Chapter 7 Rafe
RAFE
Ikeep my hands in my pockets so I don’t have to feel how ready they are to clench.
The alley behind the market reeks of fish bones and engine oil, and the overhead lamp buzzes like it’s trying to hold on through one last shift before dying.
My boots scrape against damp concrete as I step out from the shadows and look down at the man trembling at my feet.
He’s not begging yet. Not crying either.
Just sitting there, back against the bricks, staring up at me with wide eyes and a mouth that keeps opening but hasn’t managed to form a coherent sentence.
He’s not armed. He’s not fighting. He’s not even talking.
He’s just waiting.
I pull a photo from my pocket and compare it to the face in front of me. Same sloped nose. Same crooked teeth. Same mole on the neck just under the collarbone. This is him. No question.
Mateo said he was a threat. Said he passed intel about a shipment to someone he shouldn’t have. Said he was trying to get out, disappear with his family, maybe run to Lisbon and start over. That might be true. Might not. Doesn’t matter. Mateo made it clear—this one’s not supposed to walk away.
I should be moving already. Should’ve pulled the blade two minutes ago, done the job quick and clean, walked out like I always do.
But I’m not moving.
I’m just staring down at him while his chest rises and falls like he’s trying not to choke on his own heartbeat.
“Are you gonna—” he starts to ask, voice cracking.
“No,” I cut in, sharp and flat.
He stares at me.
I shake my head once. “Run.”
His brows pull together like he didn’t hear me right, but I don’t say it again. I just step back. One full pace.
That’s all he needs.
He scrambles to his feet, limps down the alley, and disappears around the corner. I hear the sound of his footsteps echoing long after he’s gone, carried on the wind like a prayer tossed into a fire.
I let out a breath that feels too loud, and my jaw tightens on instinct. That was the line. I know it. I saw it the second I stepped out of that van, saw the twitch in his hands, the wet glint in his eyes, the way he didn’t reach for a weapon because there wasn’t one.
Mateo’s gonna notice. Pilar too. Maybe even Esteban, if he’s still watching from the roof like he was earlier.
I look up at the sky, thick with clouds, no stars tonight, just a dull smear of gray hanging low over the city like it wants to fall.
I know what comes next.
Sure enough, my phone buzzes before I get two blocks away.
I check the screen. No name. Just a number I recognize from Mateo’s burner rotation.
I answer but don’t say anything.
The voice on the other end is smooth.
“You forget how to finish?”
I keep walking. “He wasn’t worth the cleanup.”
“That’s not your call.”
“I made it anyway.”
A pause. Then: “You’re slipping.”
I don’t answer.
“You wanna play the saint now, fine,” the voice continues, tone sharpening. “But if you ever pull that shit again, it won’t be you that pays for it.”
I stop walking.
“You threatening me?”
“Not you,” the voice says. “The shrink.”
My grip tightens around the phone.
“You so much as breathe in her direction—”
“We wouldn’t have to. You’re the one that put a spotlight on her. Should’ve kept her clinical. Should’ve kept her boring. But now she’s leverage.”
I don’t realize I’ve crushed the phone until the pieces are digging into my palm, the broken shell snapped in half, screen spidered. I let the pieces fall to the sidewalk and breathe through the fury crawling up the back of my throat.
I know what this is. A line in the sand. Comply, or lose her.
The worst part is, I don’t even know what she is to me yet. Not really. A therapist, sure. A woman who looks me in the eyes like she’s not scared of what’s behind them. Someone who listens without flinching. Someone who should’ve run by now, and hasn’t.
But more than that, she’s… still.
And right now, I need that stillness like oxygen.
I don’t think. I move.
The walk from the Barrio to her apartment is just under two miles, but I make it in half the time, slipping through side streets and cutting corners, the city’s scent changing with every block.
Salt, bread, smoke, stone. I know where she lives.
Not because I asked. Because I watched. Once.
Maybe twice. Not proud of it. Not ashamed either.
I stop in front of her building and stare up at the second window from the right, the one with the curtain always pulled slightly to the side like she’s halfway between hiding and hoping someone looks in.
The hallway smells like citrus cleaner and old pipes. I take the stairs two at a time, then stop at her door and just… stand there.
She opens it before I can knock. Like she felt me coming.
She’s in leggings and an oversized sweater, curls half pinned up, bare feet. No makeup. No defenses.
Her eyes widen, just slightly.
“Rafe.”
“I need to talk.”
She steps aside without asking why.
The living room is warm and smells like tea and jasmine.
There’s a book open on the couch, pages spread like wings, and a playlist murmuring from the kitchen.
I don’t sit. Just pace once across the rug and stop near the window, staring out like I might find the right words between the lamplight and the street below.
“Someone tried to make me do a job tonight,” I say finally. “I didn’t do it.”
She waits.
“They didn’t like that,” I add.
Still, she says nothing. Just watches me, waiting for the rest.
“They said if I ever pull that again, next time… it won’t be me who pays the price.”
There’s no question in her face. No need to ask who they meant.
“I came here to say goodbye,” I admit. “Figured if I stayed away, it’d be cleaner.”
She takes a breath.
“But I couldn’t do it,” I say, voice low now. “I got halfway here and all I could think about was how quiet it’d be. Without you talking. Without your voice walking around in my damn head.”
I turn toward her.
“I don’t want to talk about death right now,” I say. “Can we talk about something else?”
She nods. “Okay. What do you want to talk about?”
I shrug, shoulders tight. “The weather. The traffic. The way the bread downstairs smells like vanilla at night.”
She smiles, slow and warm. “You noticed that?”
I nod.
She walks to the kitchen, comes back with two mugs, hands me one without asking if I want it.
We sit and we talk. About nothing.
And for a little while, it’s everything.