Chapter 36
RAFAEL
I’m back in the warehouse yard, and the air is thick with the smell of ozone and burning rubber.
The rifle cracks—that sharp, whip-like snap I hear in my sleep—but this time, when I throw myself over Gia, she isn't warm. She’s made of ice.
I look down, and she isn't crying. She’s smiling, holding a burner phone that’s counting down the seconds until my heart stops.
I try to scream her name, but my throat is filled with cold, wet Sicilian soil.
I jerk awake, my lungs burning as I suck in a ragged breath.
The room is silent, bathed in that deceptive, pre-dawn blue that makes everything look softer than it is. My shoulder is throbbing Beside me, the sheets are cold.
I shift my head, and there she is. Gia is sitting at the edge of the bed, her back to me. Her silhouette is a sharp, jagged line against the window, her shoulders hunched like she’s carrying the weight of the entire godcommanded estate.
Fucking dreams. Fucking De Lucas.
I stay still for a second, watching the way her dark hair spills over her porcelain skin.
Her scent is still heavy in the air, a ghost of the sex we had hours ago—the way she arched into me, the way she whispered that she loved me.
It was the first time I felt like I could actually breathe in ten years.
Now, the air feels like glass.
"Don't speak," she says. Her voice is low, steady, but it has a tremor underneath that makes my gut coil. She doesn't turn around. "Please, Rafael. Just... let me finish. If you speak, I won't be able to say it."
I sit up slowly. My shoulder screams, but it’s nothing compared to the cold rot starting to spread in my chest. I lean back against the headboard, my eyes locked on the curve of her spine.
I want to reach out and touch her, to pull her back into the heat of the bed, but the 'Butcher' in me is already standing at attention, whispering that the world is about to end.
"Say it," I mutter. My voice is a rough, dark rasp.
She takes a breath—a long, shaky draw of air—and then she starts the autopsy.
"My father didn't just send me here to be your wife," she begins, her voice gaining a clinical, detached edge that cuts deeper than any blade.
"He sent me to be a parasite. I received orders at our wedding reception.
I had a burner device hidden in my jewelry case before the ink on our marriage certificate was even dry. "
The words hit me like a physical blow. I stay perfectly still, my jaw tightening until I think my teeth might actually shatter. Every touch, every look, every time she let me think I was her sanctuary... it was a play. A goddamn script written by Salvatore.
"The leaks," she continues, still staring at the wall.
"The northern transport. The warehouse. I was the one who provided the timing.
I was the one who gave him the gap in the security rotations.
I used your trust like a map, Rafael. That time you let me into your study, every file you showed me, I was memorized everything I could to send to him. "
Shit. My mind flashes back to the yard. The sniper. The way the rifle shifted toward her chest. I threw myself in front of a bullet for the person who had invited the shooter to the party. I took a piece of metal in the shoulder for a woman who was actively digging my grave.
The betrayal is a hot, searing iron in my gut. I want to roar. I want to smash the furniture. But more than anything, I want to know if the woman who moaned my name four hours ago was just another lie.
"He’s working with the O'Rourkes," she says, her voice finally wavering.
"My father wants the seat. He wants you dead, and he’s using the Irish to do it.
He sent me videos of Laura, Rafael. He has her in a compound.
He has a tracker on her. He told me that if I didn't give him the summit intel, he would. .. he would kill her."
She finally turns her head, looking at me over her shoulder. Her eyes are dry, her face a mask of 'Ghost Heiress' stone, but I can see the fracture in her soul.
"I couldn't do it," she whispers. "But last night, he met me at the club and he threatened me with her life again.
So I sent him the intel when you were sleeping.
But I changed it. I swapped the room numbers.
I shifted the guard rotations. I gave him false entry.
If the O'Rourkes move, they’ll be walking into a cage, not a summit. "
She stands up, moving away from the bed as if my touch could burn her. She looks small, fragile, but the weight of what she’s done makes her look like a giant.
"You are free to punish me, Rafael. You can send me back to him, or you can put me in the basement. I don't care. Just... save Laura first. Once she’s safe, do whatever the hell you want with me. But I need you to know... I love you truly. That was the only thing that wasn't a lie."
The silence that follows is deafening. It’s the sound of my life being dismantled.
I look at the woman I worshipped, the woman I handed my heart to, and all I see is the blood of the men I’ve already lost because of her.
The pain is a dull, throbbing ache behind my ribs, a reminder that I was stupid enough to think I could have a second chance.
I don't say a word. I can't. If I open my mouth, I’ll either kill her or beg her to tell me it’s a dream, and Rafael Caruso doesn't fucking beg.
I sit upright, the motion slow and deliberate. I reach for the nightstand, my fingers finding the gold band on my left hand. I slide it off. The skin underneath feels raw, exposed. I set the ring on the marble top with a soft clink that sounds like a goddamn gavel hitting a desk.
I get out of bed, my body cold. I don't look at her.
I don't touch her. I walk to the chair near the dressing room—the room I was building for her—and I dress in silence.
I put on my suit, holster my weapon, and lace my shoes.
Each movement is mechanical, rooted in the 'Butcher' protocols that have always been my default.
I walk across the room and head for the door. I can feel her eyes on me, heavy and desperate, but I don't turn back.
"Rafael," she breathes, her voice a broken thing.
