Chapter 42 - Raffael
Sophia’s right. Christ, she’s right. I was an idiot thinking Edoardo would take me seriously, showing up like some motor gang boss fresh off a Ducati. What the fuck was I thinking? My jeans, my leather? Yeah, I look like me. But that’s not enough. Not for the table I’m about to claim a seat at.
And the way she said it—so gently, like she wasn’t tearing me down, just lifting me up—cuts deeper than anything else. She deserves so much more than this. Than me fumbling around, thinking I can walk into a room full of men who’ve been groomed for power since birth.
She’s out of my league. Always has been. A mafia princess, elegant, untouchable, and me, a scarred street soldier who clawed his way out of the shadows. But I’ll learn. I’ll do whatever the fuck it takes for her.
She nudges me lightly, her hand on my chest, and the softness of it nearly undoes me. "Come on," she says, her voice carrying that quiet certainty that always makes me listen. "I know a spot."
A smile tugs at my mouth despite the storm in my head. I let her push me back toward the Ducati, swing my leg over, and the second she’s behind me with her arms around my waist, I feel steady again.
I let the Ducati growl to life beneath us, and she directs me through the city streets, waving me past towers of glass and steel, into a quieter block with polished storefronts and understated signs. She taps my shoulder and points.
An exclusive men’s warehouse tailor. The kind of place with windows so clean they don’t even look real, mannequins in suits worth more than most people’s cars. The kind of place I never thought I’d walk into.
But for her? I’d walk into hell itself and ask for a fitting.
The bell above the door chimes as we step inside. The place smells like polished wood, old money, and faint cologne that probably costs more than my Ducati.
The salesman lifts his head from behind a gleaming counter. He gives me one look, slow and obvious, his eyes flick down the leather jacket, the scars, the jeans still dusted with road grit. His lips twitch like he’s about to sneer. Dismiss me.
My fingers twitch toward the weight of the gun underneath the jacket. I can already picture it, him stammering apologies with the barrel in his face.
But then Sophia’s hand presses firmly against my chest, stopping me cold. Her touch alone steadies me, but it’s the look in her eyes that pins me to the ground. Don’t.
She steps forward before I can even breathe out my irritation, and it’s like watching magic.
Her voice slips into something soft and cultured, the kind of tone that says she belongs here without question.
She greets the salesman like he’s a friend she hasn’t seen in years, warm and confident, and the bastard’s entire posture shifts.
His eyes flick to her jeans, the leather jacket, but he can’t reconcile it with her poise, the grace that drips from her with every word.
In thirty seconds flat, she’s got him eating out of her palm, nodding along, ushering us toward racks of Italian wool like we’re royalty.
I watch the way his eyes stay locked on her when he should be talking to me.
Normally, that’d make me burn. But this guy doesn’t look like competition.
Not a shark, not a soldier. More like… the kind of pale, polished prick who spends his life cutting fabric and stitching seams. He’s no threat. He couldn’t be, not to me, not to her.
Still, if I didn’t know better, I’d think she was flirting.
The easy laugh, the tilt of her chin, the way she brushes his ego just enough to make him beam.
It should make me jealous, but instead it makes me…
proud. Because it’s power. Her power. And watching her wield it—after everything she’s been through—it’s fucking beautiful.
I shift my weight, crossing my arms, and catch her eyes over the salesman’s shoulder. She knows exactly what she’s doing, knows I’m watching. And God help me, I think she’s enjoying that too.
She slips back to me once the salesman vanishes into the racks, her eyes gleaming with that sharp focus that always used to undo me.
"Okay," she says, folding her arms, chin tilted just so. "Let’s talk numbers."
I arch a brow. "Numbers?"
"You said you had your own company. How much money do you have?"
A low chuckle slips out of me, because only she could stand in the middle of a high-end tailor’s shop, stare down a man like me, and ask the kind of question that would get most people killed. "Enough to pay for a suit," I tease, letting my smirk curl just to see if I can coax a blush from her.
She doesn’t flinch. Just narrows her eyes. "No. Seriously."
I sigh, shake my head like she’s impossible, and pull out my phone. A few swipes later, the screen glows between us, listing the totals across my accounts—several billion—spread neatly across currencies and countries. They are numbers that would make governments blink.
