Chapter 33
RAFAEL
The world is still grey and quiet when I wake.
Gia has shifted in her sleep. For the first time since she arrived in this house, she isn’t curled into a tight, defensive knot on the far side of the mattress.
She’s turned toward me, her body draped over mine like she’s finally stopped expecting me to be the monster under her bed.
Her head is a heavy, warm weight against my chest, her dark hair spilled across my skin like ink on parchment.
I stay perfectly still. My breathing is shallow, my heart thudding a slow, rhythmic beat under her ear.
She trusts me.
The realization hits me harder than any bullet ever could. In her sleep, she has dropped the mask, seeking the heat of the man she claims is just a "business transaction."
I watch her. The way her eyelashes cast long shadows on her cheeks, the way her lips are slightly parted.
She looks soft. She looks like something I should protect with everything I fucking have.
I want to reach out and tangle my fingers in her hair, to pull her so close that our heartbeats become a single, frantic pulse, but I don’t.
I just breathe her in—jasmine, and amber.
Damn it. I’m falling for a girl who’s probably going to be the death of me.
My phone vibrates on the nightstand. It’s a low, aggressive hum that shatters the peace of the room. I grab it before the second buzz, my eyes narrowing as I read the text.
Emergency. Matteo’s. Now.
Gia stirs, a soft, sleepy moan escaping her throat as she feels me shift.
She doesn't wake, but she clings to me for a second longer, her fingers curling into the hair on my chest before she settles back into the pillows.
I wait until her breathing goes deep and even again before I slide out of bed, the cold air hitting my skin like a goddamn insult.
I’m dressed and out the door in five minutes.
Matteo’s mansion is a fortress, even more so than mine. The security in the foyer is triple-manned, and the air inside smells like stale coffee and high-stakes tension. I find Dante and Enzo already in the study, their faces grim in the harsh light of the morning.
"What's the fuck-up this time?" I growl, dropping into a leather chair. My shoulder gives a sharp, biting throb, a reminder that I’m still not a hundred percent.
Matteo slides a file across the desk. "The O’Rourkes didn't just hit the warehouse, Rafe.
We just got word that one of our secondary supply lines in the north was intercepted last night.
It was a minor leak—just a timing window—but it was enough.
They knew exactly when the guards would be swapping shifts. "
"Two leaks in a month," Enzo mutters, leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed.
I scan the file, my jaw tightening. "We checked the transport leads. We checked the security details. Everyone who had the pings passed the sweep."
"Maybe the sweep wasn't deep enough," Matteo says quietly. He looks me straight in the eye, his expression unreadable. "Rafe, we need to consider every possibility. Every person who has access to the inner circle. Your house. My house. The people we sleep next to."
The temperature in the room drops twenty degrees. I feel the anger rising in my throat, a dark, hot tide.
"If you're suggesting what I think you're suggesting, Matteo, you better choose your next words very goddamn carefully."
"I'm being a pragmatist," Matteo growls. "Gia is a De Luca. Her father is Salvatore. We know he’s a manipulative prick who uses his daughters like currency. We have to at least ask the question."
"I asked," I snap, leaning forward, my good hand slamming onto the desk. "I checked her. I checked her staff. She doesn't have access to the encryption keys. She spends her days reading books, for fuck’s sake."
"She’s smart, Rafael," Dante pipes in. "And she’s a survivor. Don't let your feelings for her cloud the goddamn facts."
"My feelings aren't the issue here," I growl, though we all know that’s a fucking lie. "My judgment is. I know my people. I know my estate. If there was a leak coming from my house, I would have found it. I’ve already gotten rid of the staff we didn't trust. The people left are loyal."
"And your wife?" Enzo asks.
"She’s not a suspect. She’s a Caruso," I say, the words landing with finality. I’m defending her with a conviction that surprises even me. I think about her sleeping against my chest an hour ago. I think about the way she looked at me after I took that bullet.
She isn't the rat. She can't be.
"Fine," Matteo sighs, holding up his hands. "But tighten the perimeter, Rafe. If the Irish are getting this close, someone is feeding them. If it’s not her, then find out who the fuck it is before we lose another shipment."
I stand up, the motion sharp and aggressive. "I'll find them. And when I do, I’m going to make sure they regret every goddamn breath they ever took."
