Chapter 5 - Raphael
"Family is important."
In our world, family isn't just important. It's everything. The reason we fight, kill, protect. The justification for all the blood on our hands.
But looking at Annie now, with her amber eyes wide and sincere, her soft curves barely concealed by that oversized t-shirt, I'm struck by how different she is from anyone else in my life. Twenty-one, but with a wisdom in her eyes that speaks of someone who's seen her share of hardship.
"I should let you get some sleep," I say, forcing myself to step back from her doorway. The scent of her, vanilla, is making it hard to think clearly.
"Actually," she says, surprising me, "I'm not that tired. If you wanted to talk or..." She trails off, looking suddenly uncertain.
I should say no. I should walk away, maintain professional boundaries, and not complicate an already precarious situation.
"I could use a drink," I find myself saying instead. "Join me?"
Her smile is immediate and genuine. "I'd like that."
The house feels different now that Dante and Franco have left. Less like a potential crime scene and more like a home again.
"Wine?" I offer, opening a cabinet that holds a selection of bottles from Dante's import business. "Or I have whiskey, if you prefer."
"Wine would be nice," she says, perching on one of the barstools at the kitchen island. "Though I wouldn't say no to trying whiskey sometime. I've only had the cheap stuff at college parties."
I laugh, selecting a smooth Cabernet that I know is good. "We'll save the good whiskey for another night, then. This is a nice introduction to proper wine, at least."
"I'll take your word for it," she says, accepting the glass I hand her. Our fingers brush briefly, and I'm not imagining the slight intake of breath from her at the contact. "I'm more of a 'whatever's being served at the campus bar' kind of girl."
"The joys of college," I say dryly, pouring myself a more substantial glass. After the night I've had, I need it.
"So," she says as I move to stand across from her, "was your meeting productive?"
"Very," I say, leaning against the counter opposite her. "We resolved a significant... business issue tonight."
Her eyes meet mine over the rim of her glass as she takes a sip. "That's good."
We fall silent for a moment. I find myself studying the delicate line of her throat as she swallows, the way the kitchen light catches in her short hair, the curve of her lips against the glass. Dangerous thoughts. Inappropriate thoughts.
"Marco mentioned his mother tonight," she says suddenly, setting her glass down. "When he had his nightmare."
My grip tightens on my glass. "What did he say?"
"Not much. Just that 'she went away' and 'couldn't handle your life.' But he was quick to add that you never leave him."
The tightness in my chest eases slightly. "That's accurate, as far as it goes."
"You don't have to explain," Annie says quickly. "It's not my business."
"No, it's okay." I take a long drink of my wine.
"Alicia and I were never married. She got pregnant unexpectedly, and we tried to make it work.
When Marco was three, she decided she couldn't handle.
.. my work schedule. The unpredictability.
" What I don't say: the night she found me washing blood off my hands at 3 AM, the questions I couldn't answer, the fear in her eyes when she realized how the rest of her life would be.
Annie nods, her expression thoughtful. "That must have been hard on all of you."
"On Marco, mostly," I admit. "She left without saying goodbye to him. Just packed her things while we were at the park and disappeared. Left a note saying she was done trying to pretend we could be normal."
The familiar anger rises in me at the memory. Not because Alicia left me. Our relationship was already fractured beyond repair, but because she abandoned our son without a backward glance.
"I'm sorry," Annie says softly, her eyes filled with genuine compassion. "Marco deserved better than that."
"He did." I drain my glass, setting it aside. "But we manage. He's a resilient kid."
"He's wonderful," she agrees, smiling. "So smart and curious. He spent an hour today explaining the difference between carnivores and herbivores to me, complete with demonstrations using his dinosaur toys."
The image makes me laugh despite the heaviness of our previous topic. "He's obsessed with dinosaurs. Goes through phases where he'll only answer to 'T-Rex' or 'Raptor.'"
Annie's laughter joins mine. "He tried that today! Informed me very seriously that he was 'actually a velociraptor' during lunch."
"What did you do?"
"Played along, of course. Asked Mr. Velociraptor if he preferred his chicken nuggets with ketchup or barbecue sauce."
Most adults get frustrated with Marco's imagination games, trying to correct him back to reality. Annie understands instinctively what he needs—play, acceptance, someone to meet him in his world rather than drag him into ours.
"You're good with him," I say, moving to refill our glasses. "Better than any of the previous nannies."
She accepts the refill with a smile. "I like kids. Always have. Maybe because I was an only child. I used to beg my parents for siblings."
"And they didn't deliver?"
A shadow crosses her face. "Mom had complications with me. Couldn't have more children."
"I'm sorry," I say, recognizing the familiar territory of family pain. "That must have been hard for her."
Annie nods, taking another sip of wine. "It was.
Dad tried to make up for it by being this larger-than-life presence.
Always bringing home stray animals, planning elaborate birthday surprises, making everyday moments feel special.
" Her eyes grow distant with memory. "Even when his work took him away for days or weeks, he'd come back with these wild stories and adventures for us. "
I lean forward, genuinely interested. "What happened to him? If you don't mind my asking."
