Rafaele
The city is burning. The flames flicker and dance in the reflection of my sunglasses as the sun sets, casting long shadows over the buildings. New York is a city of secrets, and tonight, one of them has been let loose.
I stand at the foot of our family’s mansion, feeling the weight of it all.
The war that’s coming, the lives that hang in the balance, and Dale Callahan’s blood still fresh on my hands.
All around me, New York is spinning into chaos.
Sirens blare in the distance, and cars honk angrily in traffic.
But here, it's eerily quiet. As if my father's mansion exists outside time and space.
I turn at the voice, see her standing there on top of the marble steps, wearing a soft T-shirt and sleep shorts.
Sloane's face is pale, her eyes wide, her hair pulled up into a loose bun. She walks down slowly, each step calculated and deliberate. Her hands clench and unclench at her sides, like she’s bracing herself for something.
“What happened?” she asks softly.
Her eyes stay glued to me, searching for answers.
I don’t reply. Not right away. I just watch her, absorbing the strength she carries despite everything. The muscles around her eyes are taut with tension, but she doesn’t waver. She’s strong.
When I finally speak, my voice is rough.
“It’s done.”
It’s all I can manage, and even that feels like too much. I don’t elaborate. She doesn’t ask. She doesn’t need to. We both know what it means. She walks toward me slowly, like she’s approaching something wild that might bolt. Or something dangerous that might break her.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
Her words strike a place that’s raw and aching. It’s not just concern. She’s here, and she’s not going anywhere. If I were a better man, I’d send her away right now.
But I’m not. So I stand still and let her come closer.
I don’t answer. I reach out to touch her face, then remember the blood under my fingernails and pull back. This isn't her fight. It shouldn't be. Yet here she is, standing by my side like she belongs there. Like she’s already accepted what being with me really means.
“I wanted to be with you tonight.”
That’s the most honest thing I’ve said in years.
My brothers have all regrouped at Mom and Dad’s place to get ahead of this war, to lay out our next moves, to plan for what everyone knows is coming.
They all think in terms of tactics and strategies, of lines drawn and lives lost. I do too, that's the Rosetti way.
But tonight my head wasn't in it. My heart wasn't in it. I couldn't follow them back there, not after everything that’s happened. Not with Dale’s blood still on my hands. Not with Sloane on my mind.
A debrief, they said, as if dissecting this chaos and sorting it into neat, manageable pieces would make sense of any of it.
They’ll have the maps out, the lists of names, the who-should-take-out-who-and-when.
Besiana will be there too, cool and controlled, plotting our family's next move with chilling precision. She’s good at this. Better than any of us, sometimes.
But I needed to be here, far from their strategies and schemes, away from the logic of it all, with Sloane, hoping she could see in me something other than the blood I spill.
“I'm glad.”
No hesitation. No stutter. She steps into my chest, arms wrapping around my waist, careful of the blood. I stand stiff for a second, then fold. Just a little. Just enough.
She smells of flowers and fresh fields, and I breathe in deep, feeling her warmth seep into me.
“He was my friend. Once,” I murmur.
“And he betrayed everything you stand for,” she whispers. “I’m sorry…,” she adds softly. “That he… that it was Dale.”
I searched for months to find out who was skimming the take.
Months of suspicion, of following every lead to a dead end, of watching my back as I tried to root out the traitor.
It was a ghost, leaving just enough of a trail to make me doubt everyone around me.
Months of suspecting the Callahans, of suspecting my own men.
But I never suspected him. I should have known better.
It turned out to be the one Callahan I thought I trusted. Dale.
“I’m not,” I finally say, my voice as rough as sandpaper. “He sold her like she was nothing.”
Sloane pulls back to look at me.
“She wasn’t nothing. Not to me. Not to you.”
I search her face, waiting for her to flinch, to pull away from the mess I am. She doesn’t.
She looks up at me, her eyes glassy but resolute.
“Dale is gone, right? Forever?” she asks.
I can’t bring myself to say the word ‘dead’, not when it might mean she stops looking at me like that. So I just nod.
“And the fight ring is under your control now, right?”
I nod, keeping my voice steady.