Her gaze flicks over the screen, cool as glass. Then she gives the smallest nod, lips twitching. "That’ll do."
"That’ll do?" I echo; a laugh breaks free, rough and disbelieving. "That’s all you’ve got to say?"
She smirks at me, and fuck, my heart constricts so tight it almost hurts. Because it’s her. The old Sophia. The one I used to watch from the shadows, the one I obsessed over while building empires in her name. The one I thought was lost forever.
She steps closer, eyes gleaming. "I assume you have men working for you."
"Several," I answer, keeping my voice low and steady, enough for her to know I’m not brushing her off, that I'm playing with her.
She nods again, decisive this time, like she’s already running numbers and possibilities in her head.
"Okay then. I don’t know what kind of plan you have, but if you want them to take you seriously, you’ll need your men dressed like this, too.
" She gestures toward the racks of suits surrounding us, crisp and merciless. "Get them here."
I stare at her for a long beat. My fierce, broken, brilliant Sophia, already seeing angles I hadn’t. I love watching her step into my world, right where she fucking belongs.
A couple of hours later, Sophia walks the line like a queen, inspecting her soldiers. To anyone else, her nod of approval would have been enough. But I know her, and I catch the faint note in her voice when she says, "These will do." She isn’t fully convinced. Not yet.
"When we get back home, I'll make appointments with stores at Maison étoile, to see that your men and women," she raises an eyebrow at me, and I nod, confirming that I have other women in my employ besides Lexy, "get outfitted properly."
"This feels so different," Kyle says, staring at himself in the mirror, and I agree, clothes make or break people. Sophia steps to his side and tugs at the shoulders of his jacket, and I finally see what she sees: the cut’s just a fraction too wide, making him look more like a kid playing dress-up than the soldier he is. I wouldn’t have noticed.
Not until she pointed it out. That’s the difference between her and me.
I see weapons. She sees details. Both can kill.
Kyle flushes at her touch, but she only smooths the fabric with a small frown before stepping back. Kyle’s one of the newer guys, sent my way through Gray. Good kid. Still green, but loyal.
When she crouches down like she’s about to tug on Leo's pant leg, I step forward and intercept. "Nope." I cut in, and my hand catches hers before she gets the chance.
She tilts her head at me, her grin sharp and knowing, as she winks. "Fine. Then take me to lunch and tell me your plan."
I almost laugh, because only Sophia can pull rank on me in front of my men and make it feel like I’m not the one obeying orders. But the truth is, I don’t mind. Not with her. Never with her.
I turn back to my crew. "You heard her. You," I snap my fingers at two, "stay close." When I look back at her, the fire in her eyes nearly drops me to my knees.
Ten minutes later, we reach the restaurant, while the rest of my men get temporary suits, as Sophia calls them.
The real deal will have to wait until we get to Maison étoile, probably taking turns, because I don’t think even Maison étoile can outfit over a hundred men and women on a dime.
Sophia tells me it'll probably take a week or so before all of them are suited up properly, with more to spare.
Seeing the price tag already climbing over half a million dollars this afternoon, I wonder how much more Maison étoile will cost me.
Not that I mind. My men deserve to be elevated.
When I rise in rank, so will they, and I get that they'll have to look the part.
I'll be damned if I foot their clothing bills from now on, though.
I'll see to it that they can afford to buy their own suits in the future.
But I'll also make sure that even the smallest of my foot soldiers will receive at least one good suit.
I remember how it was working for Carlos, having to wear cheap ass suits because I couldn't afford anything more expensive, but being expected to be at galas and dinners, looking sharp.
I will never make anybody working for me feel cheap.
I order the guards to wait outside. They fan out, sharp in their new suits, already looking like they belong in this world of glass and marble. I’m not used to that. For years, they’ve looked like shadows, killers in leather and denim. Now? They look like the army of a king.
Inside, the air is cool, perfumed with money and arrogance.
Chandeliers glitter overhead, the crystals catching every flicker of light.
I’d been somewhere like this once before, years ago, when I was too young and too angry.
They’d refused to seat me until I pressed cold steel to the ma?tre d’s ribs.
Even then, they made sure I knew exactly what I was—less.
Nothing. Trash that didn’t belong in their world.
Not today.