CHAPTER 9 - Rafe
Port Amara smells the same.
Whiskey. Rain. Blood.
A city that thrives on vice and violence, where sin is currency, and loyalty is a fucking myth.
I walk through the wet streets, past alleyways where ghosts linger, where men disappear and no one dares to ask where they’ve gone.
This is my city.
And yet, tonight, it feels different.
Or maybe I’m the one who’s different.
The city is alive in a way I no longer feel.
I walk past the same bars, the same dealers, the same hollow-eyed men who would slit your throat for a handful of cash. The neon lights flicker in the puddles at my feet, warping, bending—just like this city bends every man who dares to claim it.
It used to be mine.
Now, I don’t know if I even belong here anymore.
That thought should bother me.
It doesn’t.
Because the truth is, I don’t belong anywhere.
Not in this world.
Not in hers.
And that’s the real fucking problem.
The Hollow looms ahead, its neon sign flickering against the rain-soaked pavement.
It’s been around longer than most of the men who drink here.
A place where deals are made, where whispers turn into wars, where kings are crowned and betrayed in the same fucking breath.
I push the door open, stepping inside.
The moment I enter, heads turn.
Not all of them.
But the ones that matter?
They notice.
I walk toward the bar, my muscles still aching from my injuries, but I don’t let it show.
Weakness in a place like this?
A fucking death sentence.
The bartender’s gaze flicks up as I slide onto a stool, his expression shifting between recognition and caution.
"Didn’t think I’d see you around again," he mutters, setting a glass in front of me.
I smirk. "Neither did I."
The whiskey burns going down.
But it’s not enough to wash her away.
I shouldn’t be thinking about her.
I shouldn’t be thinking about the way she looked beneath me, eyes blown wide, body trembling, her fingers digging into my back.
The way she moaned my name like a fucking prayer.
The way she felt, soft and willing and completely fucking mine.
I knew she’d be pissed.
Knew she’d hate me.
And still—
I left.
Because I had to.
Because Emilia was starting to feel like a choice.
And I don’t get to have choices.
Not in this world.
Not with Diego waiting.
I lift the glass to my lips again, but the burn doesn’t do shit.
The taste of her is still there.
On my tongue.
In my fucking bones.
And it’s going to ruin me.
I scrub a hand over my jaw, exhaling slowly.
I was supposed to forget her the second I left.
Supposed to push her out of my head like I’ve done with every other mistake.
But she’s still there.
Like a shadow under my skin, an ache in my bones, a ghost I can’t outrun.
I remember the way she looked at me when I touched her—like she saw something more than just a killer, something worth saving.
And I fucking let her believe it.
That was my first mistake.
Sleeping with her was the second.
Leaving was the third.
And now?
Now I have to make sure I don’t go back for a fourth.
A chair scrapes against the floor behind me.
I already know it’s him.
I hear the steady rhythm of his footsteps.
The familiar click of a lighter.
The slow inhale of a cigarette.
And then—the voice.
Low. Amused. Waiting.
"Didn’t take you long to crawl back, hermano."
Diego.
I sigh, setting my glass down, turning slightly as he takes the seat beside me.
He looks the same.
Sharp suit. Cold smirk.
A man who has never needed a crown to prove his power.
I study him, taking in the changes.
The ring on his finger—the one that belonged to my father.
The way the men in the room glance at him before speaking.
He’s the leader now.
Not me.
And I should care.
I should feel something.
But I don’t.
I’ve never cared about the fucking title.
Power, legacy, the weight of the cartel—it was never what I wanted.
It was never what Diego wanted, either.
But nature abhors a vacuum.
And the cartel?
It doesn’t wait for ghosts.
I was dead.
And Diego did what needed to be done.
He looks me over slowly, like he’s checking for weaknesses.
Like a predator scenting blood.
We’ve never needed words to measure power. It’s always been in the space between us—the way he stands just a little too close, the way I don’t back down.
His smirk is lazy, but his eyes?
Cold. Calculating.
He wants to know why I came back.
And I don’t have a good fucking answer.
I pick up my glass again, tilting my head toward him.
