Chapter 8
RAFE
Ireturn to my office after walking her back to her room. I should be reviewing intel or finishing the report that’s been blinking in my inbox for two days. Instead, I pour a glass of scotch I don’t want and stare at the same screen I’ve been obsessing over since she got here.
Her digital life.
A ridiculous, overexposed mess.
And unfortunately now, my mess.
Enzo barges in. “She’s settling in,” he says. “Still protesting, of course. Loudly. But she’s not throwing furniture, so I’m calling that progress.”
I nod once. “She’s asking questions. Quicker than I expected.”
He shrugs. “That’s not a bad thing. At least we know what she’s thinking.”
“Not yet. But it could be.”
"You don't usually bring people here. Not like this."
I raise an eyebrow. "People?"
"Loose ends. Witnesses."
I take a sip of the scotch. Savoring the slow burn. “She’s not just a witness. She’s a variable.”
"Because she's beautiful?"
"Because she's unpredictable," I say. "And unpredictability, when you know how to use it, has a purpose."
He lets out a laugh. "Sure, let me know how that works out for you."
He leaves without waiting for a response, and I’m alone again with only the glow of her curated existence on the screen as company.
Her latest draft post is still open. A selfie, not yet published. Flirty caption. Sunlight angled just right. All illusion. All performance.
I switch to the raw video. The one she doesn’t know holds the moment everything went to hell.
There it is, the blurred background, the flash of a face, the gleam of a weapon where it never should’ve been. She captured it all without even trying. A girl and her phone, blowing open a network I spent years protecting.
I watch the footage again, listening to her voice fill the room, upbeat and oblivious.
No signs. No warnings. Just glitter and oblivion.
And a split second that changed everything.
The video pauses and her tone fills the speakers, bubbly and animated. She was so unaware. I listen to it again, trying to hear something I missed before.
Some warning or a sign.
Nothing.
Just her playing it up for the camera while both of our worlds implode right behind her.
A knock at the door this time is softer. Not Enzo's firm rap. Hesitant before the door opens.
It’s her.
She stands in the doorway, breathing hard, her expression a mix of frustration and something sharper underneath. Guilt, maybe.
"I got lost," she says. "Well, technically, I was trying to find a way out. An exit, a window, anything that didn’t feel like a trap. But surprise, this whole place is a maze of emotional torture. Like a five-star asylum. Too many damn hallways that go absolutely fucking nowhere. How the hell do you live here? It’s a goddamn nightmare. Worse than an escape room. At least in those places, there’s always someone who can unlock the door from the outside. "
"You're supposed to be in your room," I tell her.
"Yeah, well for the record, I'm supposed to be getting shit-faced at a party in Rome, so there's that. Are you going to torture me for getting lost, or can I sit down? Because my feet are killing me."
I gesture to the chair. She drops into it like she's claiming territory and drapes one leg over the arm. As if she owns the fucking furniture in my house.
"Don't worry," she says, holding up her hands.
"I'm not here to throw pillows. I needed to talk.
Like a normal person. With someone who actually knows what the hell is going on.
Because I don't. And it's driving me insane.
I need more info so I know what I'm dealing with here.
I'm not the kind of person to leave alone in a room with only my thoughts for company. It drives me a little crazy."
I study her. Her eyes are still wide, but there's a real desperation there now. Not the performative kind, the real kind.
"You're not entitled to answers," I say.
"Oh, I know. Believe me. I get that part. Loud and clear. But you brought me here, remember? You made this personal. You dragged me into your messed-up life. You're the criminal, not me. So now I want some personal clarity about the situation. It's only fair."
"What kind of clarity?" I ask, leaning forward, giving her just enough space to talk.
She sighs, glances away, staring at the wall. "Why the hell did I have to get caught up in this?"
"Because your mistake cost me operational silence. It cost me money. And more importantly, it cost me trust that I've spent years building."
"You think I planned that? You think I sat down and thought, 'Hmm, how can I mess with a dangerous crime family today? I know, a selfie!' That'll do the trick!"
"No," I say. "I don't think you planned it. But planning doesn't matter now. The result's what matters. And the result is you sitting here, a liability in my house."
“There’s that word ‘liability’ again.”
She meets my gaze. I see something quieter behind her expression. Something close to fear. Something close to understanding. She's beginning to grasp the real picture.
"Do you ever regret it?" she asks. "All the control. All the consequences. The cost of living like this?"
I don't answer right away. The question hangs in the air, heavy. It hits closer than she knows.
"You said feeling gets people killed," she continues, pushing. "Is that what happened to you? Did someone die because you felt something? Did someone pay the price for your emotions?"
Silence stretches between us.
She exhales, a shaky breath. "Never mind, you don't have to answer that. It was a stupid question. I shouldn't have asked. I seem to be doing a number of stupid things lately."
I stand and walk to the cabinet to refill my glass, even though I haven't finished the first one.
"You're not stupid," I say, without turning around. "You're reckless. You talk before you think. You act before you look. But you're not stupid and you're learning fast."
When I turn to glance at her, she looks surprised. Maybe even a little hurt.
"You say that like it's supposed to make me feel better," she mutters.
"It wasn't meant to. It's a fact. If you want to survive this, you'll need to start choosing your silences as carefully as you choose your words. Because silence can be more powerful than any rant you post online."
She stands, her chin held high. "And if I don't want to survive it? If I'm just tired of this whole messed-up reality of my life?"
This catches me off guard. It's a dangerous and unexpected question.
"What are you saying?" I ask.
She shrugs. "I'm not saying I want to die. I'm not that melodramatic. I'm just saying… I don't know what I'm going back to, if I even get out of here. I don't know what's real anymore. My whole life was a performance, and now the stage is gone."
"Then you'd better learn fast what is real if you want to survive."
"You know what your problem is?" she says. "You think control is the same thing as strength. But sometimes, it's only fear in a better suit. And you wear the best fucking suits, Rafe."
She leaves before I can respond.
Her words hang in the air, heavy, like a bad taste.
She sees too much.
And despite everything, I don’t like the idea of her disappearing into the silence.