Chapter 3 - Raphael
I hate this fucking suit.
My shoulders strain against the expensive fabric as I slide into the driver's seat of Dante's sleek black Mercedes. It's a beautiful car—German engineering at its finest—but right now, all I can think about is how I'd rather be back home with Marco.
And Annie.
I push that thought away as I adjust the rearview mirror.
I shouldn't be thinking about those amber eyes or the way her hips moved when she navigated my kitchen this morning.
I definitely shouldn't be remembering how she bit her lower lip in concentration while trying to make those dinosaur pancakes for Marco.
"Focus," I mutter to myself, pulling out of my driveway. I have a job to do. A dangerous one.
Twenty minutes later, I'm parking in the private garage beneath Dante's office building.
On paper, it's the headquarters of Veneziano Imports—a legitimate business dealing in Italian wines and specialty foods.
In reality, it's the nerve center of Dante's organization, with the top floor serving as his personal office.
Security nods me through immediately. They all know me. Dante's most trusted driver and occasional enforcer. The one who keeps his hands clean whenever possible because he has a kid at home.
Franco is already waiting by the elevator when I arrive, his imposing figure making even me feel average-sized. If I'm tall, Franco is a fucking giant.
"Morning," he grunts, a man of few words as always.
"How's Sarah?" I ask as we step into the elevator. Franco's relationship with the single mother had surprised everyone, most of all him. The organization's most feared enforcer, brought to his knees by a woman and her kid.
A rare smile touches Franco's face. "Good. Tommy started t-ball yesterday."
I grin, remembering how adamantly Franco had once insisted he had no interest in children. Now he's attending t-ball games and building dinosaur models with the kid.
"Marco wants a playdate with Tommy soon," I tell him as the elevator climbs. "Maybe this weekend?"
Franco nods. "Sarah would like that."
When the doors open to Dante's floor, we're immediately in business mode. Elena, Dante's wife and the sister of the Rossi family boss, greets us.
"He's waiting for you both," she says. "In a mood, fair warning."
"When isn't he?" I mutter, earning a small smirk from Elena. She's good for Dante: softens his edges just enough while still understanding the reality of our world.
Dante's office is exactly what you'd expect from the boss of one the most powerful crime families: spacious with floor-to-ceiling windows, furnished with tasteful antiques that probably cost more than my house, and immaculate apart from the stack of papers on his massive desk.
He looks up as we enter, dark circles under his eyes suggesting he hasn't slept much. "Finally."
"Traffic," I lie smoothly, though I know he doesn't believe me. Dante always knows when people are lying.
"Sit," he commands, gesturing to the chairs in front of his desk. Once we're settled, he pushes a folder toward Franco. "Moretti's made his move."
Vincent Moretti. The mafia boss who's been a thorn in our side for months. After the last attack, things quieted down, but we always knew Moretti was just regrouping.
Franco flips through the folder. "Two of our shipments hit in one night."
"And three of our men in the hospital," Dante adds, his voice cold. "One might not make it."
The muscle in my jaw tightens. These are our people. Family, in the way that matters in our world.
"What's the play?" I ask, knowing whatever comes next will mean I'll be late getting home to Marco. To Annie.
Dante leans forward, eyes hard as steel. "We end this. Tonight."
For the next hour, we go through the plan in meticulous detail. Moretti will be at his club downtown, supposedly celebrating his birthday. Our intelligence suggests his security will be lighter than usual, a fatal mistake on his part.
Franco will lead a team through the back entrance. I'll drive Dante to the front, where we'll enter as guests. It's bold, walking straight into the lion's den, but that's Dante's style. Let them see him coming.
"We need to make a statement," Dante explains, pacing now. "Moretti has to understand that his disrespect cannot stand."
What he means is that Moretti needs to die. We all know it, even if the words aren't explicitly said.
"What about Elena?" I ask. "If this goes wrong..."
Dante's expression softens slightly at the mention of his wife. "Her brother will take her to the safe house upstate if things go sideways. But they won't." His confidence never wavers. "This ends tonight."
As we finalize the details, I check my phone. A text from Annie with a photo of Marco proudly displaying a LEGO creation. Something warm unfurls in my chest at the sight of my son's grinning face. I quickly send back a thumbs-up emoji before returning my attention to the meeting.