"The Rosettis are in charge now. We’ve weeded out the rats, tripled the men on site. Emilio’s taken control of the accounts."
Her brows furrow.
“And the Callahans? What happens to them?”
"They'll retaliate," I say, the cold certainty of it sinking in. "They won't take this lying down."
“A war…” she whispers, almost to herself.
Her hands shake as she wraps her arms around herself as if the words are a cold wind.
“Yes,” I confirm, not sugarcoating it.
A war is inevitable in our world. It's just a matter of when and how bloody.
“And you?"
Her voice quivers just enough to betray the fear hiding underneath.
Her eyes stay locked on mine, a flash of resolve in them like a blade in the dark.
Bright and sharp. I can see the questions she’s not asking.
I can see the doubts she’s afraid to voice.
She wants to know what happens now. To us.
To me. To this thing we’ve started and whether it’s already breaking before it even has the chance to begin.
“I don’t want to be the kind of man who only knows how to break things," I tell her, my voice dropping low.
There’s a world of meaning in that one sentence. It’s everything I am and everything I wish I weren’t. It’s every fear that keeps me up at night. But she doesn’t hesitate. She never does.
“Then don’t let go of the one thing you didn’t.”
She speaks softly, the words a lifeline. An anchor. She’s holding me together.
Her hand presses against my chest, and I don’t think she knows how close I am to losing it right there.
To falling apart in a way I’ve never let myself before.
We’re caught in this moment where nothing else matters.
Not the war we’re about to start, not the chaos waiting around the corner, not the blood that’s been spilled or the blood that will be. Just us. Just this.
For a man who never lets himself beg, never lets himself break, never lets himself lean on anyone else, her touch is everything I need right now.
I let out a breath, like a war’s ended inside me, like I’m finally at peace.
"Will you stay with me tonight?" I ask, my voice all gravel and need.
Sloane nods once
"Always."
Sloane doesn’t hesitate for a second. Her fingers curl around my hand, not caring about the blood or anything else.
It's a small touch, but right now, it feels like an anchor. She pulls me toward the mansion, both of us silent as we push open the heavy door and step inside. The grand, cold expanse of the front hall looms around us. Each step echoes off marble floors and high ceilings. It’s dim, a few lamps casting weak halos of light around the space.
My family’s home, all sharp angles and cold shadows, nothing homely except the lingering scent of garlic.
But right now, it doesn’t feel like mine at all. She leads me up the stairs, her grip firm, as if she’s afraid I might turn back or disappear.
I follow without a word as we reach the second floor and move down the long hallway. Room after empty room. Each one is cleaner and more polished than the last. We pass the guest room she used when she first arrived. Then we’re at my door, and she pushes it open without pausing. We step inside.
She doesn’t even stop to take a breath as we pass through the bedroom and into the adjoining bathroom.
Without a word, she sits me on the edge of the bathtub, her movements gentle but sure.
Water runs in the sink, drowning out everything else, and a thin mist rises as it heats up.
I sit there and watch her, my heart a dull, deep thud in my chest.
She grabs a washcloth and wrings it out, not even looking at me as she concentrates.
Her lips are set in a determined line. She’s careful, precise, focused on what she’s doing.
As if this, right here, is the most important mission in the world.
I stare at her in silence, taking it all in, the way this woman has wedged herself into my life, into my heart, without asking for permission, without caring how damaged I am. Like she’s decided I’m hers.
Then, finally, she kneels in front of me. The cloth is warm and wet in her hands as she begins to clean the blood from my knuckles, wiping away Dale Callahan and wiping away the night. Her fingers are soft as they work, gentle as they trace over cuts and bruises.
“I don’t deserve you,” I say softly.
I’m bare in a way I’m not used to, open and raw in the face of everything Sloane is. She doesn't lift her head, doesn't miss a beat in her careful work. She just keeps wiping the blood away, her touch steady and warm.
Her fingers are gentle as they glide over bruises and trace over my battered skin. The cloth feels soothing, like her touch alone can erase the night's chaos. I’m afraid if I blink, she might vanish.
“Good," she says, her voice light but firm. "Then maybe we’re even.”