14. Chapter 14
Raffe watched Mia’s eyes. They widened when he said the word burden, then softened. Hell, her lips—those soft, full lips he couldn’t help remembering kissing this morning—curved into a smile.
“Freddy could never be a burden,” she replied softly.
That smile was going to haunt him all night.
He stayed rooted where he was, every muscle tight, anger simmering under his skin, waiting for her to say something foolish. To give him a reason to unleash the pent-up tension created by the stressful day. But she didn’t. She just… walked out of the kitchen.
No, walked was too tame a word. She taunted him. Sashayed down the hall like she knew exactly how round and tempting her ass looked beneath that oversized sweatshirt. Torture, plain and simple.
The shadows swallowed her, but his imagination didn’t need light. It betrayed him at once, filling in the gaps—Mia nude, walking not away from him but toward him. Smiling invitingly. Climbing into bed with him, those curves shifting, those breasts—
“Damn it,” Raffe muttered, shoving the thoughts away so hard his temples ached.
They were married on paper, sure. But that was as far as it went. Letting himself touch her, enjoy her, would be catastrophic. Not just because Freddy needed every ounce of his attention, not just because his career demanded focus and discipline, but also because Mia was Vito Calvino’s daughter.
The daughter of the very bastard he was hunting.
And yet, she’d walked into his life and torn down his walls in less than a day.
Raffe dragged a hand down his face. He was exhausted, and not just physically.
The eighteen-hour surveillance shifts, the endless reports, the double life of his cover—those he could handle.
He’d trained himself to survive on scraps of sleep and gallons of coffee.
But this? This bone-deep fatigue came from something different.
From fighting to keep himself from wanting a woman he could never have.
From the weight of carrying Freddy’s fragile hope in his hands.
From knowing his career, his reputation, his mission might already be compromised because of one impulsive, desperate woman.
The FBI didn’t have a massive field office here.
At least, not compared to New York or Los Angeles.
When Enrico Bianchi took over the mob operations here, violence had spiked alarmingly—shootings, arsons, innocents caught in the crossfire.
After his conviction, the power vacuum had only made things worse.
Vito Calvino had clawed his way to the top, and he was even more cruel and corrupt than Bianchi – but with a touch more intelligence.
Raffe knew what kind of man Calvino was. Which made Mia—his daughter—an impossible distraction.
Chicago had been his home base before this mess, but now?
Salvatore Romano ran things there. That man kept the streets quieter and the bloodshed contained, because violence was bad for business.
The FBI wasn’t blind; they knew. They didn’t call him a “good guy,” but compared to men like Bianchi or Calvino?
Romano was essentially an extremely wealthy businessman.
Which was why Raffe and his task force had shifted north.
Minneapolis was the new battleground. And Raffe was one of the hunters.
He rubbed his jaw again, feeling the scratch of his beard, looking blankly around Mia’s kitchen as if the space might offer him clarity.
It was bigger than any kitchen he’d ever seen, but not flashy.
Not magazine-glossy. The farmhouse sink was the real kind—deep, heavy porcelain, maybe original, maybe restored, but definitely not a showroom replica.
The massive wooden island was broad, the counters long, practical, meant for use.
Cabinets lined the walls, filled with—hell, he had no idea what.
Dishes? Flour? Silverware? He’d glimpsed the butler’s pantry earlier, with its stacks of porcelain plates, bowls, and trays of silver, though he couldn’t tell if it was the “good” kind or the cheap stuff.
All he knew about silver was that it tarnished easily and had to be polished regularly.
He didn’t have the time or patience for that.
His flatware at home came from one of those big-box stores, was dishwasher safe, and that was good enough for him.
He leaned against the counter, feeling the weight of the day crash over him all at once. Married. Guardianship battles. Freddy’s future. Mia’s stubborn fire. Her father’s shadow looming over everything.
This house was full now, full of secrets and landmines. And he was too damn tired to figure out if he was already standing on one.
Mia had arranged for a grocery delivery, so there were fruit and vegetables scattered across the wide wooden island.
He had noticed her fussing over the apples and spinach earlier, tucking them neatly into bowls like it mattered that things looked homey.
There was more in the fridge and pantry too, but that had been her project. His had been upstairs.
It had taken him almost a half hour to make sense of it.
Four bedrooms, stripped down to bare mattresses, dust covering the old furniture like time itself had been squatting there.
He had found sheets, blankets, pillows, packed away in cedar chests and linen closets that smelled faintly of lavender.
He’d made the beds like he was setting up a camp, quickly, efficiently, because people needed to rest. Freddy and Evangeline couldn’t exactly be dragged up the grand staircase, but of course this house had an elevator tucked away in the back.
An elevator in a private home. The absurdity of it had struck him in a wave of weary amusement as he folded and tucked blankets onto mattresses.
Now, hours later, he was well beyond tired. His body was heavy, dragging him down. The kind of exhaustion that made every step feel like a fight. And yet, his mind kept racing, restless, gnawing. He couldn’t sleep. Not yet. Not until he checked in. Not until he faced the storm he had created.
Diane was going to lose it when she heard.