"Looks good on you," I murmur, nodding toward the ring.
Diego smirks, exhaling a stream of smoke. "It’s just a ring."
I arch a brow. "Is it?"
His gaze flickers.
Something dark.
Something close to knowing.
"You think it changes anything?" he asks, voice low.
I shake my head.
"Not a damn thing."
Because the truth is—we don’t give a shit about who sits at the top.
We never did.
Because power was never the point.
Survival was.
And right now, I have to survive this.
This return to a life I never wanted.
This ache for a woman I can’t have.
This cold, brutal reality where the only thing I can trust is the weight of the gun at my side.
Because no matter what I want—no matter what I felt with Emilia—
This is my world.
And there’s no escaping it.
The ride to Diego’s compound is silent.
The city blurs past, neon lights flickering, alleys swallowed in darkness. Port Amara has always been rotten, a city built on power plays and backstabbing.
And yet, it’s home.
Or at least, it used to be.
Diego’s place looms in the distance, a massive estate built on blood money, hidden behind steel gates and an army of men who would kill for him without hesitation.
The second I step out of the car, I feel it.
Something is off.
The guards stiffen when they see me.
Not in fear.
In uncertainty.
Like they don’t know where I stand anymore.
Like they don’t know if I’m one of them or a fucking ghost.
Their hands twitch near their holsters.
Not a threat.
Not yet.
But close.
They don’t know where I stand. If I’m here to reclaim a throne I never wanted, or if I’m a loose end waiting to be tied up.
I don’t fucking know either.
The air is thick, charged with something I can’t quite name.
Maybe suspicion.
Maybe regret.
Maybe both.
I keep walking.
Because turning back now?
Not an option.
I ignore it, stepping forward, the weight of my gun pressing against my lower back.
Just in case.
Diego laughs. “I can see that you are prepared. Good," he says, standing, arms wide. "Because we have work to do."
I step forward, keeping my expression neutral. "That so?"
"That so," he says. "I’m sure you have questions. But first, let’s drink. Celebrate the return of my brother."
We enter into his office.
Diego sits and gestures for me to seat as well.
He takes out a bottle of wine and two cups from his shelf.
He pours out for both of us. We both raise our glasses.
Diego leans back, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.
"You must be wondering what happened after you disappeared," he muses.
I say nothing.
He smirks. "Things changed, Rafael. And not just here." He leans forward, eyes sharp. "You changed, too."
I meet his gaze. "You don’t know shit about me."
His smile widens. "Don’t I?"
He taps the knife against the table, the sound steady, calculated.
Thenhe slides a folder across the desk.
I glance down.
A name. A picture. A location.
A fucking job.
"You want back in?" Diego says, voice smooth. "Prove it."
I stare at the file.
I already know what’s inside.
It’s always the same.
A name. A face. A life I’m meant to erase.
The ink is still fresh, the paper crisp—like he was waiting for me to crawl back, like he knew I’d come running the second I remembered what I am.
A killer.
A fucking weapon.
I grip the folder tighter, jaw clenched.
It shouldn’t matter who’s inside.
It never has before.
But this time?
This time, my hands won’t move.
Because for the first time in years—
I’m wondering what Emilia would see if she were looking at me right now.
And I don’t fucking like the answer.
***
I leave the compound an hour later, file tucked under my arm, jaw tight.
It was a test.
One I should have passed easily.
One I’ve done a hundred times before.
But this time?
This time, my mind isn’t on the job.
It’s on her.
Emilia.
The way she looked. So beautiful, she looked like home.
The way I walked away anyway.
The way I told myself it didn’t matter.
But it does.
It fucking does.
I step out into the night, the weight of the file still in my grip, my pulse still pounding in my ears.
The cold wind cuts through me, but I barely feel it.
Because my mind is back in that fucking cabin.
Back in her bed.
Back where I don’t belong.
I exhale sharply, shaking off the thought.
I have a job to do.
A debt to pay.
A life to leave behind.
But as I slip into the car, as the city swallows me whole—
For the first time in my life, I’m not sure I can.