made it clear: this wasn't just about the cash.
This was about maintaining the Rosetti reputation.
In our world, respect was currency. Without it, we'd lose our grip on everything from the protection rackets in Little Italy to the union contracts that filled our legitimate business fronts with cash.
"You crossed me the second you made an innocent girl bleed for your profit," I tell Dale, my voice hard.
What I don't say is that he crossed a line that would normally require a formal sit-down between families.
My father and Old Man Callahan would normally negotiate the penalty, usually a substantial financial payment and the sacrifice of the offending soldier.
By taking matters into my own hands, I was breaking protocol.
Starting something that would have ripple effects through every criminal operation in the city.
Dale's mask finally drops. He knows this isn't a warning. It's a death sentence.
He shifts, nervous. "Your dad'll kill you if you start something with us," he says. "A war between the families? You think Sal wants that?"
Terror creeps in under his words as he realizes how bad this is. It's the kind of fear that breaks a man before I ever lay a finger on him.
"He's pissed, alright." I step forward, slowly. "That you already started the war."
My brothers are watching me, and I know what they see – the same Rafe who's handled business for years. Calculated. Controlled. But inside, I'm burning with something new. I've never wanted someone to suffer like this before. Not for business. Not for family. This is different. This is for her.
"You're insane, Rafe," Dale spits, but I hear the waver in his voice, smell his sweat and fear. "You fucking touch me and my dad will wipe you all out."
"Maybe. But fuck, I'm gonna to enjoy it."
Part of me wonders if my brothers can see the change in me – if they notice how this isn't about the money anymore.
Dom would call it a weakness, this new fire burning inside me.
This need to avenge not just a business slight, but a personal one.
To hurt the man who hurt someone Sloane loved. To cross lines I've always kept clear.
I don't rush. I hit like thunder. A clean punch to the gut, then the jaw.
Dale crumples, scrambling, but I don't stop.
Fists. Knees. Elbow. This is methodical.
My fury isn't loud, it's cold. Precise. Absolute.
Practised. Dale staggers, gasping for air, and I go straight for the soft spots.
He's got no chance, but I want him to feel every single hit, every squeeze of my fists.
I don't need a weapon. I'm gonna tear him apart with these hands.
A bone-shattering strike to the ribs. A swift, brutal kick to the side.
He drops to his knees, but I don't let up.
I don't even give him time to breathe. We're playing by Rosetti rules, and he knows what that means.
He's already dead. I drive him to the floor, making sure he stays down.
Everything in me is focused, relentless.
This is his punishment, and I'm gonna make it stick.
Dale spits out blood. "Rafe—please—" he gasps.
I yank him up by his shirt, waiting a moment for him to get his feet under him, then I hit his jaw like a truck, and he stumbles back, crashing into the cage. He holds up a hand, trying to catch his breath, trying to catch any kind of break.
"I'll give it back, I swear. You can have it all."
"I know I can."
He cowers, trying to talk me down. He never had the stomach for real violence, not even in juvie.
I slam him against the wall, feel the crack of bone, feel the adrenaline that makes me more alive than anything ever could.
This is what I'm made for. I drag him to the floor and hit him again, hard enough to make him spit blood and panic.
"Don't do this," he pleads, his words choked and frantic. "Please, man. Please. I can get you the money. I can get you more."
I feel the rush in my hands, the clean heat of it.
"Dale Callahan begging?" I say, my voice dripping with contempt. "Thought I'd never see the day."
I let my fist crush his nose.
He screams, loud enough to make me wince. I don't stop. I want to be sure. I don't fucking stop until I'm certain.
"You think we're square now, Rafe? You think I'm gonna—fuck!"
He's a mess of blood and tears and bruises, back on the floor, curled up in a ball. He squirms, a helpless desperation taking over.
"You're making a mistake," he gasps, "a huge—"
I slam my foot down, and he sputters, wheezing like he's about to lose consciousness. I want him awake. I want him to know exactly what's happening.
"Dumb fuck," I say, shaking the ache from my hands. "You already made it."
His eyes are wide, full of terror. He makes a gurgling sound, desperate and pathetic.
I bend down and grind my knuckles into Dale's throat, hearing a squish as his Adam's apple pops. "She was twenty-six. She died scared. You sleep on that," I say.
As I stare down at him, I realize I'm crossing a line I've never crossed before.
Not just taking a life – I've done that enough times – but doing it for personal reasons.
For someone else. For Sloane. Putting her justice, her need for answers, ahead of the clean, professional distance I've always maintained.
This isn't how Rosettis do business. We're cold. Calculated. We don't let emotions cloud our judgment. But I'm breaking that rule for her. Because somehow, amid all this blood and darkness, she's become more important than the code I've lived by my entire life.
And then I finish it. Quiet. Efficient. Dale stops moving.
I stand there a moment longer, chest rising and falling. Blood on my hands. Not a shred of guilt.
The whole world is quiet, just for a moment.
"Jesus, Rafe," Matteo mutters.
They let me catch my breath, don't say a word until I'm ready. Five brothers, and not one of us breaks the silence. Dale's body lies still, blood seeping from his mouth, pooling dark under his head. His eyes are wide, frozen in the kind of terror you can't fake.
I breathe it in, the satisfaction heavy and thick in the air. The adrenaline ebbs, leaving me with that familiar hollow calm. Then I see Matteo flip his coin. Once. Twice. He's waiting for me to make the call. They all are.
"Let's go," I say.
Domenico is first, his footsteps precise and measured as he crosses to the bar.
Leonardo watches him come. The twins are quick to follow, Emilio's face a blank mask, and Matteo flipping his coin with a lazy calm.
I grunt, shaking out the stiffness in my hands, blood still dripping down my fingers.
Domenico slides us our shot glasses with slow, unhurried motions.
Like we're celebrating. I guess we are. The silence hangs a moment longer, then we down our drinks in a single, synchronized motion.
No one speaks, but the look in their eyes says more than words ever could. It's done. The first shot of the war, or the last. Time will tell.
We walk back to the body, the tension bleeding out of us as it sinks in.
"We done here?" Emilio asks, nudging Dale's lifeless arm with the tip of his shoe.
His eyes are ice, calm, unaffected.
I nod, feel the cold seep back in as the heat leaves my veins.
"We should clean this up before Carmela or Besi has to see," Dom says.
His voice is measured, always, but I hear the hint of warning under it.
"Leave it."
I pull the gloves from my hands and drop them on Dale's chest, a message as clear as any fucking thing I've ever written.
A challenge, a death sentence, a declaration of war.
I turn my back and head for the door, feeling the rush, feeling the fucking madness, feeling the everything.
As I walk away, I realize something's changed in me.
I've killed for money, for family, for business – but never for someone I care about.
Never because I wanted to make the world safer for one specific person.
The thought should terrify me – this shift in priorities, this weakness I've always avoided.
Instead, I feel something close to peace.
Like maybe this is who I've been becoming all along.
"Let them know we're just getting started."