Chapter 11 Rafa
Rafa
Vito’s office feels like a fortress of quiet control—power that doesn’t need to announce itself.
A stone fireplace dominates one wall, its low flames casting long shadows across the room.
Deep leather couches face each other around a simple coffee table, worn from years of tense meetings.
A stocked mini bar sits discreetly nearby, and behind the large executive desk—polished but unadorned—Vito’s chair waits like a throne.
No excess, no distractions. Just the essentials for a man who makes decisions that end lives or build empires.
I stand at the window, waiting as my brother finishes a phone call in rapid-fire Italian. The conversation involves shipping containers and border inspections—details I deliberately tune out. The less I know about certain aspects of our family business, the better.
“Rafa,” Vito finally says, setting down his phone. “Thank you for coming on short notice.”
I turn, noting the unusual formality. Vito typically barks orders, not offers gratitude.
“What’s so urgent it couldn’t wait until morning?”
He gestures for me to sit, then opens a safe hidden behind one of the paintings. He extracts a leather-bound ledger—old school, completely analog. Smart in a digital age where everything leaves traces.
“The numbers are wrong,” he says, sliding the book across the desk to me.
I flip through pages of handwritten entries—amounts, dates, code words for various operations. The Rosso family’s actual financial record, the one that will never see a tax authority or banking system.
“What am I looking for?”
“Compare the last three months with our expected returns from the joint ventures with the Petrovs.” His jaw tightens. “We’re down nearly forty million.”
I whistle low. “That’s significant.”
“It’s fucking devastating,” he corrects, facade of calm slipping. “We’ve leveraged those expected returns for other operations. If this continues, we’ll have liquidity problems by spring.”
This explains his rush to solidify the Petrov alliance. My marriage isn’t just a political decision—it’s a financial necessity.
“Could it be market fluctuations? The crypto crash hit everyone hard.”
“I accounted for that.” Vito taps a page of calculations. “This is something else. Something... targeted.”
I study the numbers more carefully. Vito is many things—ruthless, calculating, dangerous—but he’s also a financial savant. If he says something’s wrong, it is.
“You think someone’s skimming?” I ask.
“Not skimming. Bleeding.” He leans forward. “And I need to know if it’s coming from our side or theirs.”
The implication hangs between us. If the Petrovs are stealing from joint accounts right before our families unite through marriage...
“You suspect Vadim?” I keep my voice neutral.
“I suspect everyone.” Vito’s eyes are hard. “Except you.”
The unexpected vote of confidence catches me off guard. “Why me?”
“Because you have no reason to sabotage your own future.” His smile is thin. “And because if you were stealing from me, you’d do it so perfectly I’d never notice.”
It’s as close to a compliment as Vito gets.
“I need you to dig,” he continues. “Quietly. Use whatever methods necessary, but ensure that no traces are left. If the Petrovs are behind this, I want irrefutable proof before I confront Vadim.”
“And if it’s someone on our side?”
His expression darkens. “Then God help them.”
The unspoken message is clear: find the traitor so Vito can make an example of them.
“I’ll need complete access to all financial systems,” I say. “Including your private servers.”
He hesitates only briefly before nodding. “You’ll have it. But Rafa...” His voice drops dangerously. “This stays between us. No one else knows—not Marco, nor your friends, nor your new fiancée. Especially not her.”
I maintain a neutral expression despite the flash of guilt. I’ve already discussed financial anomalies with Kira, however obliquely.
“Understood,” I lie.
“Good.” He stands, signaling the end of our meeting. “I expect preliminary findings by the weekend.”
As I turn to leave, he adds casually, “Oh, and Rafa? That kiss tonight was very convincing. Perhaps this arrangement won’t be as difficult as you anticipated.”
I exit without responding, unsure whether I’m more unsettled by the financial discrepancies or by Vito noticing the genuine heat between Kira and me.
“To the man who’s throwing away his freedom!” Luca raises his glass in a mock toast, his smile dazzling in the dim light of Versace, the high-end nightclub he owns in Manhattan’s Meatpacking District.
“Fuck off,” I respond without heat, clinking my tumbler against his anyway.
Our corner booth provides an oasis of relative quiet in the pulsing chaos of the club.
Luca has gathered what he calls “the council of war”—our closest circle from childhood.
Gio Moretti sits to my left, his massive frame making the spacious booth seem even more cramped.
