CHAPTER 18 - Rafe
Betrayal is a funny thing.
You don’t really feel it at first. Not all at once.
It seeps in slowly, crawling under your skin, slithering into your veins like poison, spreading before you even realize it’s there.
And then—it destroys you.
I’m sitting in the warehouse, the cold from the concrete floor biting into my thighs, seeping through the torn fabric of my jeans.
The air smells of rust and damp rot, the kind of stench that clings to abandoned places like this—places where men like me come to lick their wounds or plot their revenge.
My chest aches where Diego’s bullet should’ve ended me, a dull throb that pulses with every breath.
Ghost is long gone, sent off to feed Diego the lie that I’m dead, that the job’s done.
But me?
I’m still here.
Still breathing through the wreckage of everything I thought I knew.
The rage inside me isn’t just about him.
It’s about me. About the fucking fool I’ve been.
I let this happen. I let him get close enough to put a bullet in my chest. I let him build a throne from my empire, from my father’s empire—and I fucking handed him the keys.
Now I see it.
Every warning I ignored.
Every moment I chose loyalty over logic.
And now? I’m paying for it. Emilia is paying for it.
She’s suffering because of my mistakes.
And that’s something I’ll never forgive myself for.
I press my fists against my forehead, forcing myself to breathe through the fury that coils tight inside me, a serpent ready to strike.
Diego was supposed to be my right hand.
Not my equal. Not my competitor.
The one who stood behind me when I was making deals, when I was fighting to hold onto the empire my father built.
The man I trusted with everything. And now?
Now I know the truth. I was never his brother. Never his leader. Never anything more than an obstacle in his way.
And I fucking hate myself for not seeing it sooner.
My body feels cold, detached, but my mind is sharp, cutting through the haze like a blade. I push off the wall, my hands curling into fists.
I can’t stay still. The fury inside me is too big, too consuming.
I pace the warehouse, every step a reminder that I am still here, still breathing, still standing despite everything he did to bury me.
And that means I can still burn him to the ground.
But I don’t just want to kill him.
That would be too easy. Too clean.
I want him to know what it feels like to be hunted.
I want him to understand what it means to have everything ripped away from him.
I want him to feel what I felt that night—the helplessness, the rage, the realization that someone you trusted, someone you bled for, wanted you dead.
That’s what I want for Diego.
And I’m going to fucking make sure he gets it.
I inhale slowly, pressing a hand to my chest where his bullet grazed me, a shallow wound that should’ve been fatal if his aim hadn’t faltered.
I survived.
But Emilia? Now that Diego knows about her?
She cannot survive.
Not unless I get to her first.
I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing the haze of fury into something sharper, something I can use. The thought of her—trapped, vulnerable, at his mercy—twists my gut into knots.
She’s the only thing that’s felt real in a world built on deception.
And Diego wants to take her from me.
This isn’t just about me anymore.
If he tried to kill me, it means he has something worse planned for her. Because Diego doesn’t just destroy people.
He fucking breaks them first. He’ll strip her down to nothing—her strength, her fire, her will—before he ends her. And I will not let that happen.
I exhale, slow and controlled, forcing the rage into a weapon. I can’t just react. I can’t rush into this with nothing but fury.
Because if I go after Diego without a plan, I lose. She loses. And I am not fucking losing. Not this time.
I grab my gun from the crate beside me, check the chamber. Full. Ready.
The weight of it in my hand steadies me, grounds me.
I pick up my phone, dialing the first number that matters. It rings twice before Ezra answers, his voice a lazy drawl cutting through the static.
“Didn’t think I’d hear from you again, hermano,” he says, the faintest edge of amusement in his tone.
I don’t waste time. “I need men.”
Ezra goes silent for a beat. Thena dark chuckle rumbles through the line. “Looks like someone finally woke the fuck up.”
I grit my teeth, my patience razor-thin. “Are you in or not?”
He exhales, the sound heavy with unspoken history. “You already know the answer.”
Good. Because we don’t have time to waste.
I make more calls, my voice clipped and cold as I pull together the pieces of a new army. Men who were once loyal to my family, men Diego cast aside like garbage when he clawed his way to the top.
