Chapter 11
11
RAFAEL
I never expected to enjoy watching Emilia with the guys so much, but something about it feels so… right, natural, like puzzle pieces clicking into place. For the first time in a while, I’m content with where I am. It's a weird feeling, but a good one, taking me back to those old days squeezed into that Queens studio apartment, all of us barely making ends meet but still… together.
The memory stirs something deeper, and I fish my phone out of my pocket to text Landon, reminding him I’m still waiting. He’s taking his sweet time getting back to me. An urgent, nagging feeling gnaws at my gut. It’s more than curiosity—it’s an instinct, a primal need to know where Emilia’s been, what she’s been up to during our years apart. It’s driving me fucking insane not knowing.
A loud robotic boom erupts from the TV where the game is still in full swing, and I glance up, surprised not to hear Emilia’s colorful commentary. Her character was killed a few levels ago, but she’s been enthusiastically cheering on Michael while shit-talking Romero and Maximo for ganging up to eliminate her character. It’s been non-stop chaos.
But now… silence.
My chest does a weird expanding thing when I spot her, fast asleep on the sofa. Her legs are curled beneath her, head resting on the cushion, brown hair tumbling over her cheek. Peaceful. It’s such a contrast from how loud she was just moments ago. Christ, she’s beautiful when she’s asleep. I pocket my phone and, before I know it, I’m on my feet, drawn to her like a moth to flame.
The guys pause their game and watch me as I approach her. “What are you doing, Rafael?” Maximo asks.
“Shh,” I hush him as I carefully slip my hands around her back and under her legs, lifting her warm weight into my arms. She murmurs sleepily, and then she does this thing—this tiny thing—that just wrecks me. She curls deeper into my chest, nuzzling her face into my neck, and my heart feels like it’s trying to beat its way out of my chest. Fuck. This woman. It’s unsettling how close she is, but at the same time, it’s right. This feels right. She feels right in my arms, with me.
Romero clears his throat. “We need to talk about why we’re here. Michael found something about the case.”
I nod curtly. “Give me a moment.” My voice is steady, but my mind is reeling. Thank fuck they had the sense to keep quiet around her. The things we have uncovered… no way in hell could she handle knowing about it. The brutal murders. Those poor girls. It would break her, and I want to shield her from that for as long as I can.
With my woman nestled in my arms, I make my way into my bedroom and, for a heartbeat I just stand still, absorbing the significance of this moment. No other woman has ever crossed this threshold before. It’s my space; my private world. The women I fuck I take elsewhere—but here she is. Right where she belongs.
I lower her onto my king-sized bed, careful not to wake her. She whimpers as she rolls over, but then she turns back to face me, eyes snapping open. Oh, shit. I freeze, covers bunched in my hands, not sure what to do next. Slowly, I start to pull them over her, hoping she’ll drift off again so I can slip away. But no—as I’m getting to my feet, her hand shoots out and grabs my wrist.
“Rafael. Don’t go.” Her voice is thick with sleep, but there’s a need there that hooks me.
Fuck me. At that moment, I swear she could ask me to fetch her the sun, and I would’ve been halfway out the door to go grab it, even if it meant the whole world would be in perpetual darkness.
Instead, I lace our fingers together. “Scoot over.”
She does, and suddenly I’m lying next to her, trying to ignore the tension coiling in my gut as she wraps herself around me like a vine—her thigh draped over my legs, arms across my torso, head on my chest.
My spine goes rigid, every muscle locking up as if on command. Phantom needles skitter across my skin, that familiar crawling sensation I’ve fought with for years. Breathe. I inhale through my nose, pulse roaring in my ears as I fight the instinct to shove her off me. This is Emilia. This is different. I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing for the onslaught of panic that always follows.
But it doesn’t come.
Just like in the car earlier, her touch doesn’t send me spiraling into that dark place. And slowly, slowly, the needles skittering over my skin fade away, giving way to the warmth of her solid weight over me.
What the actual fuck?
My lips part, and my eyes fly open in disbelief. I glance down at her, but she’s back asleep. My heart pounds, but not out of panic—this time, it’s something else entirely. I had chalked up the car incident to being so focused on driving that my body didn’t have the chance to react to her touching me. But now? Here she is, touching me again, and I’m not losing my shit. It wasn’t a one-off thing.
I’ve never been able to withstand anyone’s touch after what went down six years ago with my father—after the guys and I burnt down his warehouse for what his men did to Emilia. Since then, a simple touch has been enough to catapult me back to that hellish moment, and it’s a constant battle to keep myself from lashing out at whoever dares to get too close.
I let out a soft chuckle, shaking my head at the irony. She’s wrapped around me, blissfully unaware of how this moment is shaking the very foundation of my reality. But then the gravity of it hits me, and a twinge of worry starts building in my chest. I'm in deeper than I thought.
I wanted her, and so I went out of my way to have her. I want her to be my wife, and she will be. But I never really considered how much she’d worm her way into my heart or the wild implications of having real feelings for her. The depth of the power she’d hold over me... it scares the fuck out of me.