"Undercover operation went bad," she says simply, her fingers tracing the stem of her wine glass. "He was investigating a drug trafficking ring. Someone made him, and..." She trails off, shrugging one shoulder in a gesture that doesn't quite hide her pain. "Three years ago next month."
"I'm sorry," I say again, inadequate words for such a profound loss.
I understand grief. My own parents abandoned me to the foster system when I was eight, but my abandonment was a choice, not the tragic loss of a loving father.
"It's okay," she says, offering a small smile. "Well, not okay, but... life goes on, you know? Mom took it harder. That's partly why I work so much, trying to help with bills while she pulls herself back together."
The responsibilities on her shoulders explain the maturity I sensed in her from our first meeting. Twenty-one but with the steady presence of someone much older, carrying burdens most college students couldn't imagine.
"That's why you need this job," I state rather than ask.
She nods, meeting my eyes directly. "The pay is generous. More than generous. It will help with tuition, rent, Mom's medical bills..." She stops herself, as if realizing she's said too much. "Anyway, yes. I need this job. But I also genuinely like Marco, so it's not just about the money."
I believe her. The way she lights up when talking about my son can't be faked.
"What about you?" she asks, shifting the conversation. "Did you always want to be a..."
"Driver?" I supply, using my official job title rather than the more complicated reality.
"Is that what you call it?" she asks, a hint of challenge in her voice. Not quite crossing the line into asking questions she shouldn’t but dancing right up to that edge.
I smile despite myself. "Among other things. And no, when I was a kid I wanted to be a firefighter."
"Really?" She looks genuinely surprised.
"Don't sound so shocked," I laugh. "Saving people from burning buildings seemed heroic to eight-year-old me."
"What changed?"
I consider how much to share. "Life. Foster care. Meeting Dante when we were teenagers."
Her eyes widen slightly. "You grew up in foster care?"
"From eight to seventeen," I confirm. "My parents decided parenting wasn't for them. Dropped me off at a state facility one day and never came back."
"That's terrible," she says, her voice soft with genuine outrage on my behalf. "How could anyone do that to their child?"
The fierce protection in her tone catches me off guard. Most people react with pity when they hear my background, but Annie looks like she'd personally hunt down my parents and give them hell if she could.
"Their loss," I say with a shrug that's more casual than I feel. "Made me determined to be a better father to Marco. To never let him feel abandoned the way I was."
"He doesn't," she says with certainty. "That much is obvious. He talks about you constantly, you know. 'My daddy says this' and 'My daddy can do that.' He thinks you hang the moon and stars."
Something tightens in my throat. "I'm not around as much as I should be."
"But when you are here, you're present," Annie points out. "That matters more than quantity of time. My dad wasn't home much either because of his work, but the time we had was quality."
Her understanding eases something in me I didn't realize needed easing. The constant guilt I carry about my work taking me away from Marco, the fear that I'm failing him despite my best efforts.
We fall silent again, but it's comfortable now.
The wine has created a warm, intimate atmosphere in the kitchen, softening the edges of a day that ended in violence and death.
Looking at Annie across the island, her face slightly flushed from the alcohol, I'm struck again by her beauty.
Not just her physical attributes, but the compassion and intelligence that shine through her eyes.
"What?" she asks, catching me staring.
"Nothing," I say, but don't look away. "Just... you're not what I expected when the agency called."
Her lips curve into a smile. "Is that good or bad?"
"Good," I admit. "Definitely good."
I should step back, restore professional distance. Instead, I find myself setting down my glass and moving around the island toward her.
Annie's eyes widen slightly, but she doesn't retreat. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, a gesture that draws my attention to her mouth.
"This is probably a bad idea," I say quietly, stopping just short of touching her.
"Probably," she agrees, but her body sways slightly toward mine. "I don't usually make bad decisions."
"What about tonight?" I ask, giving her every opportunity to back away, to maintain boundaries that I should be maintaining myself.
Instead of answering, she tilts her face up to mine, a clear invitation. I hesitate for one final moment of sanity, then close the distance between us.
Her lips are soft at first, then more confident as I deepen the kiss. I keep my hands at my sides, letting her set the pace, though everything in me wants to pull her against me, to feel those curves pressed full-length against my body.
When she finally pulls back, her cheeks are flushed and her amber eyes have darkened with desire. "That was..."
"A mistake?" I suggest, already preparing myself for her regret.
"I was going to say 'nice,'" she corrects me with a small smile. "But complicated, obviously."
I nod, forcing myself to take a step back. "Very complicated. I'm your employer. I'm older than you. And my life is..." I gesture vaguely, unable to articulate the violence and danger that surrounds me.
"Messy?" she supplies.
"That's one word for it."
Annie slides off the barstool, standing before me, "Raphael, I'm not naive. Well, not completely. I know there's more to your 'driving' job than you're telling me. I know Dante isn't just an importer, and Franco isn't just a friend."
My body tenses. "Annie—"
She holds up a hand. "I'm not asking for details. I don't want them. But I grew up with a father who lived in two worlds. I recognize the signs."
"And that doesn't scare you?" I ask, genuinely curious.
"Should it?"
I step closer again, unable to help myself. "Most people would run. The others did."
She tilts her head, studying me. "I'm not most people. And I'm definitely not Alicia."