Men who would love nothing more than to put a bullet in his skull and watch his empire bleed out.
By the time I hang up, the warehouse feels smaller, the walls pressing in with the weight of what’s coming.
The streets of Port Amara are a blur as I move, the city’s pulse thrumming beneath my boots. Neon lights flicker in the distance, casting jagged reflections on the wet pavement, the air thick with the salt of the nearby harbor and the faint tang of gasoline.
My leg throbs where the bullet tore through it that night, but I push past the pain, each step fueling the fire in my chest.
I stick to the shadows, avoiding the main roads where Diego’s men might still be hunting for any sign of me.
The city doesn’t sleep—it never has—but tonight, it feels alive with something darker, something that mirrors the storm brewing inside me.
I reach the safehouse on the outskirts by midnight, a squat, unassuming building tucked behind a row of overgrown palms.
The windows are boarded up, the paint peeling like dead skin, but inside, it’s a fortress of its own.
My men are already waiting, their silhouettes sharp against the dim glow of a single bulb hanging from the ceiling.
Ezra stands at the center, arms crossed, his face unreadable.
A soldier turned ghost, the kind of man you never see coming until his knife’s already in your ribs.
His dark hair is cropped short, his eyes glinting with a quiet menace that’s kept him alive through worse wars than this.
To his left, there’s Silvio—a wiry bastard with a sniper’s precision and a grudge against Diego that runs as deep as mine.
He once swore to put a bullet in my skull, back when I was still the king he envied.
Now he’s here, waiting for my orders, his rifle propped against the wall like an extension of himself.
To Ezra’s right stands Dario, an explosives expert with a grin that promises chaos.
His fingers twitch at his sides, itching for a reason to light up Diego’s world and watch it burn.
His shaved head gleams under the light, tattoos snaking up his neck like veins of black ink. And then there’s Ghost, off to the side, silent as always, his pale eyes watching me with an intensity that could cut glass.
A former enemy turned weapon. My weapon.
They’re a ragged crew, bound not by loyalty but by a shared hunger for Diego’s blood. And that’s enough.
I grab a map from a duffel bag, spreading it across the metal table in the center of the room.
The edges are frayed, the paper creased from years of use, but it’s detailed—every street, every alley, every choke point in Port Amara laid bare.
Diego’s estate is a fortress, marked in red ink at the top of the map.
Gated. Guarded. Damn near impenetrable. But even the strongest walls have cracks, and I know where to look.
My fingers trace the lines in my mind, pulling up blueprints I memorized years ago when I was still in power.
The underground tunnels—smuggling routes carved beneath the estate, originally meant for moving shipments of drugs and weapons unnoticed.
They were my father’s secret, passed down to me like a blood-soaked heirloom.
Diego’s probably reinforced them since he took over, but he won’t expect me to use them. Not after he thinks I’m dead. That’s our way in.
I turn to Ghost, my voice low. “You know the tunnels better than anyone. Can we still use them?”
He hesitates, his jaw tightening as he weighs the question. Then he nods slowly and deliberate. “They’ll be guarded. Heavily. But yeah. We can get through.”
I shift my gaze to Dario.
“We’re going to need explosives.”
His smirk is pure fucking chaos, teeth flashing in the dim light.
“Already ahead of you, boss. Got enough C4 to crack that bastard’s castle wide open.”
Good. Because this isn’t going to be a quiet job. This is a fucking war.
I step forward, my voice cutting through the room like a blade, low and sharp with the kind of fury that comes from surviving the impossible.
“Diego tried to kill me.”
No one reacts.
Because they already know.
Because they were waiting for this moment.
Because I wasn’t the only one he betrayed.
I take a slow breath, letting the words settle. “He has my woman. Emilia is mine. And I want her back.”
The room goes silent.
Not because they don’t expect me to go after her, but because they hear it in my voice—the undeniable truth.
Emilia isn’t just a mission. She’s not just a pawn in this game.
She’s mine.
And Diego made the biggest fucking mistake of his life by taking her.
Ezra leans back against the wall, watching me carefully, his dark eyes narrowing. “That bad, huh?”
I meet his gaze, unwavering, cold, deadly. “You have no fucking idea.”