Time bleeds away as I watch her sleep, my mind racing a mile a minute, trying to make sense of the chaos she has stirred up inside me.
My phone beeps in my pocket—once, twice—but I don’t dare move to check it. I’m not about to disturb her for anything short of the apocalypse.
Eventually though, she stretches and rolls away from me. Only then do I carefully get up from the bed, rolling my neck and easing my stiff muscles as I leave the room.
Back in the living room, Maximo’s impatience is palpable. “What took so long? I’ve texted you twice.”
“My attention was otherwise engaged, so I couldn’t get to my phone,” I shoot back. Their faces twist in disgust, and it hits me —they think Emilia and I were having sex. I smirk, not bothering to correct their wrong assumptions. It’s way more fun this way. “What’s up?”
Michael pipes up. “I’ve traced our guy’s pattern. I know where and when the next kidnapping will happen.”
Romero chimes in, mentioning an orphanage about an hour’s drive from my penthouse, and adds. “We think he might hit the spot soon—tonight or tomorrow. So we need to act fast if we want to catch this sick fuck.”
Adrenaline rushes through me at the thought of finally putting an end to this. It’s about damn time that monster gets what he deserves. I hold up a hand, signaling them to hang tight, then make my way to the study where I tear out a sheet of paper and scribble a quick note for Emilia, just in case she wakes up before I’m back. The thought of her waking up alone, confused and possibly scared, twists something inside me.
I take the note to the bedroom, careful not to make a sound, and place it on the nightstand before stealing one last look at her sleeping form. She looks so peaceful ; I can’t help myself. Leaning down, I press a gentle kiss on her temple. “Sleep tight and without nightmares, amorina, ” I murmur, then leave her side silently.
When I get back to the living room, the TV is off, and my brothers are on their feet, faces set in grim determination. “Let’s go,” I growl.
Instead of taking our separate cars, we pile into one of my vans—one that Michael already rigged up with his computers, wires, and all that tech shit I can’t be bothered to understand. As we climb in, we all slip on our earpieces, ready for when we need to split up at the site.
Maximo takes the wheel, fingers drumming like he can’t wait to gun it. Romero slides into shotgun, his expression a musk, but his whole body tense, like he’s mentally running through every possible scenario. Michael’s already buried behind his monitors, tapping away with that geeky focus only he gets. I drop into the seat next to him, frowning at the jumble of numbers and letters flying across the screens. How the hell he makes sense of that, I have no clue. But I trust him. To me, it’s just noise. To him, it’s life.
“Let’s go over our plan one last time.” Romero throws out, glancing back at me and Michael. We already went over it a dozen times yesterday when Michael told us he was getting close, but Romero’s always the cautious one.
“Relax, fratello, we know what we’re doing. We’ll get him. No need for overkill,” I tell him and he just grunts. I get it—the stakes are sky-high. But overthinking now will only trip us up.
The plan is simple but tight: we park our van in front of the orphanage for easy access while Romero goes in. His lawyer card and charm should be enough to smooth his way through without anyone kicking up a fuss.
Once inside, he’ll plant Michael’s micro cameras in as many rooms as he can so we can monitor what’s going on inside. He’ll feed the head of the orphanage some bullshit about him being there with the cops who received a tip on a crime in the neighborhood and that we’re on a stakeout. After which, he’ll head back to the van, where we’ll wait for our prey.
Maximo floors it the entire way, breaking every traffic rule known to man, so what should’ve been an hour-long drive is over in thirty–eight minutes flat.
“Nice one, fast and furious,” Romero teases as he puts on his cap, getting himself Maximo’s middle finger in return.
Romero exits the van with that cool confidence and jogs up to the entrance of the orphanage that’s definitely seen better days, and I feel a pang of… something. Guilt? Anger? The place is falling apart on its inhabitants—peeling paint, broken shingles, the whole deal. It’s a miracle it’s still standing.
If we weren’t on this case, this would be the perfect hunting ground for our sicko to snatch a child and remain under the radar. The way this place looks, I doubt any of the staff here would even give a shit if one of the children suddenly went missing. I file away a mental note to send an anonymous donation when this is over. It’s the least I can do.
A few minutes after Romero knocks, the front door creaks open, revealing an old place bursting with character. I hear him through my earpiece as he takes out his card and hands it to the woman. “Good evening, I’m Romero Lombardi, a defense attorney. Have you heard about the crime ravaging this neighborhood?”
He waltzes inside, charming his way past her, and before long, she’s telling him to hold tight before bustling off to fetch the matron. There’s a rustle of fabric and hurried footsteps as Romero struts around, definitely not the obedient guest he’s supposed to be.
“Awesome!” Michael’s eyes light up. “One of the cameras is live! Can you adjust it a little, Rome? The view is mostly the ceiling—ah, perfect.”
More images flicker to life on the monitors, and I lean in, studying each one intently. We’re getting an eyeful—not only the kids’ rooms, but the hallways, too, and even the front and back doors.
As Romero fiddles with the stairway camera, a stern voice cuts in from his end: “You were supposed to wait for me downstairs. What are you doing here?”