"You good with this?" Franco asks me quietly while Dante takes a call in the corner of the office.
"Yeah," I nod, though there's a heaviness in my chest I can't quite place. "Marco has a new nanny. Started today."
Franco raises an eyebrow. "Already? The last one only quit three days ago."
"The agency found someone quickly. She seems... different from the others."
Franco studies my face with the unnerving perception that makes him so effective at his job. "Different how?"
I shrug, uncomfortable under his scrutiny. "Just different. Good with Marco. Doesn't ask too many questions."
"Young?"
"Twenty-One," I admit, already knowing what's coming.
Franco shakes his head. "Dangerous territory, Raphael."
"It's not like that," I insist, though the memory of her curves moving around my kitchen this morning suggests otherwise. "She's just good with Marco."
"Sure," Franco says, clearly not believing me.
Before I can respond, Dante rejoins us. "We move at 10 PM. Until then, business as usual."
Business as usual means I spend the day driving Dante to various meetings across the city.
Some legitimate, most not. I wait in the car, alert for any sign of trouble, one hand always near the gun holstered under my jacket.
This is the part of my job that's straightforward—protect Dante, drive him wherever he needs to go, be ready if things go bad.
Between meetings, I check in with Annie. Her texts are professional but warm, updating me on Marco's day. They made a fort in the living room. They practiced writing his name. They had chicken nuggets for lunch. Normal, beautiful moments in my son's life that I'm missing.
At 4 PM, I text Annie that I'll be later than expected. She responds immediately:
*No problem. Marco and I are making pizza for dinner. We'll save you some.*
For a moment, I allow myself to imagine coming home to that scene. Marco and Annie in the kitchen, laughter, the smell of homemade food. It's a dangerous fantasy, one I have no right to entertain.
By 9 PM, we're back at Dante's office, going through final preparations. I check my gun, making sure it's loaded and the silencer is secure. Franco distributes earpieces so we can communicate once we're inside Moretti's club.
"Remember," Dante says as we prepare to leave, "we get Moretti alone, we deal with him, we leave. Clean, quick, no collateral damage if possible."
Easy to say, harder to execute. But that's why Dante pays us the big bucks.
The drive to Moretti's club is tense with anticipation. Franco and his team are already in position, waiting for our signal. Dante sits silently in the back seat, checking his phone occasionally, probably texting Elena reassurances.
"You good?" he asks me as we approach the club, the pounding bass audible even from inside the car.
"Always," I respond, though my thoughts briefly flicker to Marco. To what happens to him if something goes wrong tonight. To Annie, and how she would handle finding out who I really am.
We park a block away, and I help Dante with his jacket—a ritual that dates back to when I first started working for him. He straightens his cuffs, checking his reflection in the car window.
"Let's go make a statement," he says with a cold smile.
We enter the club easily, Dante's name getting us past the bouncers without question. Inside, the music is deafening, the crowd oblivious to what's about to happen. We spot Moretti in the VIP section, surrounded by his men and several women who laugh too loudly at whatever he's saying.
Franco's voice comes through my earpiece: "In position. Back entrance secured. We’re moving in."
Dante makes eye contact with me, a slight nod, and then strides directly toward Moretti's table. I follow two steps behind, hand inside my jacket, ready.
What happens next is something I won't be telling Marco about. Ever. Moretti's surprise at seeing Dante turns quickly to fear as he realizes what's happening. His security reacts too slowly. Franco's team has already neutralized the ones stationed at strategic points around the club.
We get Moretti into a back office, away from the crowd. The music continues to pound through the walls as Dante delivers a message that will never be repeated outside this room. And then, with cold efficiency, the problem of Vincent Moretti is permanently solved.
Forty-five minutes later, we're back in the car, driving away from a club where the party continues, the patrons unaware that the power structure of New York's criminal underworld has just shifted significantly.
"Clean exit," Franco confirms through the earpiece before signing off to handle the cleanup crew.
Dante sits in the back seat, checking his knuckles where the skin has split. "Drop me at Elena's gallery," he instructs. "She's working late."
"It's nearly midnight," I point out.
"She hasn’t been sleeping well. Nervous with the new exhibition," he explains. "Says working on it helps."