35
Human trash
The nightmares came that night. Brutal. Punishing.
The faces of the men whose lives he’d taken, rose from hell, mouths twisted in voiceless fury.
They taunted him, haunted him.
Not with screams, but with silence.
And that was worse.
When he left the DEA, he’d buried that life. Shoved it into a box, sealed it shut, and locked it deep.
But his confession to Aidan had pried the lid open, letting that ugly part of him breathe again.
Oliveira hadn’t been the first man he’d killed.
But the others…
Somehow, they’d felt sanctioned. Justified.
Because back then, he’d been someone else.
Rafferty rose early and pushed his body through another punishing run, the kind that left his lungs burning and his thoughts too jumbled to hold. Yet he couldn’t outrun the demons.
Because they lived inside him.
By the time he stumbled into the kitchen, he was drenched in icy sweat, shoes caked in dirt, and too exhausted to care about the prints he tracked across the floor.
“Son?”
His father’s voice cut through the fog. His old man was seated at the table, a steaming mug of coffee in hand, an open Bible before him.
“Pa … I … ah … fuck, Pa,” was all Rafferty could manage between gulps of air. He gripped the counter, legs trembling like reeds in a storm.
Then came the soft mechanical whirr of the wheelchair approaching.
And it undid him.
His knees buckled. He sank to the floor, breath hitching, heart breaking.
It wasn’t worth it.
All that self-righteous talk about making the world a better place by taking out monsters.
None of it was worth it.
Not his father’s legs.
Not Charlie’s life.
Not the wreckage he’d carved through his family’s hearts.
He pressed his forehead to the floor, fingers curled against the linoleum.
He wasn’t a hero.
He wasn’t even a man.
He was just human trash — no better than the ones he’d sent to hell.
On his knees, shoulders hunched, he dragged in huge, uneven gulps of air like a man drowning on dry land.
Drowning in his guilt. And self-loathing.
“Rafferty.” A hand, warm and gently settled on his shoulder. “I’ve got you, son,” Pa said, voice quiet but steady.
And somehow, those four simple words reached deeper than any absolution ever could. “I’m sorry,” he whispered — then choked on the words as they tumbled out again and again. “I’m sorry … I’m so damn sorry.”
His father remained quiet. Waiting him out.
Rafferty shifted to sit with his back against the cupboard, legs bent, arms limp over his knees. His father moved closer, the rubber edge of the wheel coming to rest gently against his mud-caked running shoe.
For a moment, they just breathed together — one ragged, the other steady.
Tilting his head back against the wood, Rafferty met his father’s gaze. “I told Aidan about the accident.”
His father didn’t flinch. Just nodded. There was no judgment in his eyes. No anger. Only acceptance. And something steadier.
Love.
Only he didn’t deserve love.
Not from the man who lost the use of his legs due to his choices.
*
Jonathan looked down at his son — his heartbroken boy, all grown and still so lost. “I heard them,” he said, his voice low. “Back then.”
Rafferty blinked. “You … heard?”
“I was conscious long enough,” Jonathan replied, nodding. “Heard the threats. The awful things they said they’d do.” He paused, letting that truth settle. “I never blamed you, son. Not once.”
“Pa.”
“What did they…?” Jonathan couldn’t finish the question.
The memory of the days following the accident was too thick.
Even through the fog of pain and medication, and the crushing news about his spine, his thoughts had been consumed by one thing.
“All I could think about was where you were … If you were alive … If they’d hurt you, too. ”
Rafferty's throat worked. “I figured you’d hate me,” he murmured. “For not fighting harder. For not staying.” He sucked in a breath.
“Never. I was just very worried about you.”
“I was fine,” Rafferty said, though the words sounded hollow. “They needed me for a … job.”
Jonathan didn’t respond right away. He simply watched his son, seeing the flicker of memory and pain moving behind those wounded eyes and through his body. The way his shoulders curled slightly inward, like he was still carrying weight he couldn’t set down. “Doesn’t sound like fine to me.”
Rafferty’s lips twitched, but not into a smile. “It wasn’t. Not at all.”
Jonathan nodded, slow and steady. “Tell me.”
His son’s eyes flicked to meet his, surprise in them.
Then indecision.
Finally, Rafferty said, “They sent me to Italy.”
Jonathan’s brow furrowed. “Italy?” Not what he’d expected.
“I need to backtrack a bit. My fourteen months with the O’Malleys was part of a long, carefully orchestrated sting,” Rafferty said.
“At the time, there were two major trafficking syndicates operating out of Boston — the O’Malleys and the Barbieris from Sicily.
We — meaning a joint task force between Interpol and multiple U.S.
agencies — engineered a way to pit them against each other. ”
Jonathan listened, his knuckles white as he gripped the armrests of his wheelchair.
“The takedown happened during an op the O’Malleys launched to wipe out the Sicilians. What they didn’t know was that the task force was lying in wait. When the dust settled, we arrested both organizations in one sweep.”
Jonathan didn’t move, didn’t speak, barely breathed.
“That’s when I was ‘arrested.’ We had to maintain my cover because my next assignment — undercover with the Taisechs — was already in motion.”
Rafferty paused, his gaze fixed on some far-off place. “But during the trial, Sean O’Malley must’ve figured out I’d had a hand in the fall of his empire. He swore revenge.”
His boy’s eyes moved, catching and holding his. The depth of regret and pain in them tore through Jonathan.
“I thought I’d covered my tracks, Pa. I really did. Then I came home for Colin’s funeral and …” Rafferty’s voice cracked as he swiped at his face with the back of his hand.