I tense, but Michael’s calm. “It’s fine. We already got more than enough, Romero.”
We watch Romero crank his charm up to eleven, gliding forward with that killer smile and taking the older woman’s hand, kissing it like he’s auditioning for a movie role. “My apologies, miss. I couldn’t resist being drawn in by the warmth of this place. It’s definitely not what I expected from the exterior. What a great job your matron has done here.”
“Miss?” The woman titters, her fingers brushing the graying strands at her temples as her expression softens. “I’m the matron, Mrs. Churchill.”
“Oh my! Your radiant, youthful glow had me think you must be one of the assistants, Mrs. Churchill. Pardon my manners, I was informed the matron was in her fifties, but you don’t look a day over thirty.”
More giggling. The older woman practically melts under his attention. Christ, Romero could charm the scales off a snake.
“Oh, you young bucks these days have such a way with words. Sarah mentioned you’re a lawyer. What do you need from us?” Her hand settles flirtatiously on his shoulder as she guides him towards the study.
“Romero, that silver-tongued devil,” Maximo chuckles, watching the matron pour him a drink.
Less than thirty minutes later, Romero has explained our presence to the matron who waves a benevolent hand, even suggesting us ‘kind officers’ come in from the cold, but he graciously declines as he leaves the orphanage.
“Remind me never to introduce you to my wife… if I ever get one,” Maximo says, punching Romero’s shoulder playfully as he gets back inside the van.
“As if a rogue like you would ever settle down,” Michael ribs back.
“Have you seen me, Michael? The ladies would be devastated if I’m ever off the market,” Maximo grins, running a hand through his hair dramatically.
I roll my eyes. Idiots, the lot of them. But they’re my idiots, and there’s no one else I’d rather have at my back for this.
The banter fizzles out as we turn our attention to the surveillance cameras, watching the matron bustle through the kids’ rooms, ensuring everyone is tucked in tight before going back to her own wing of the orphanage. Her footsteps are soft, but they only add to the tension simmering in the van.
“This feels familiar, doesn’t it?” Romero muses, breaking the silence. “Reminds me of that time Don Moretti sent us to oversee the arrival of his new shipment.”
I feel my muscles stiffen at the mention of that job. The thought had already crossed my mind, but I squashed it down ruthlessly.
“Yeah, that was the first time the four of us worked together. I was so excited!” Michael’s enthusiasm rings out, but it feels hollow, almost taunting against the weight of my thoughts.
“The first and only time we worked for my father,” I snap, and the mood in the van shifts instantly. They know better than to poke the bear. If it hadn’t been for that godforsaken errand my dad sent us on, we would have been at the warehouse as usual and would have seen Emilia when she stormed in angry and ready for revenge. We would’ve stopped those animals from laying a finger on her. Stopped everything that happened next…
I fix my gaze on the camera, hating that the lightheartedness in the van has vanished. But maybe it’s for the best. We need to focus on the reason we’re here and?—
“Oh! What’s that?” Maximo suddenly exclaims. He’s pointing at one of the hallway cameras, leaning so close his nose almost touches the screen.
At first, I see nothing. Then a curtain rustles and a man-shaped shadow emerges, blending with the walls almost instantly.
My pulse kicks up. This is it.
“Gotcha,” Michael whispers, fingers poised over his keyboard.
We watch in tense silence as the creep slinks down the hallway and cracks open the first door. A quick peek, then it closes. Boy’s room. Of course, no interest there. Prick .
He moves on, door after door, until he reaches one of the girls’ rooms. My gut twists, knowing exactly what’s coming. The creep tiptoes to a bunk bed, pulls out a handkerchief from his jacket, and clamps it over the nose of the girl on the lower bunk.
Fuck. My fists tighten, and it takes everything in me not to punch the screen.
The girl immediately bucks underneath him, struggling, but it’s futile. In seconds, she’s limp in his arms. Then, as if nothing happened, he pockets the cloth, hoists the unconscious body over his shoulder, and makes his exit.
Maximo’s out of the van in a flash, ready for his part.
Honestly, I didn’t expect us to catch the man on our first stakeout, but we were prepared. Maximo will wait for the kidnapper at the side of the orphanage and tail him to his vehicle, where he’ll plant a tracker. It’s all on him now.
The kidnapper climbs out of the window and disappears from view. And so we wait with bated breaths for Maximo. My gaze goes to the little blinking dot that shows his position.
The dot creeps along, each second dragging. Then, finally, Maximo’s voice crackles through the earpiece, “This cocky son of a bitch didn’t even try to cover his tracks.” The disgust in his voice is palpable, mirroring what we’re all feeling. “I put the tracker on his car—some busted-ass sedan with Michigan state plates.”
He rattles off the plate numbers for Michael to run through his database. “He dropped the girl in the trunk and is pulling out now. I’m coming back to the van.”
Sure enough, the red dot starts moving, slow at first, then picking up speed as the guy drives away. Moments later, Maximo appears, running towards our van like the hounds of hell are on his heels.
“Let’s stop this fucker,” he grunts as he gets in and starts the van.