I don't answer. I close the door behind me and walk down the stairs, my shoes echoing like a drumbeat in the empty hall.
Matteo’s compound is a fortress of glass and steel, and today, it feels like a goddamn tomb.
I arrive within the hour, my jaw still set in that frozen line. I head straight for the war room. Matteo, Dante, Enzo, and Luca are already there, gathered around the central table. They look up as I enter, sensing the shift in the atmosphere before I even speak.
Matteo is at the head of the table, his expression calm but his eyes sharp. Always the Don for a reason—he sees the storm before the first drop of rain hits the ground.
"The rat is out," I say, my voice sounding like it’s being dragged over broken glass.
Dante straightens, his hand moving reflexively toward his waist. "Who? One of the drivers? The kitchen staff?"
"Gia," I say.
The name hangs in the air like a poisonous cloud.
The reaction is immediate and volatile. Dante slams his fist into the table, a loud thud that makes the screens flicker. "I fucking knew it! A De Luca is always a De Luca, Rafael! I told you she was a compromise! We’ve been running operations through a goddamn open window!"
Enzo’s eyes turn into slits. "Where is she? Is she secured? I want a team in that estate now. She has enough Brotherhood data in her head to dismantle our entire northern infrastructure."
"Sit down," Matteo says, his voice quiet but carrying the weight of a goddamn mountain.
Dante and Enzo freeze. They look at him, the respect for his authority overriding their rage. Matteo turns his gaze to me. He doesn't look surprised. He looks... disappointed.
"Explain," Matteo commands.
"She confessed this morning," I say, leaning over the table, my good hand splaying across the digital map.
I tell them everything—the burner phone, Salvatore's deal with the Irish, the video of her sister.
"She sent them falsified intel last night.
She swapped the rooms and the codes. If we move now, we don't have a leak—we have a target. "
Luca, always the observer, narrows his eyes. "She told you this morning? Why? Why now?"
"Because she couldn't pull the trigger," I mutter. The thought of her sitting on the edge of that bed, offering her life for her sister’s, makes my chest tighten with a jagged, burning resentment. Damn her. Even after she sold us out, she’s still making me feel things I don't want to feel.
Matteo studies me for a long moment, his gaze searching mine. "Do you believe her, Rafe? Do you believe her change of allegiance is genuine, or is this just the next layer of the play? Is she leading us into a different trap?"
I don't hesitate. I don't even have to think about it. I think about the way she looked when she said she loved me—the raw, bleeding honesty of a woman who had already accepted her own death. I think about the way she kissed me, like she was trying to save my soul while she was destroying my life.
"It’s genuine," I say.
"And if it’s not?" Enzo asks, looking to Matteo for permission to push. "If the O'Rourkes are waiting for us at the 'fake' location because she told them we’d be there?"
"Then I’ll be the one to put the bullet in her head myself," I growl, the words tasting like ash and iron. I look at Dante and Enzo, then back to Matteo. "But until then, she’s mine. Any action against her, any detention, any interrogation—it goes through me first. If anyone so much as looks at her without my clearance, I’ll show you exactly why they call me the Butcher. Are we clear?"
The room settles into a tense, heavy silence. They know that tone. They know that look.
Matteo nods slowly, acknowledging my claim.
"We're clear, Rafael. She is your responsibility.
But the operation belongs to the Brotherhood.
" He looks down at the map, his mind already moving into tactical mode.
"If the data is false, then the O'Rourkes will be concentrating their forces on the west wing of the Villa, thinking they have a back entry code.
We can position our strike teams in the utility corridors and the garden perimeter. "
The focus shifts. The betrayal is pushed into the background, replaced by the clinical, cold machinery of war. We spend the afternoon in that room, mapping out the strike. We assign teams—Dante takes the perimeter, Enzo handles the interior sweep, and I take the lead on the interception.
"We hit them when they mobilize," I say, pointing to the northern road on the map. "They think they’re walking into a slaughter. Let’s show them what a real one looks like."
By the time the meeting breaks, my mind is a steel trap of logistics. But as I walk back toward my car, the 'Butcher' mask slips just enough for the man to breathe.
I look down at my bare hand. The skin where my ring used to be feels raw, exposed.
I love you truly.
The words are a ghost in my ear, mocking the fact that I’m currently planning a war based on the word of a liar.
I want to go back to the estate. I want to drag her into that dressing room and make her tell me the truth until her voice gives out.
I want to feel the heat of her skin and forget that her father is the one who wants me dead.
But the pain of the deception is a constant, sharp needle in my chest. She used my "quiet space" as a weapon. She used the peace I found with her to hide the knife she was holding.
I slide into the driver's seat, my knuckles white on the wheel. I have a war to fight, a sister to save, and a wife I can't decide whether to kill or keep.
Fucking De Lucas.
I drive back to the estate, the sun setting behind the trees, casting long, bloody shadows across the road. The countdown is over, the lines are drawn, and the only thing I know for sure is that when the smoke clears, the world is never going to be the same.
I reach the gates and see the extra guards I ordered. I see the house where the she is waiting.
"Damn it," I mutter, slamming my hand against the steering wheel.
I’m the Butcher. I shouldn't be this afraid of a girl in a silk dress.
But as I park the car and look up at our bedroom window, I realize the truth. I’m not afraid of her.
I’m afraid of what I’ll do to keep her.