Jonathan watched his son closely. A part of him wanted to stop the confession — to shield them both from the truth of what was coming — but he knew the words had to be spoken. By bringing this burden into the light, Rafferty might begin to let go of the guilt he carried.
“They sent you to Italy …” he said quietly.
Rafferty gave a slow nod. “Florence, to be exact. Luca Salvatore — the head of the Barbieri family — had escaped prison and gone to ground there. My mission was to eliminate him.”
Jonathan stiffened, barely containing his shock. “And did you?”
That faraway look crept back into Rafferty’s eyes. “Yes,” he said, flatly. Coldly. “And then I tracked down the men who came here — and I took care of them. I reached out to contacts from my time in prison. Sean didn’t last long after that. Fatal injury.”
He paused, then looked up, eyes blazing with something Jonathan couldn’t name — something fierce and final.
“And Pa,” Rafferty said, voice steady, “I don’t regret a single one of those lives I ended.”
Jonathan didn’t speak right away. He held his son’s gaze, seeing the steel beneath the sorrow, the edge beneath the exhaustion.
Finally, he leaned forward. “I can’t say I’m proud of what you had to do,” he said, voice low, steady. “But I’m proud you came back. Proud you’re still standing. You protected your family, son. Paid a hard price I wouldn’t wish on anyone.”
He reached across the small space and placed a weathered hand on Rafferty’s arm.
“I won’t pretend it sits easy with me. But I know the world ain’t always black and white.
And I also know this — your heart’s still beating.
So, there’s still time to make peace with what you’ve done. Time to choose who you want to be now.”
He let that hang there, unsentimental but not unkind.
Then his eyes narrowed slightly as he took in Rafferty’s damp shirt, clinging to his shivering frame.
“Go shower,” he said gruffly. “You’re freezing, and you smell like roadkill.
” He pushed his wheelchair back, but his gaze remained steady. “If you want, we can talk more later.”
Rafferty let out a breath, and with some effort, pushed himself up off the kitchen floor. He paused, glancing down. “Thank you,” he said roughly. “For still loving me.”
Jonathan didn’t look away. “Always have. Always will.”
Rafferty gave a short, wordless nod before turning away.
Jonathan said nothing, just watched the bowed line of his boy’s back, the way his shoulders slumped beneath the weight he carried. He felt it deep in his chest. That mixture of sorrow, pride, and helplessness a father knew too well. He didn’t call him back. Some burdens had to be walked off alone.
Besides, he had his wife to deal with.
“You can come out now, darlin’.”
There was a beat of silence. Then the pantry door eased open with a soft creak, and Branna stepped out, clutching the bag of flour she’d gone to fetch earlier tight to her waist like a shield.
Her eyes were red-rimmed, her face pale beneath its usual calm. She crossed the kitchen slowly, saying nothing, as if the weight of what she’d heard had added years to her stride.
She set the flour gently on the counter, then turned to face him fully.
“Oh, Jonny. Our poor boy,” she whispered, voice thick.
Jonathan reached out and took her hand, warm and trembling in his. He drew her onto his lap and let her curl into him. Holding her close, he pressed his cheek to her temple.
“I know,” he murmured. “But he’s here. And he’s talking. That means something. All we can do is love him, Branna. Just love him. No matter what he’s done.”
*
Brandy-Lyn stumbled out of the mudroom into the pale hush of early morning, walking fast with no destination. Just giving in to the need to move, to breathe. To get away.
She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. But when Rafferty tore past her veranda like the devil himself was on his heels — which, as it turned out, wasn’t far from the truth — she’d followed, heart in her throat.
Something in his demeanor had shaken her.
Not rage. Not fear. Something worse. Utter hopelessness.
So, she had trailed him to the Main House and slipped into the mudroom after him, meaning only to make sure he was all right. Instead, she’d overheard him unburdening his soul to his father.
Now she carried that knowledge. Aimless, she found herself at Elsa’s paddock, where the mare paced the fence line, restless and edgy as herself. Brandy stopped and leaned on the gate, watching.
The same man who had coldly admitted to “taking out” the monsters threatening his family had also coaxed trust from a broken horse.
But it was the pain in his voice that haunted her.
The guilt.
The utter weariness.
Elsa moved closer, pressing her warm muzzle to Brandy’s arm. “Raff’s hurting, girl,” she murmured, stroking the mare’s neck. “Badly.”
He’d claimed he felt no regret.
But doing those deeds … something had twisted in him.
She heard it in the way his voice turned flat and remote, a man trying to cauterize his soul.
Deep down, Rafferty was gentle.
She knew that.
Only someone with a truly kind heart could reach animals like Elsa and Rosie.
But would he ever believe that? Would he ever see what she saw?
Or would he keep letting guilt and pain drown the good in him?
Would he push her away again and again, clinging to the belief that he didn’t deserve anything good?
Didn’t deserve her?
And if he did … would she let him?
Or would she be brave enough to fight for them?
*
The water pounded his back, scalding hot. Rafferty pressed his forehead to the cool tile and let the spray wash over him. Then, with a muffled grunt, he slammed his fist against the wall.
He hadn’t meant to tell his father everything.
The words had just spilled out, pulled from the hollowed-out place inside him where regret and guilt festered.
How long before the old man started looking at him differently?
With disappointment. Disgust.
And Brandy-Lyn—
He could never tell her. Not the whole truth.
Not without watching the light in her eyes go out.
Not without seeing love shift into revulsion.
Rafferty clenched his jaw, water tracking down his face.
The recent ink on his arm caught his eye.
“ Ná déan dearmad choíche ,” he whispered.
Never forget.
Mere days ago, the phrase had meant something else.
Now it stared back at him with cruel clarity.
Never forget what you are, Rafferty Lawson.
Human trash.