I walk out of the room, the weight of their suspicion settled in my gut like lead. They think I’m softening. They think I’m being played. But as I drive back to the estate, all I can think about is the way Gia’s hand felt in mine when I was semi-unconscious in that hospital room.
She’s the only truth I have left. I won't let them turn her into a target.
The next day, the house feels different. The suspicion from the meeting is a lingering shadow, but instead of pulling away, I find myself pulling her closer. If I’m going to protect her, she needs to know how the machine works. She needs to be more than just a person walking in the halls.
"Sit," I say, gesturing to the chair beside me in the study.
Gia looks at me, her brow furrowed. "I thought this room was off-limits for 'household matters' today."
"It's not about the household," I say, sliding a map of the estate across the desk. "We have the Brotherhood summit coming up. Logistics. Security. Territorial optics. I want your perspective."
She blinks, her sassy mouth actually hanging open for a second. "My perspective? Rafael, I don't know anything about territorial optics."
"You know how to read people," I counter, leaning back. "You know how a guest feels when they walk into a room. You know where the gaps are in the social layer. Look at the guest list. Tell me who hates who, and where we should seat them, so I don't have to clean blood off the tablecloths."
She studies the list, her fingers tracing the names. I watch her work, her concentration absolute. She points out a rivalry between two captains I hadn't even considered and suggests a shift in the arrival sequence that would minimize contact between the rival factions.
"You're good at this," I mutter, my gaze moving from the papers to her face.
"I spent my childhood being a fly on the wall at my father’s meetings," she says, her voice gaining a sharp, bitter edge. "Like I’ve already said, you learn a lot about the world when people forget you’re in the room."
"Well, I’m not forgetting you’re in the room, Gia." I reach out, my hand covering hers on the map. "But if you're going to be by my side for this, you need to be able to do more than just seat people. You need to be able to protect yourself."
"I have guards for that, Rafael."
"Guards can be killed. Guards can be bought." I stand up, pulling her with me. "Come with me. I have something to show you."
I lead her down to the sub-level of the mansion, past the wine cellar, into a room that most guests never see. It’s a private tactical range, the air smelling of oil and cold steel. The walls are soundproofed, the lighting harsh and clinical.
I walk to the back wall and open a locked cabinet. I pull out a compact Beretta, its matte black finish gleaming under the fluorescent lights.
"This is a handgun," I say, my voice dropping into a low, instructional tone. "It is not a toy. It is a tool. And today, you’re going to learn how to use it."
Gia looks at the weapon, her eyes wide. "Rafael, I don't think—"
"I don't care what you think. I care that you stay alive." I step behind her, my body a solid, hot weight against her back. I reach around, my hands covering hers as I guide them to the grip. "Finger off the trigger. Always. Feel the weight. It’s an extension of your arm."
The proximity is heavy. I can feel the curve of her hips against mine, the scent of her perfume mixing with the sharp tang of gun oil. My breath is hot against her ear as I explain the safety protocols, the slide, the magazine.
"Now," I whisper, my hand steadying hers as we aim at the silhouette target fifty feet away. "Breathe. Slow and steady. When you're ready, squeeze. Don't pull."
Her first shot goes wide. The crack of the nine millimeter is a sharp, percussive slap against the soundproofed walls.
She flinches against me, her shoulders tensing, but I don’t let go.
My hands, one on the pistol grip, one steadying her wrist, remain firm.
My chest stays pressed against her shoulder blades, my hips flush against the curve of her ass.
“Again,” I command, my voice low against her ear. “Focus. It’s just you and the target. Everything else is noise.”
She nods, a tiny movement I feel through my whole body.
We spend the next hour in that clinical, harshly lit room.
The air is cold, tasting of oil and cold steel.
Her sass melts away, replaced by a quiet, fierce concentration.
Shot after shot, magazine after magazine.
Her posture improves. Her aim tightens. The rounds begin to cluster in the center of the paper silhouette.
It stops being about defense. It becomes about shared focus.
About the trust of my body wrapped around hers, guiding, correcting, supporting.
When the last round echoes and the slide locks back, she turns in my arms. Her face is flushed, her eyes bright with a raw, glittering adrenaline. “I did it.”