Chapter 47
"Well, that went well," I say with a laugh as we slide back into the SUV’s leather interior, while a guard shuts the door behind us.
I buckle my seatbelt, and the smooth hum of the engine starts beneath us. Raffael turns his head slowly, looking at me like I’ve just lost my mind. I can’t help it—I laugh again.
"For now," I add, flashing him a smile that’s half sarcasm, half adrenaline. "You didn’t actually think he’d pull the trigger, did you?"
He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches me with that unreadable expression back on his face, the one I know means he’s cataloging every move, every breath, every risk still hovering in the air.
I reach for his hand.
"You were perfect," I say softly, lacing my fingers through his. "He’s never had someone look him in the eye like that and not blink."
His grip tightens around mine, just enough for me to feel the pulse in his wrist. Just enough to tell me he needed to hear that.
But his voice is low and cautious. "We can’t underestimate him."
I nod. "We won’t. He’s dangerous. And he’s not done." I lean back against the seat; the leather feels cool against my spine. "He might’ve smiled at the end, but he’s already thinking of ways to get ahead. Probably three steps ahead."
Raffael sighs through his nose, and his jaw tenses. "He’s not used to people standing up to him and walking away."
"I know," I murmur. "Which is why I need to talk to Marcello."
He turns toward me again, this time with something softer in his eyes. "Not because of me," he says. "Not if you’re not ready."
My throat tightens, but I squeeze his hand and meet his gaze.
"This," I say, motioning between us, "this is helping me a lot. You’re not just giving me a place to heal, Raffael. You’re giving me something to do. A purpose. I don’t want to sit in a corner and lick my wounds anymore."
His eyes darken with something fierce. Protective. But proud.
I smile faintly and add, "Besides, if I want to be your queen, I need to learn how to play the game."
He doesn’t smile, not exactly.
But the look he gives me says he sees me now, not just as someone who survived, but someone who’s stepping into the fire willingly.
The rest of the drive is done in silence.
I don't know where Raffael's mind is going; he's probably planning his next move, anticipating Edoardo's.
My mind? It's going to painful places: Marcello.
I've been a coward, and I can't hide from him forever.
I'm hurting him more than I'm hurting me, and the longer I wait, the harder it'll be seeing him again.
Tomorrow, I promise myself. I'll meet him tomorrow.
The car slows down at the gate and comes to a stop. Raffael's guard waves to roll down the window. He leans forward, "What's wrong?"
"There is a lady waiting for you at the house," the man replies, looking decidedly uncomfortable.
"You let a woman into my house?" Raffael's voice is ice.
"I'm sorry, sir, it's Donna Margarita."
A funny sound escapes me, something between a hiccup and a snarl. I’ve had enough dealings with the dragon lady to last me a lifetime. What the hell could she want? And then I realize she's not here for me. I turn to Raffael, "What does she want?"
He shrugs, "She's the one who freed me in Caracas…"
"Caracas?" I echo. I was in Caracas. A week before… before Raffael saved me. I look at him, "What were you doing in Caracas?"
He sighs, "I was there to get you out."
I'm confused. "But…"
He shakes his head. "Later, can we talk about this later?"
He's right. Finding out what Donna Margarita is up to is more important right now. "Why did she save you?" I can't help but ask.
"Damned if I know. She said she's been watching my company and wants to use my… services."
"You can't believe anything she says," I warn.
"I know," he assures me, and I nod. Good. At least we've got that settled.
He glances at the guard waiting by the SUV door. "I’ll deal with you later."
The drive to the house is quiet. I can feel Raffael thinking next to me. Hell, my mind is going a hundred miles an hour. What does Donna Margarita want? I didn't think I would ever meet her again, but now? Here?
When we finally pull up in front of the house, there is another SUV parked, and six guards surround it, looking gloomy and serious—her men.
Finn, the man Raffael put in charge of security for the house, is already waiting by the steps, like a harbinger of bad news.
He opens the door before the driver can. "I’m sorry, sir," he says quickly. "We didn’t know if you wanted us to keep her out or not. But I’ve been watching her."
Raffael helps me out of the car, keeping me close. "We’ll deal with that later," he tells him. "Where is she?"
"Family room. Figured she’d cause less trouble there than in your office."
"Good call."
He glances at me. "You ready?"
I sigh like he just asked me to walk barefoot into a pit of snakes. "I can’t stand that woman."
