Chapter 14 RAFFAEL #2
“Uncle.” The syllable tastes foreign and heavy.
Images cascade, dinner tables I never sat at, a man who might have sat in a chair I was supposed to own, a half-brother whose hands might be on the very things I want.
Edoardo. The name is a new weight in my mouth; it could be alliance or executioner.
Either way, the ledger of my life redraws itself.
Igor watches the change in me the way a man watches a watch hand move. He doesn’t push. He doesn’t beg me to accept it. He simply offers the means to prove it or deny it. The sway of his presence is quiet but absolute.
“Take it,” he says, nodding at the vial, “or don’t. Have it run. Get Ed’s blood if you need theatre. Pull his brush for a hair. I’ll help if you want. If you don’t, burn it. Your life either way doesn’t get smaller.”
My fingers close around the vial. It’s cool, heavier than I expected. I feel ridiculous and enormous at once. I’m looking at a piece of my life I never knew I had.
He taps the edge of the tweezers with a fingertip and then pockets them.
“One more thing,” he says, standing. “If you accept it, don’t do anything stupid alone.
Not yet. Not until you understand the game.
” He smooths his coat and moves toward the door, then pauses and looks back.
“If you want the slow certainty, get it tested. If you want the shortcut—if you want me to run a trace on Ed for you—I can get you what you need quietly.”
His coat brushes the doorway. He doesn’t wait for a decision. “Let’s stay in touch,” he adds, almost offhand. Then stops by the door.
His shrewd eyes lock on me, study me. He taps his fingers once on the doorframe. I’ve seen that look before on other people. He’s about to drop a bomb, and he wants to watch me bleed.
He’s about to gut me. And he’s going to enjoy it.
"Sophia’s being abused," he says, like he’s commenting on the weather. "By her husband. Has been since the day they got married."
I forget how to breathe. The words hit like a bullet between the ribs—silent, fast, lethal.
No. No. No.
My world skews sideways. The air turns thick.
Sluggish. My vision tunnels. But I don’t move.
Don’t blink. Don’t breathe. I can't allow Igor to see what his words mean to me, what Sophia means to me.
Because I don't trust him. He is the kind of man who will pounce on any weakness he sniffs out.
His mentioning of Sophia shows that he already knows too much about my feelings for her.
I clench my jaw until pain blooms down my neck and into my shoulders.
Keeping my mask of ice on, while praying the fire inside me won't melt it.
This isn't pain that's raging through me. It's fucking agony. A war is waging inside my head. I saw her; she looked happy, she was all smiles and laughing. She fucking touched his arm.
How could I let this happen? I keep clenching my teeth, and with extraordinary willpower, I press out, "That’s a bold accusation."
Igor tilts his head. And I know he sees it. Sees the crack in my composure, hears the faint tremor in my voice. The bastard smiles.
"Yeah, you’re not quite as good as you think, DeSantis."
You fucking idiot. The voice inside me lashes out with the force of a whip. You watched her walk down that aisle, and you said nothing. You watched her kiss him. Smile at him. And you didn’t do a fucking thing.
My chest tightens until I’m not sure if I’m about to scream or shatter. She was in pain. She was suffering—every day. And I didn’t see it. I didn’t see her.
A sound tries to crawl up my throat. I bury it. Bury everything.
Igor checks his watch like he’s just passing the time. "Tell you what. Your little love will be at St. Raphael’s Medical Center later today. You want to know the truth? Go. See for yourself."
I force out the lie like it doesn’t rip my throat raw. "I don’t care."
Igor lifts an eyebrow. "You’re adorable when you bluff."
He smooths his coat like a man who knows he just broke something expensive. "Oh, and one more thing."
He glances back at me, that smile still in place, same as the killer’s glint in his eyes. "Marcello Orsi was shot last night. For now, he’s still breathing. Barely."
He knows I don't give a shit about whether Marcello lives or dies. Not really. I've never met the man. But he's Sophia's brother, and I know she loves him. It will kill her if he dies.
Igor gives me one last look. One last cut. "Thought you might want to know."
Then he’s gone. The door clicks shut behind him. I’m still standing by the desk filled with expensive computer equipment. For another moment, I pretend I’m okay. Still frozen in place while the world underneath me burns.
How could you not have seen it?
She was right in front of me.
She smiled.
She fucking smiled.
And I believed it. I believed the show. The marriage. The ring. The illusion.
No, I won't believe a word Igor said. He's a manipulative bastard. I'll go to St. Raphael’s Medical Center. I won't allow myself to believe it until I see it with my own two eyes.
My hand curls into a fist so tight I hear my knuckles crack. My heart’s not just breaking—it’s howling. Because deep down, I know that Igor is telling the truth, even though I don't want to believe it. Not yet.
Sophia is a goddamn mafia princess. No man would dare lay a hand on her.
Especially not a coward like Roberto. The repercussions…
would come from where? My analytical mind finally kicks in.
Her father, Carlos Orsi? Do you really think he would give one flying fuck?
Her brother, Angelo? Even before he died?
Another thought enters my head, but it's only on the periphery because I don't give a rat's ass about it right now, but it's there, a silent warning.
Why is Igor telling you all this now? There is a timing factor here, DeSantis, think!
But I can't, because there is only room for one thing.
Sophia, my Sophia, is suffering, has been suffering for years.
Deep down, I know Igor is manipulating me into something he wants me to do.
But I don't care. My mind is filled with two sentences:
You let her go.
You left her with him.
With a cry of rage that reminds me of a wounded tiger, I swipe the monitors, keyboards, mice, notes—everything off the desk.
I kick the fucking desktop until it's nothing but a bent pile of metal.
I grab the chair, hammer it against the servers on the wall, but it's not enough to even touch the pain raging through my body—the self-accusations.
My eyes fall on one of my knives that has dropped to the floor.
Perfect. I'll go to St. Raphael’s Medical Center and see for myself.
I cut my arm to have a reason to be at the hospital.
Wrapping a shirt over it is more for show than anything else, before I storm out of the house and swing on my Ducati.
I push the machine to its limits as I lean into one curve after another.
My phone rings.
I want to ignore it, but it's Stephano. I answer through my Bluetooth helmet, and without preamble, he comes right to the heart of the matter the moment I pick up. "I need you to go to Puerto La Cruz and find the head of the Venezuelan cartel. Start with Teodoro Salazar."
This is perfect. I have no intentions of going to fucking Puerto La Cruz, but if Stephano thinks I'm there, he won't get suspicious if I don't show my face for a while.
"On my way, boss."