Across from me, Sal Mancini hunches over his drink, perpetually looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.
“Seriously, though,” Luca continues, undeterred, “the Ice Princess? I thought Vito was punishing you, but after seeing her in person... damn, brother.”
Shortly after sharing the news of my marriage, Gio used his security firm to investigate Kira.
He didn’t care about my findings. He wanted to find out about her from the streets.
This is where he learned that they call her the Ice Princess.
Cold, detached, and no-nonsense. She is known to be indifferent.
“She’s not what you think,” I say, immediately regretting engaging with his teasing.
“Oh?” Luca’s eyebrows shoot up with interest. “Do tell. Has the Bratva princess shown you her... hidden assets?”
Gio snorts into his drink while Sal rolls his eyes.
“Can we talk about something other than my arranged marriage?” I ask pointedly.
“No,” all three respond in unison.
Gio leans forward, his typically serious expression softening. “In all honesty, Rafa, you could do worse. She’s brilliant by all accounts. Beautiful, obviously. And that look she gives—like she’s calculating exactly how long it would take to dismantle you.”
“Some men find that appealing,” Sal adds with a shrug.
“Some men are idiots,” I counter, though the description of Kira’s calculating gaze hits uncomfortably close to home. That exact look had sent heat through me during our dance.
“Speaking of idiots,” Luca says, eyeing a group of women at the bar, “I see several who need my personal attention. Excuse me, gentlemen.”
He slides from the booth immediately with the smooth charm that makes him both a successful club owner and a perpetually single.
With Luca momentarily distracted, I turn to the others. “I need your help with something.”
Gio and Sal exchange glances—they know this tone. It’s business, not pleasure.
“Vito thinks someone’s stealing from the joint accounts with the Petrovs,” I explain, keeping my voice low despite the music. I know Vito asked me not to say anything, but I also know that I can trust these guys, even if Vito can’t. “Significant amounts.”
“The Russians?” Sal asks, instantly focused.
“That’s what I need to figure out.” I take a sip of my Scotch . “Vito wants proof before he moves.”
Gio’s expression darkens. “If the Petrovs are double-crossing us right before this marriage alliance...”
“It would be war,” I finish. “And I’d be caught in the crossfire.”
“Along with your new bride,” Sal points out. “Where does she stand in all this?”
I hesitate, weighing how much to reveal. “She’s... investigating too. She thinks it might be someone on their side, not ours.”
“And you believe her?” Gio asks skeptically.
“I believe she believes it,” I answer carefully. “Whether she’s right is another question.”
Sal, ever the analytical mind, taps his fingers against his glass. “You’ve tried tracing the standard routes, I assume? Shell companies, offshore accounts, the usual laundering channels?”
“Of course. But whoever’s doing this is good. Really good. They’re using my own encryption methods.”
“Someone’s framing you,” Gio concludes.
“That’s my working theory.”
Sal straightens, a familiar glint in his eye—the look he gets when a particularly challenging problem presents itself. “Have you tried approaching it from the zero-point?”
“The what?” Gio asks.
“Instead of chasing where the money went,” Sal explains, “trace it from where it originated. Before it even entered the joint accounts. Follow it backward rather than forward.”
I consider this. “That would mean accessing the source systems for both families.”
“Exactly,” Sal nods. “Create a shadow echo in the deep web—a mirror that captures transaction images without actually touching the systems. Like a camera pointed at a screen rather than hacking the screen itself.”
“That’s...” I pause, running calculations. “That’s actually brilliant. They’d never see it coming because there’s no intrusion to detect.”
“You’d need significant processing power,” Gio points out. “And a secure location in the dark web where even NyxBinary couldn’t stumble across it.”
The mention of Kira’s hacker identity sends an involuntary current through me. “I can handle that part.”
Luca returns, slightly disheveled and wearing a satisfied smirk. “What did I miss?”
“Just Sal being a genius,” I reply.
“So, the usual.” Luca flops back into the booth. “Now, back to your sexy, terrifying fiancée—”
“Luca,” I warn.
“What? I’m providing moral support.” He grins. “Besides, you should be thanking me. That woman looked at you like she wants to crack you open and rewrite your code. In a hot way.”
“There’s no ‘hot way’ to rewrite code,” Sal mutters.
“For us normal people, no,” Luca agrees. “But for these two hacker types? That’s basically foreplay.”