He smirks. "You and me both." He leads me up the steps, keeping his hand firm at the small of my back.
"Let’s go see what the devil dragged in," he mutters.
The moment we step inside, the air shifts.
The house feels colder, tighter, like it, too, is holding its breath.
I follow Raffael through the hall toward the family room; my heels click silently against the floor, but every step feels like a thunderclap inside my chest. My fingers curl around the material of my skirt.
I don’t know what Donna Margarita wants, but I’ve learned the hard way: she never makes social visits.
She’s standing by the window, her back to us, gazing out like this is her home and not one she invaded. Her posture is as poised as ever—straight spine, relaxed arms—but there's something off. Something brittle.
"Nice view," she says without turning.
Her voice is cool. As refined as always, but detached.
There’s a drag in the words, a subtle exhaustion she doesn’t quite mask.
When she finally turns, it hits me. She looks…
older. Not her age—she’s always worn that like armor—but tired.
Ten years older than the last time I saw her.
Her skin is paler, her sharp cheekbones more pronounced.
Like something has drained her from the inside.
Her gaze lands on me, and she freezes. Her eyes narrow. Her lip twitches. "What the hell is she doing here?"
Her tone isn’t just shocked and hostile; it sounds as if I’ve stained the floor just by standing on it.
She takes a step forward, her gaze raking down my frame, then back up, sharper than any knife.
"Has the grieving widow already—" She stops herself, her head tilts to the side as something dawns in her eyes.
Her mouth curls slightly, like she's solved a puzzle she's been working on for weeks.
Her attention focuses on Raffael. Then back at me. Then at him again.
"No," she breathes. "Do not tell me this is why you were in Caracas."
Her voice goes ice-cold, and for the first time, it’s not superiority I hear beneath it, but utter disbelief mixed with contempt. "Tell me," she says, crossing her arms slowly, "that you didn’t risk everything, not for her."
I stiffen, but Raffael steps slightly in front of me. Not blocking me. But enough that the message is clear. I’m not alone.
"You don’t talk to her like that. Not in my house. Not ever."
Donna Margarita laughs. Not the elegant kind of laugh she gives at dinner parties. This one is sharp, bitter, and twisted at the edges.
"Oh, this is too much," she says, tossing her hands as she spins away toward the bar cart near the bookshelves. "You’ve got to be kidding me."
But when she turns back, all humor is gone. Her face is pale with fury, her voice suddenly low and tight. She jabs a finger toward Raffael’s chest. "Do you have any idea what you’ve done?"
He doesn’t flinch.
"No," she sneers. "You don’t, do you? You’re just as ignorant as he was. Just as reckless. Thinking this—" her hand waves between us like we’re filth, "—is about love. About feelings." Her eyes burn with scorn. "You stupid boy."
I bite the inside of my cheek and stay still. I can’t be the one to speak right now. Raffael’s status is fragile enough as it is. If I step in, I’ll make it worse, make it look like I’m the woman pulling his strings.
Even though a part of me wants to claw her eyes out.
Raffael doesn’t take the bait. His arms stay at his sides, and his voice stays low. "Why are you here?"
Donna Margarita doesn’t answer at first. Instead, she pours herself a glass of scotch.
Her hand trembles slightly despite her show of control, and she drinks it all in one go, then curses under her breath.
Something ugly. She sets the glass down hard enough to crack the silence.
"I need to talk to him," she snaps, glaring at me like I’m a stain on her vision. "Without you."
Raffael moves without hesitation, his arm slides protectively around my waist, pulling me in. "She stays."
The words are quiet. Final.
Her mouth tightens, and something flickers in her eyes, something unreadable.
Not quite rage. Not quite grief. But it dies out quickly, replaced by the cool mask she always wears.
I try not to show it, but my hands are damp.
My breathing is shallow. Every instinct in me is telling me something’s about to shift—something I don’t want to hear.
My stomach curls inward, tight and cold. But I don’t move.
I don’t speak. Because if she’s going to break my heart, I’ll at least make her look me in the eye when she does it.
Donna Margarita exhales—the kind of breath someone takes before admitting something they never meant to say. "Fine," she mutters. "I shouldn’t be here. This wasn’t supposed to be me."
She turns her back on us again, staring out the window like it might offer a way out. "Igor was supposed to do this," she says quietly.
Raffael straightens beside me. "Igor?"