Chapter 42 - Raffael #2
Today, the ma?tre d’ smiles at me like I’ve always belonged here. My suit fits. My shoes shine. My presence demands space. And for the first time, I realize how much clothes matter in this world, how much they change the way people look at you.
But then I notice something else. The way people glance at Sophia.
Quick, cutting looks. A girl in jeans and a leather jacket surrounded by polished suits and diamonds.
Their eyes slide over her like knives, judging, whispering behind their menus.
It stirs something violent in me. I’m about to snap at the waiter when she catches my hand under the table and squeezes once. Then she smiles, soft and sure.
"I don’t care what they think," she says simply, keeping her voice calm in the storm of whispers.
"I stopped a long time ago." She hesitates, her eyes dip for just a second.
"For a while, the only thing that mattered was what…
Roberto thought." His name stumbles out, heavy, and she swallows before lifting her chin. "But now, he’s gone."
Her gaze locks on mine. "Do you care?"
I shake my head immediately, leaning in until my words are just for her. "Sophia, you look beautiful no matter what you wear. Always have. Always will."
That smile that breaks over her face is bright enough to gut me.
She leans back, the lightness in her expression rare but real.
"Good, because I feel like a badass looking like this, and I've always wanted to wear your jacket out. Let’s eat," she says, grinning, and for a moment it feels like the entire room disappears, until it’s just us.
The plates arrive, and silver lids are lifted with a flourish, as if this were supposed to impress me. It doesn’t. What impresses me is Sophia sitting across from me, steady and sharp, her eyes catching mine as the waiter fades away. She doesn’t touch her fork yet, just tilts her head, waiting.
"So," she prompts. "Tell me about your plan."
I spear a bite of steak and chew to buy myself a few seconds. "I was going in to see Edoardo."
Her brows lift instantly. "He’s expecting you?"
I frown. "No."
Her lips part, then curve in disbelief. "So you were just going to shoot your way in?"
For a second, I actually feel like I’m back in first grade, caught red-handed by a teacher. The weight of her eyes on me has me shifting in my seat, but I don't hate it, because it's her.
"I wasn’t—" I start, then stop. My jaw clenches. "Fine. I was about to bully my way in. Yes."
She tilts her head again, her expression caught somewhere between exasperation and amusement. "Alright. And then what?"
I hesitate. Suddenly, the plan I’ve been nursing for months, maybe years, feels crude when I lay it bare in front of her. But fuck it—it’s the truth. And the truth has always been the only thing she deserves from me.
"I’ll tell him I’m his half-brother," I reply with a bit of an edge, like I need to defend myself. "And that if he doesn’t give me the open capo position, I’ll challenge his throne."
Her gaze doesn’t waver, but I swear my scars burn hotter under it. I can feel the fool rising in me, the brute who’s fought his way through blood and bone while men like Edoardo played politics in glass towers.
I straighten in my chair, more adamant now. "I did my homework. The other capos—" I pause, grinding my jaw. "They only agreed to him being Don because they didn’t have a choice. Now they do."
Sophia nods slowly, and for a moment, I feel the faintest flicker of validation. "So you already have the support of the other capos," she says.
My jaw tightens, and my hand curls around the stem of my glass. "I’ll get it," I grind out. The certainty in my chest is iron, unyielding. "I know I will. I’ve heard the rumors. Antonio. Stephano. Enrico. Even Marcello. They’re not happy with him."
"But what about Stephano's and Enrico's fathers?" She points out.
Her eyes linger on me, searching, weighing, and I realize something: she’s not dismissing me. She’s not laughing at me. She’s testing me, pushing me. Not to break me down, but to make me stronger.
She's right, too. Stephano and Enrico aren't capos yet. Their fathers still rule. They are only heirs in waiting. I'm not worried, though. I know things most people don't, things that up until now I’ve never trusted anyone enough to share. Even Leo doesn't know all of it.
"Enrico's father, Fabrizio, will soon come around.
After the bombing at his son's wedding, even he is seeing how weak Edoardo is.
And Gustave…" I think of Stephano's father, of all the secrets he's been keeping.
"It won't be long now before Stephano will see his father for who he really is and take over. "
Her eyes scrutinize me, "How can you be so sure?"
I take her hand over the table and kiss her fingers. "I've worked with Stephano, I know him, and I know some of his father's secrets that he doesn't. And I know that when Stephano finds out…" I search for the right words, "I don't think he'll let this go."
I can see the questions in her eyes, but also the determination to trust me. To believe in me, even though I haven't told her everything yet. But I will. Soon. Just not right now, when we have other things to talk about.
Sophia’s fingers drum lightly against the table, thoughtful, and something shifts in her expression, like she’s not just hearing me, but stepping into this with me.
For a second, it’s dizzying. I’ve built empires alone, fought alone, survived alone.
But with her across from me, it feels different.
Sophia leans forward, puts her elbows on the table, and locks our eyes with that steady fire that makes me forget to breathe.
"Okay, but let’s do this a bit more diplomatically. "
I arch a brow, half amused, half challenged. Diplomacy isn’t exactly my weapon of choice.
She doesn’t flinch. "I’ll call Edoardo, tell him I need to talk to him. Then we’ll go meet him tomorrow—together."
The stubborn part in me still snarls at the thought of needing anyone’s permission to step into a room, but the way she says together calms the animal in my chest.
She keeps going, all business now. "We’ll need a proper car—an SUV, not your Ducati, not that beat-up truck. You need formal guards, dressed to the T, and a driver."
That makes me grin, slow and sharp. "You don’t like my bike?"
"I love your bike," she admits between twitching lips. "But if you want Edoardo to take you seriously, we need to look like we belong in his world. No excuses. No chinks in the armor."
I lean back, folding my arms across my chest as I drink her in.
God, she’s magnificent when she does this.
Cool. Strategic. Commanding without raising her voice.
She leans forward again, her voice softening, and it cuts deeper than anything else.
"I don’t doubt you carved out an empire from nothing.
Your numbers are impressive as hell. I love you.
I support you. But I can help with the fine-tuning. I think that’s where you need it."
I grin, I can’t help it, and I jab a finger at myself. "So, I’m the brawn…" Then I point at her. "And you’re the brains?"
Her head shakes, and her dark hair brushes against her cheek. "No, Raffael. If you didn’t have the brains, you wouldn’t have built what you did. That took more than muscle and brutality; lots of men have that. You have cunning, too. You would’ve figured this out without me. In time."
Her hand slides across the table, her fingers brushing against mine. "Trust me. You were born for this."
And just like that, the storm in my chest shifts. Not gone, never gone, but tempered. I’ve been feared, obeyed, and hated, but believed in? That’s rarer than blood in my world.
I curl my hand around hers, mine rough where hers is soft and delicate. Unable to stop the smile tugging at my mouth. "Careful, princess. Talk like that, I’ll start thinking I really can be king."
She clasps my hands, and her gaze is dead serious. "You already are."