What this would mean for his career, for the case, for everything he’d built over the past decade, he wasn’t sure. He suspected it wouldn’t be good.
Instead of heading upstairs to the rooms that actually looked livable, he wandered deeper into the house.
The place was ridiculous in its size. A formal dining room large enough to host twenty people comfortably, a breakfast room bigger than his apartment, a kitchen that could feed an army.
Then the extras: a parlor, a conservatory with plants either shriveled or choking the glass in wild overgrowth, a ballroom for dances no one threw anymore, an office, a library, hallways that went nowhere.
Who needed a ballroom in Minneapolis, anyway?
He shook his head, his boots echoing faintly as he explored the furthest, dustiest corners of the house.
He found a small storage room, stacked with boxes of things that clearly hadn’t been touched in years.
He pushed them aside, creating space, needing the walls around him.
Needing something blank, something that didn’t scream of family or memories or responsibility.
Hands on hips, he stared at the cleared patch of floor. Silent approval. Enough. This would do.
Finally, he pulled his cell phone from his pocket, the screen casting pale light across the shadows. His thumb hovered over Diane’s number for longer than it should have. He didn’t want to make this call. But there was no putting it off.
He hit dial.
“You’re late,” she muttered as soon as she picked up. No greeting, no warmth. Just Diane.
“It took longer than I anticipated to get everyone settled in,” he said, lowering himself onto one of the dusty boxes.
The exhaustion seeped deeper into his bones when he sat, threatening to drag his eyelids shut.
He pinched the bridge of his nose to stay alert.
“I mentioned it already, but it’s true. I’m married to Vito Calvino’s daughter. ”
The words hung in the air.
Silence followed. He could practically hear the gears grinding in her head, running calculations, rearranging chess pieces on the invisible board of their investigation. His chest tightened as the seconds dragged on. His boss was not a woman easily shocked, but this… this was beyond different.
Finally, Diane exhaled. “What’s your plan?” she asked.
The question was all encompassing. It wasn’t just about Mia. It was about his career, his loyalty, the case, everything.
And Raffe, bone-deep weary, realized he didn’t have an answer yet.
Raffe considered his options. “I’m not sure yet. My priority right now is Freddy. He has a doctor’s appointment tomorrow with the specialist who can fix his legs. If we can get him the surgery, then it’s going to be a long, painful process to get him walking again.”
On the other end of the phone line, Diane exhaled slowly, the kind of sigh that carried more than frustration. It carried understanding.
“You’re right,” she agreed quietly. “Your focus needs to be on Freddy right now.”
There was a silence, and Raffe could almost picture her in her office, elbows braced on the desk, chewing her lip thoughtfully as she weighed her options. She’d always been good at that—taking a beat, considering the person, not just the job.
“How about this,” she continued. “You get him through the surgery, through the first stretch of recovery, and then we’ll talk about next steps. Until then, you keep your focus where it belongs. On Freddy.”
A knot he hadn’t realized was in his chest loosened a little.
“Deal,” he grunted. Then he scratched at his jawline. “I’m gonna shave.”
She laughed, a short, unexpected sound that made his lips twitch despite the weight of the conversation.
“Fine. You do that. In the meantime, I’ll shift Mike over to cover surveillance.
He’s solid, and he can hold the line until you’re able to come back.
” Her voice softened as she continued. “Raffe, don’t worry about the case right now.
I’ve seen you grind yourself down before, and that’s not what this situation needs.
Freddy needs you at one hundred percent, and honestly, you need this too.
Take care of him, and take care of yourself. That’s an order.”
Raffe shut his eyes for a second, absorbing that. Family leave wasn’t a phrase often used in their line of work. The job was usually the only family they were allowed.
“Understood,” he said finally, his voice lower than he intended.
“And listen,” she added, her tone returning to business. “If you get any ideas that might move the investigation forward, call it in. We’ll take whatever you can give. But don’t force it. You’re on family leave until I say otherwise. Clear?”
“Clear.”
“Good. Then get some rest, Moretti. That beard won’t shave itself.”
She ended the call as abruptly as she’d started it.
Raffe chuckled, equal parts relief and amusement.
Diane was exactly the kind of boss he needed right now.
She’d earned her stripes not just because she was a damn good agent, but because she knew when to push her people and when to pull them back.
She treated her team like human beings, not just cogs in a machine.
That’s why her agents would follow her anywhere, no questions asked.
Sighing, he pushed himself up off the box and left the little storage room.
Just because he was technically on leave didn’t mean he couldn’t do some investigating of his own.
Freddy was going to have a lot of appointments, physical therapy, and long stretches of hard, painful effort ahead of him.
But there would also be downtime, stretches of napping and healing.
Raffe knew from experience—his own high school football injury had taught him how crucial rest was to recovery.
That injury had rerouted his whole life, shifting him from chasing football glory to pursuing law enforcement. He had never regretted that choice.
Putting bad guys away was the most satisfying feeling in the world.
Except… it had been a long time since he’d felt that satisfaction. Their investigation into Calvino had slowed. Leads had dried up. Evidence buried itself deeper.
Raffe shook his head. There was nothing more to be done tonight.