Silvio exhales, shaking his head as he adjusts the scope on his rifle. “Then we better make this count.”
Damn right. Because I’m not just going in to rescue her.
I’m going in to tear Diego’s empire to the fucking ground.
***
The plan takes shape over the next hour, the air in the safehouse thickening with cigarette smoke and the metallic scent of gun oil.
I lean over the map, marking entry points with a black marker, my mind racing through every possibility.
The tunnels are our best shot, but they’re narrow—single-file in some spots, a death trap if Diego’s men catch us inside.
We’ll need a diversion, something big enough to pull his guards away from the estate’s perimeter.
“Dario,” I say, tapping the main gate on the map. “Can you rig something here? Draw them out?”
He grins, pulling a stick of dynamite from his bag like it’s a toy. “Give me ten minutes and a clear line of sight, and I’ll give you a fireworks show they’ll never forget.”
I nod, turning to Silvio. “You’ll cover us from the ridge here.” I point to a hill overlooking the estate, a vantage point he can use to pick off anyone who gets too close. “Keep the snipers off our backs.”
Silvio tilts his head, assessing the distance.
“Easy. They won’t even see me coming.”
Ezra steps forward, his voice cutting through the chatter. “And me? Where do you want me, hermano?”
“You’re with me,” I say, meeting his gaze. “We go in through the tunnels. You watch my back.”
He smirks, a flicker of something dangerous in his eyes. “Always did.”
Ghost shifts, his voice quiet but firm. “I’ll take point in the tunnels. I know the traps Diego’s likely set. Tripwires. Pressure plates. If we’re not careful, we’re dead before we reach the basement.”
I nod, trusting him to lead us through the dark. He’s proven himself already—feeding Diego the lie that kept me off the radar. But trust isn’t something I give easily anymore, not after Diego. I keep Ghost in my peripheral, a reminder that even allies can turn.
The plan solidifies, each man falling into his role like pieces on a chessboard. But it’s not enough to just get in.
We need to get Emilia out alive—and then we need to end Diego.
I can’t let him slink away, regroup, come after us again. This ends now.
I straighten, my hands braced on the table, the map blurring beneath my stare.
“We hit him at dawn. He’ll be expecting a night raid—thinks I’d be stupid enough to come at him in the dark.
We use the light, catch him off guard.”
Ezra raises an eyebrow. “Bold. You sure about this?”
“I’m sure I want him dead,” I snap, my voice raw. “And I’m sure I’m not waiting another fucking day to get her back.”
He holds up his hands, conceding. “Fair enough.”
Dario chuckles, twirling a lighter between his fingers.
“Dawn it is. More fun watching the flames in the daylight anyway.”
The room hums with a restless energy, the kind that comes before a fight you know might be your last.
I feel it too—the adrenaline pumping through my veins, the weight of the gun at my hip, the ache in my chest that won’t let me forget what’s at stake.
Emilia’s face flashes in my mind—her sharp green eyes, the way her lips part when she’s angry, the softness of her skin against mine.
She’s mine, and Diego’s taken her to punish me. To break me.
He won’t get the chance.
***
The hours crawl by, the safehouse alive with the sounds of preparation—metal clinking as weapons are checked, the low murmur of voices, the occasional crack of Dario testing a fuse.
I stand by the window, staring out at the predawn sky, the horizon bruising purple and gold.
My hands flex at my sides, restless, eager to move.
Ghost approaches, his footsteps silent until he’s right beside me. “You ready for this?”
I don’t look at him. “Been ready since the moment he pulled the trigger.”
He nods, accepting that. “She worth it?”
My jaw tightens, a flare of anger surging through me.
“What the fuck do you think?”
He doesn’t flinch, just watches me with those unreadable eyes. “Just checking. Lot of blood’s about to spill for her.”
“She’s not the reason,” I say, though it’s half a lie. “Diego is. She’s just the line he crossed.”
Ghost shrugs, stepping back. “Either way, he’s a dead man come sunrise.”
I turn away, my gaze fixed on the horizon as the first streaks of light break through the dark.
The war begins now.
And Diego? He’s about to learn what happens when you betray the wrong man.