Chapter 2
2
RAFAEL
“Their network?” I ask Enzo, my second-in-command, as we walk down the deserted East Harlem street. The chill December air bites at my face, and the only sound around is the rhythmic tap of our shoes on the cracked pavement. Normally, this place would be buzzing, but not today. Not after Michael sent out that little encrypted message to every business and resident in the area.
The message was simple: disappear, or risk being collateral damage. And they listened. Smart move on their part—I’d hate to scrape some poor bastard’s brains off the sidewalk just because they couldn’t take a hint.
“Scrambled,” he assures me. “Those fuckers won’t send so much as a fucking emoji in or out.”
Good. Giovanni Conti and his pathetic excuse for a crew are sitting ducks, trapped in their own little cage. No more squirming out of my grasp, no more playing hide and seek like they've been doing for the past few weeks. No more distractions. The old bastard’s been a thorn in my side for too long, the biggest obstacle in my path to owning this city. And I’m done fucking around with him. It’s time to rip that thorn out and crush it.
I’ve got other, more pressing shit to deal with—namely a girl. A girl who deserves my full attention.
But first, I have to deal with this bastard.
We stop in front of the so-called “quaint” little Italian restaurant I know he’s holing up in. My lip curls in disgust at the over-the-top festive crap plastered across the storefront—flashing red, green, and blue lights practically assaulting my eyeballs. Fucking Christmas . A few twinkling bulbs and some cheap-ass tinsel can’t mask the rot festering in this city.
But no worries. I’ve got a gift for Conti. Just not the kind you’ll find under a tree.
With a quick nod, one of my men jogs forward to test the door handle. Locked—as if that flimsy piece of metal could keep me out. Idiots.
I yank my Glock from my waist holster and point it straight at the lock, then fire.
Bang! Bang!
Once, twice, until the thing bursts apart. The boom of the gunshots shatters the morning silence, and the air thickens with the acrid smell of gunpowder.
No silencer. I could’ve used one, sure. But where’s the fun in that? I want Conti to know the boogeyman is coming for him. I want him shaking in his designer shoes, knowing I’ve got him trapped and his only way out is zipped up in a body bag. And I want every fucking dickhead in this godforsaken neighborhood to understand exactly what happens when you fuck with Rafael Moretti.
Lowering my gun, I step back as my men kick the door open and flood into the restaurant. Their orders are clear; everyone inside is fair game, except Giovanni fucking Conti. He’s mine.
A symphony of chaos erupts. Screams cut through the air, blending with the rapid crack of gunfire and the jingle of Christmas tunes drifting from the restaurant’s old, tinny speakers. The whole scene is almost laughable. “Deck the Halls” playing while bodies hit the floor. My lips creep into a savage grin at the twisted irony as I step over the carnage, Enzo by my side, kicking dead bodies out of my way like they’re nothing more than discarded Christmas wrapping paper.
My eyes zero in on the refrigerator at the back—bingo. The rumored hiding spot of Conti’s little rat hole. Enzo throws his weight against it, but the damn thing doesn’t budge an inch. Figures. Conti’s too slippery for anything that easy. I signal to the three other men behind me, and they rush forward, grunting and straining against the metal hulk, their efforts drowned out by the ongoing firefight.
A frown creases my brow. Then it hits me—maybe the secret entrance isn’t behind the fridge. Maybe it’s inside it.
Clever, Conti. But not clever enough.
“Stop,” I command, then yank the door open, and immediately recoil from the godawful stench.
Steeling myself, I power through, shoving aside strings of rotten meat. And sure enough, there it is: a wall. A wall inside a refrigerator .
“Bastard really thought he was untouchable,” I mutter as Enzo squeezes his bulk into the cramped space and gives the false wall a push. It slides open with surprising ease, revealing a dark hole beyond. A fitting hole for a rat like Giovanni.
Enzo takes a step back, and I duck my head to go through.
This is it. The moment I’ve been waiting for.
As soon as I cross the threshold, a bullet whizzes past my ear. White-hot rage explodes in my chest. Motherfucker.
Immediately, I snap my gun up. “You shouldn’t have done that,” I growl, pulling the trigger.
The shot echoes, followed by a sharp howl of agony. I slap the light switch on the wall, illuminating the pathetic scene before me. And there he is—Giovanni Conti, sprawled on the floor clutching his bleeding shoulder, his gun on the floor just out of reach. I stalk towards him, savoring each step, and kick the weapon away. “If you were going to shoot at me,” I drawl, pressing my Glock against his sweaty temple, “you should have aimed for my head.”
