Chapter 12
12
EMILIA
My phone’s shrill ring jolts me from my sleep, and for a moment, I’m lost in a sea of unfamiliarity—the room around me exudes a masculine energy that’s both alluring and disorienting. Then, like a warm caress, Rafael’s intoxicating cologne wafts over me, and the events of last night come flooding back. Right, I’m in his penthouse.
I push myself up, frowning at the empty space beside me. My hand drifts to where he lay next to me, finding only cool sheets. He’s been gone a while.
The phone keeps shrieking—God, why did I pick such an annoying ringtone? As the fog in my brain finally clears, I recognize it. Stacey. I drag myself out of bed and stumble to my purse on the dresser. “Hello?” My voice comes out as a croak, and I clear my throat, lifting the phone from my ear to check the time. 4:15 AM. Geez.
“Emily. Another child has gone missing.” Stacey’s words hit me with a bucket of ice water, chasing away any remaining drowsiness. “Kidnapped from an orphanage in lower Manhattan. Is Rafael with you?”
My eyes snap back to the empty bed, and that’s when I notice it—a note on the nightstand. My stomach clenches as I walk over to read it.
Something came up at work, amorina. Make yourself at home. If you’re hungry, there’s some leftovers in the fridge or you can order in. Will be back soon.
–Rafael.
Something came up at work? At this hour? My heart jumps to my throat, and I squeeze the note in my hands as worst-case scenarios whizz through my head. No, no, no. It’s just a coincidence. But my traitorous brain chooses that moment to dredge up Michael’s words from last night when Rafael asked what they were doing here.
“Well, I discovered more about the–”
More about ‘ the ’ what? What’s the thing he was talking about? The little girl they were trying to kidnap? No. God, no. I can’t let my mind go there. I shake my head violently, as if I could physically dislodge the thought. The sick feeling in my gut intensifies. No, there’s just no way. There has to be another explanation.
“Emily, are you there?”
Stacey’s voice in my ears is jarring. For a moment, I’d forgotten she was still on the phone. “Yes, yes, I’m here.”
“Well? Is Rafael with you or not?”
“He’s not. He said something came up at work and?—”
A string of curses cuts me off, so vicious they make me flinch. Stacey rarely swears around me. In all the time I’ve known her, I’ve never heard her lose her cool like this. “Find out everything you can and get back to me. I’ll mobilize a small team here while we wait for you.”
The call ends abruptly, leaving me in a suffocating silence. My throat feels tight, my stomach a roiling mess of anxiety and dread. This can’t be happening.
I force myself into motion, trudging out of the bedroom on unsteady legs to check every room. Living room—empty. Kitchen—empty. Dining room, library—all empty. Are the guys with him? The question nags at me, adding another layer to my growing unease.
Back upstairs, I start opening doors. Laundry room, two guest bedrooms, and finally… his office. I hesitate at the threshold, knowing this is it. The point of no return. Once I go in there and start digging through his things, there will be no coming back. If I find what I’m afraid I’ll find…
A shudder racks down my body despite the warmth blasting through the heaters in the penthouse. But then again, it has nothing to do with being cold. I inhale deeply. One deep breath. Two. Then I walk in, carefully closing the door behind me with a soft click that feels as final as a coffin lid.
The large desk in the middle of the office draws me like a magnet. There are two drawers, and I hunker down, fully expecting some kind of resistance as I tug on the top one. To my surprise, it slides open easily. Huh.
I freeze, a fresh wave of nausea washing over me as realization sucker punches my gut. He trusts me . Completely, utterly trusts me. That’s why the front door is unlocked, why his office is accessible. In his world, enemies don’t make it past his men. And me? He has no idea I could be working against him. These drawers are unlocked because the thought of me betraying him has never even crossed his mind. To him, I’m not an enemy. I’m his…
Bile rises in my throat, sharp and sudden, and I clamp a hand over my mouth, fighting it back. Then I drop my hand and carefully breathe through my mouth until it passes. When it does, I force myself to think.
I have to do this. If not for anything but to be sure what kind of person the man I’ve fallen in love with really is.
With shaking hands, I rummage through the drawer, but there’s nothing useful. Just a mess of receipts that make no sense, credit cards, some car keys, and… my fingers brush something that makes my heart stop—the familiar blue box he dropped on the table at our very first dinner together.
I slam the drawer shut.
The second drawer isn’t much better. It’s filled with random junk that’s not particularly useful or damning.
Then I direct my attention to the desk itself. Could he really be so brazen as to place something incriminating out in the open? As I sweep over it, my fingers brush against something —a handwritten note in unfamiliar handwriting. There’s a name on it: Little River Home .
It’s the name of an orphanage.
My hands now shake so badly I can barely type out the name to Stacey. Her reply is instant.
Stacey
That’s where the child was kidnapped.
