Chapter Nine #2
"The southern campaign is over," Ewan remarked quietly one evening, pulling the briar pipe from his mouth as he watched the rain beat against the cottage windows. "The news on the wire says the Carusos have officially surrendered their remaining assets. The Don is returning to the estate tonight."
Azar’s fingers did not pause on the keyboard. She did not flinch at Raphael’s name. She simply continued to type a sequence of routing numbers, her face an unreadable mask.
"I have already integrated their port registries into our main ledger," Azar said, her voice flat, clinical. "The secondary firewalls are secure. I will run a final diagnostic at midnight and close the operational channel."
Ewan leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "The family knows, lass. Ezra brought them the proof weeks ago. They know the Ferros were responsible. They know you were innocent."
"I am aware," Azar replied, not looking away from the screen. "Ezra sent me a formal memo confirming the reinstatement of my security clearances."
"A formal memo," Ewan repeated, anger simmering in his rough voice. "They branded you a traitor, they struck you in front of the council, and they sent you a bloody memo."
Azar finally stopped typing. She let her hands rest on the desk and stared at the glowing lines of code.
"What did you expect them to do, Ewan? They are the Castellans.
They do not apologize. And even if they did, it changes nothing.
I have a job to do. I have one year and eleven months left on my contract.
I will do my job, and then I will leave. "
"They are too ashamed to face you," Ewan said softly, understanding the paralyzing guilt that kept the aristocratic women away from the cottage. "Beatrice hasn't left her rooms since the funeral. Vittoria cannot look at the security feeds without flinching. They are drowning in their own remorse."
"Then let them drown," Azar whispered into the quiet room, her voice devoid of any malice, carrying only the chill of apathy. She turned back to her monitors. "It has nothing to do with me."
***
The main manor was a tomb.
Raphael returned to the estate late that night, walking through the brass doors without fanfare. The guards stood at attention, their eyes averted, recognizing the brooding aura that surrounded their Don.
He walked into the grand drawing room. Contessa Vittoria sat by the unlit fireplace, a glass of untouched wine in her hand. Camilla was pacing the length of the Persian rug, while Serafina sat on the sofa, staring blankly at the wall.
"It is done?" Vittoria asked, her voice raspy, lacking its usual commanding edge.
"The Carusos are gone," Raphael stated, pouring himself three fingers of bourbon at the crystal decanter. He didn't bother with a glass, downing the liquor straight from the bottle before slamming it down on the silver tray.
"Good," Camilla whispered, though she sounded empty. She stopped pacing and looked at her cousin. "What about the Ferros?"
"I ordered Ezra to send them back to Sicily on a private transport," Raphael replied coldly. "Giovanni has been stripped of his lobbying power. They will live out the rest of their days in disgrace, isolated from the syndicate. I never want to see their faces again."
Vittoria closed her eyes, a shudder running through her elegant frame. "Laila wept the entire way to the cars. She asked if you would see her before she left. She said she didn't know the microphones were recording at the luncheon."
Raphael let out a humorless laugh that held no mirth, only a deep, self-loathing disgust. "She didn't know. Her ignorance cost Odessa her life. And her ignorance cost us..." He trailed off, unable to speak Azar's name aloud in the room where he had allowed her to be destroyed.
"We owe her," Serafina murmured, looking down at her hands. "Azar. We owe her our lives, and we gave her the back of our hand. Beatrice cannot even speak her name without breaking down. I don't know how we can ever look the girl in the eye again."
"You don't," Raphael said, his voice dropping into a harsh, unforgiving register. He looked at the women of his family—the powerful, untouchable matriarchs who had so casually dismissed a brilliant mind as a jealous nuisance. "None of you will approach the cottage. None of you will bother her."
Camilla looked up, tears shining in her sharp eyes. "Raphael, we have to apologize. We have to make it right."
"We cannot make it right," Raphael snapped, the volatile fury finally cracking through his exhaustion.
"There is no making this right! We accused her of high treason!
We hung a death sentence over her head because it was easier than admitting an allied family was compromised!
You want to apologize to ease your own guilt, Camilla. Keep your guilt. Let it choke you."
He turned on his heel and strode out of the drawing room, leaving the women in their silence.
Raphael walked up the grand staircase, his boots echoing in the empty corridor. He bypassed his office and walked directly into his master suite.
The room was pristine, immaculate, and cold. The maids had changed the silk sheets. The scent of her—the faint trace of vanilla and the sharp, electric ozone of the server room—was gone.
Raphael walked over to the bed and stared at the empty space.
The memories hit him with the force of a physical blow.
He remembered the feral, all-consuming heat of her body beneath his.
He remembered the way her nails had dug into his back, the desperate, beautiful way she had looked at him, exposing her soul, trusting him with the darkest parts of her nature.
I love him enough for both of us, he had once heard her tell Ewan through the security feeds, a statement he had arrogance dismissed as childish naivete.
Now, standing in the silence of his empire, Raphael felt an agonizing, hollow chasm tear open in his chest. He was the Iron Saint. He commanded armies, he dictated the rise and fall of political dynasties, he was feared by men across the continent.
He was thirty-six years old, and for nearly three decades, he had not been scared of anything. He had looked into the barrels of guns and felt nothing but cold calculation.
But as he stared at the door of his suite, thinking of the walk across the rainy grounds to the stone cottage, a paralyzing terror seized his heart.
He was terrified.
He was terrified of the look he would find in her hazel eyes.
He was terrified that the brilliant, passionate fire he had so carelessly taken for granted was permanently extinguished.
He owed her an apology on his knees. He owed her his life, his empire, and his crown.
He had to go to her. He had to fall at her feet and grovel until his throat bled.
But what if she didn't care anymore? What if he fell to his knees, and Azar simply stepped over him?