He whimpers, and I take a step back, disappointed at the lack of fight. “Is this it? The great Don Conti? Pathetic .”
Something flares in his eyes—a spark of the old fire. And he spits out, “Only because you came after me when I was weak. I was not expecting you.”
I click my tongue in disapproval. “That’s the thing, Conti. In our world, you can’t afford to be weak. Not ever. You should always expect an attack.” I lean in closer, my voice dropping to a menacing whisper. “Especially after you directly sabotaged my trading route last week. You lost me millions in firearms, cunt. Did you honestly think I’d let that slide?”
“Your father should have made sure he finished you,” he groans, pressing harder on his bleeding arm.
The mention of my father sends a jolt of ice through me, but I don’t let it show. Instead, a humorless chuckle leaves my lips. “He really should have. He and a dozen others would still be breathing if he had the balls to finish what he started.” I crouch down, getting right in his face. “You should have surrendered when I gave you the chance, Giovanni. Maybe I would’ve spared your miserable life.”
“Like you spared Arturo and the rest? Lies .”
“Hmm,” I tap my index finger against my cheek, pretending to consider his words. “You know what? You’re right. You would have died either way. But you get why, don’t you? I can’t exactly trust your allegiance, can I?”
“Fuck you, Rafael,” he spits out.
I stand up, towering over his wounded form. “If you had just stood back and done nothing, I would have granted you a quick and painless death. Now?” I pause for dramatic effect, relishing the fear in his eyes. “My men will take great pleasure in drawing out your pain. Consider it a thank you for the hell you put us through.”
“You think you can just kill your way into power? The city will never be yours,” he threatens, but it sounds more like the desperate whine of a corned animal.
My lips curl into a grim smile.
“Wrong again, old man. It’s mine already.” Without warning, I level my Glock at his legs and blow out both his kneecaps. The screams that follow are a symphony to my ears. When his voice finally gives out, he slumps to the floor, a broken heap of flesh and bone. “When my men are done with you, I’ll string out your entrails with the Christmas lights in your own restaurant and gift-wrap your bloody head. You’ll become the cautionary tale used to warn other idiots not to fuck with Rafael Moretti.”
Holstering my gun, I walk out of the backroom, Enzo close behind. I pause in the main area of the restaurant, admiring our handiwork. Dead bodies litter the floor and the Christmas tree is now decorated with splashes of crimson.
Perfect .
Enzo and I leave the carnage behind and make our way back down the street to where our cars are parked. He gets into the driver’s seat and tosses me a glance, “Back home?”
“Yes, but first, we need to stop at a florist.”
“A florist?” His voice rises in surprise.
I don’t bother to explain. With Giovanni now out of the picture, my thoughts have already shifted back to the next most important piece on my chessboard.
Emilia .
Five years. Five long, frustrating years I’ve been searching for her, ever since she disappeared without a trace. All she left behind was a measly letter that told me absolutely fuck-all. It was like she’d been wiped off the face of the earth, like she never existed at all. But I never stopped looking. As I climbed the ladder, got richer, more powerful, I kept upgrading my private investigators.
And then she just waltzes back into my city? Without so much as a heads-up? The sheer audacity of it makes my blood boil and sing at the same time.
My cock stirs, and my hand flexes as memories flood my mind—the feel of her soft ass in my palm, the way she ground up against me, her sweet little moans. I didn’t plan that out, not during our first reunion. But then again, when has anything ever gone according to plan with Emilia?
I certainly didn’t expect my chest to tighten when I watched her sleep in my old shirt, either. Or for my breath to momentarily seize when her eyes lit up with recognition. Or for the mouthwatering scent of her skin to fill my head when she hugged me.
And I definitely didn’t expect how much those pouty pink lips would tempt me… Goddammit.
I lost my damn mind. And that’s dangerous.
But if there’s one thing I’ve learned about Emilia, it’s to always expect the unexpected. So maybe I should have known I’d end up kissing her.
And that she’d kiss me back with equal fervor.
But does she understand what that means? Does she realize how she sealed her own fate?
She wanted more. And fuck, so do I.
Emilia Rossi is mine .
And I will not let her slip through my fingers again.