It feels like the final nail in a coffin I never wanted built. No . There has to be a good reason why he has this on his desk. There has to be. My chest constricts until it burns to suck in oxygen, my heart pounding so painfully and loudly in my ears it drowns out everything else.
I move to his laptop and stare blankly at the password prompt. I key in his birthday— wrong .
I hesitate, then key in my birthday—wrong again. Tears of frustration prick in the corner of my eyes. Damn it, what password could he have used, what?—
A ridiculous notion pops into my head, and I almost laugh at the absurdity. No way it’s that. I hesitate again, but desperation wins out, and I type in the date from six years ago—the day everything went to hell.
The screen unlocks.
My jaw drops as I stare at the home screen of his laptop. I’m in. I’m actually in.
Several tabs are open at the bottom, like breadcrumbs left out just for me. This is almost too easy.
The first one is a Word document—a draft of some contract. I skim it briefly, but it’s nothing useful. Typical business jargon. I back out, careful not to close it. Can’t afford to leave any clues that I’ve been snooping.
The second tab pulls up a folder full of photos. Mean-looking men stare back at me, and I feel a chill crawl down my spine. Who the hell are these guys? I don’t recognize any of them, but they sure don’t look like the friendly type. Are these people he’s working with? Or worse, people he’s trying to take out?
Then I open the third tab, and my heart lurches. It’s a map of the city—no, wait. I squint, trying to make sense of it. The map is dotted with moving red points, and it takes me a moment to realize what it is. It’s a tracker.
There are four dots, converging and moving in the same direction. It takes a second, but then it hits me. It’s him . And Maximo. And Romero. And Michael. My mind reels as I try to process what I’m seeing. They’re being tracked. Somehow, someway. There’s a device on them—phones? But more importantly, where the hell are they going?
My phone beeps with a text.
Stacey
Found anything?
I stare at the screen, paralyzed. This is it for real now. I have a moment to make a decision. Lie and say I found nothing, that there was nothing incriminating on his desk, and I couldn’t get into his computer. Or… tell her the truth, potentially destroying not just Rafael, but myself and the others in the process.
It shouldn’t be hard to make a decision, but fuck it is.
My eyes flick back to the tracker, studying it like it holds the answers to the universe.
What I’ve done so far can still be forgiven. I could rationalize it. But this, giving out their locations to the feds—that’s some next-level shit, even though I’m with the feds now—that would be breaking the omerta. And there would be no coming back from it.
But as I study the map, zeroing in on the little red line trailing what I assume is their vehicle, the air knocks out of my lungs. The more I look, the worse it gets. No, no, this can’t be right. My hands shake uncontrollably as I double-check the path, hoping I’m wrong. But there it is, staring me in the face. Little River Home.
What are the odds that they were right there the same night a child was kidnapped?
“No.” I shake my head in denial as I take a step back from the laptop. “No. No. No.”
But the evidence is right in front of me, undeniable and damning.
“Well, I discovered more about the–” Michael trailing off with a cough, his light blue eyes settling on mine. “We needed to discuss a course of action for that… thing, so we came over to wait for you.”
Rafael’s gruff, “You should’ve called me.”
The memories loop in my head like a horrible reel, over and over and over, until I’m about to break. I clamp my hands over my ears and shut my eyes, trying to physically block out the truth. But it’s no use. My knees buckle weakly, and I let myself crumple to the floor, rocking back and forth as my mind wages war with my heart.
There has to be an explanation. There has to be. There has to be.
What other explanation could there be? Stacey showed you evidence that you refused to believe, and now you won’t believe what you’ve seen with your own eyes?
Another message chimes in, breaking through my internal turmoil. I slowly drop my hands from my ears to check it.
Stacey
You there?
What does it say about me that even now, faced with hard evidence, I still can’t fully accept that Rafael could be capable of something like this? Am I really going to choose my heart over the right thing to do?
What would my father have done?
Even as it pops into my head, I know it’s pointless. Because I already know exactly what he would’ve done. Tomassi Rossi was a hero who died in the line of duty while trying to bring about justice. And who killed him? Alfonso Moretti—Rafael’s father.
The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, after all.
I feel the numbness creeping in, taking over as I type out a reply to Stacey, spilling everything about the tracker. Time loses all meaning as she asks me to share the screen so the bureau’s tech team can duplicate it to follow the trail. I watch as the duplication happens, barely processing any of that.
“Stay put,” Stacey commands once it’s done. “We might still need your presence there. Be careful not to blow your cover.”
“Alright,” I answer emotionlessly.
There’s a pause, then, “I know you wanted him to be innocent, Emily. But it is what it is. Are you alright?”
No. I’m not alright.
I’m standing in the ashes of my world, and I lit the match myself.
“Let me know how it goes, please. If you—if you arrest him.” I force out before ending the call.