Chapter eight three

Chapter eight three
Alora’s POV

“Is this your idea of fun? I thought we’d go to a strip club or something,” Macko whined, stretching his legs dramatically as we stepped onto the sand.

“I’m sure it’s going to be fine. Besides, we kind of need a break from all the tension,” I argued, dropping my bag and slipping my sandals off.

“Honey,” he said, pointing at the ocean like it had personally offended him, “you had a chance to choose anything. A mall. A house. A car. But this. Absolutely not this.”

“Well, I’m sorry for thinking about you guys,” I muttered, crossing my arms.

“Wow. For a second there I thought you were Mother Teresa incarnate,” he shot back.

Luka laughed, grabbing Macko by the arm and dragging him toward the water. “Come on. You’ll survive. Probably.”

I smiled despite myself and turned to Rafaello.

He stood a little apart from the rest of us, sunglasses on, shoulders tight, his attention sweeping the beach like he was cataloging risks instead of scenery.

“You’re supposed to be relaxing,” I said, nudging him with my elbow.

He glanced down at me, lips twitching faintly. “I am.”

“That’s your relaxed face?”

“Unfortunately.”

I snorted and grabbed his hand, tugging him toward the shoreline. The water was cool, the breeze warm, and for the first time in days my lungs did not feel like they were working overtime. Macko shrieked when a wave slammed into his legs, cursing creatively while Luka laughed so hard he nearly fell over.

Rafaello stayed close without really being close, like he was constantly measuring the space between us. He did not touch unless I brushed against him first, like proximity was something he had to earn.

I noticed. I always did.

We spent the next hour doing nothing important and somehow everything important. Splashing water. Kicking sand at each other. Sitting in a loose circle while Macko complained loudly about grains getting places grains had no business being.

Santino tossed a ball back and forth with Luka, their laughter carrying over the sound of the waves. Nora sat on a towel nearby, pretending to scroll through her phone while very obviously not missing a single time Santino smiled in her direction.

It felt normal, the life I had lived before all this.

The kind of normal that makes you lower your guard without realizing it.

When the sun started dipping lower, the energy softened. We were not bored, just content. Tired in the good way, like the day had given us exactly what it was supposed to. Macko flopped dramatically onto a towel.

“I’m starving,” he declared. “If I don’t eat in the next ten minutes, I will perish. Tell my story.”

“Tragic,” Luka said flatly.

Santino checked his phone. “We should head back soon.”

No one argued. It felt right. The fun had peaked and settled, like the tide easing back on its own terms.

Rafaello and I drifted a few steps away from the others, closer to the waterline. The breeze lifted my hair, and he reached out automatically, tucking a loose strand behind my ear like it was muscle memory.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

“For what?”

“For today.”

I studied his face. The tension had not disappeared, but it had loosened, like a fist that had finally unclenched. “You needed it.”

“So did you.”

I opened my mouth to reply when a smooth, unfamiliar voice cut through the moment.

“Well,” it said lightly. “This is awkward.”

I turned slowly.

Victoria stood a few feet away, sunglasses perched on her head, perfectly composed, like she belonged to a different version of the world than the rest of us.

My stomach dropped.

Rafaello stiffened beside me.

“Victoria,” he said flatly. “Leave.”

She smiled, her gaze flicking to me and staying there. “I was just about to. I only wanted to say sorry about yesterday, Rafe.”

My pulse spiked. “Sorry about what?”

“Oh,” she said softly, head tilting just a fraction. “You did not know?”

The air felt thinner.

I looked at her. “Know what?”

Her smile sharpened. “Yesterday,” she said. “Him and me.”

The world narrowed into a sharp, ringing silence.

I turned to Rafaello. “Is that why you did not answer my calls?”

“Alora,” he said immediately, tension snapping through his voice. “This is not the place.”

Victoria laughed under her breath. “Still protecting her. How sweet.”

“Enough,” Rafaello snapped, stepping forward. “You are done here.”

She shrugged, unfazed. “I just thought honesty mattered.” Then her eyes met mine again. “Take care of him. He is very good at disappearing when things get complicated.”

And just like that, she walked away.

I stood frozen, my chest burning.

“So,” I said quietly, not looking at him. “That is what was so important.”

“It was not like that.”

“Then what was it like?” I asked, my voice shaking despite my effort to keep it steady. “Because from where I am standing, it looks like you chose her over answering your phone.”

He ran a hand through his hair, frustration written all over him. “I did not choose anyone. I handled something I did not want you dragged into.”

“You do not get to decide that,” I snapped, finally facing him. “You do not get to shut me out and then act surprised when I am hurt.”

His jaw tightened. “You are right.”

That stopped me.

“I am sorry,” he said. No justifications. “I ruined today. I ruined the moment you were trying to give us.”

I swallowed hard. Anger tangled with something softer, something dangerously close to hope. “You did.”

“I know.” He exhaled slowly. “Let me make it up to you. Tomorrow. Just us. No one else. No distractions.”

I searched his face. The guilt was real. So was the fear beneath it.

“Tomorrow,” I repeated.

He nodded. “Tomorrow.”

I hesitated, then said, “We will see.”

He did not push. Just reached for my hand carefully, like he was not sure he was allowed.

I let him take it.

We walked back toward the others, the ocean fading behind us, the weight of what had not been said pressing heavier than what had.

His phone vibrated once.

I felt it before I saw it, the way his grip tightened, the way his shoulders locked. He glanced down for less than a second, then slipped the phone into his pocket like the notification had burned him.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Nothing,” he said immediately.

I stopped, rooted to the spot.

Rafaello turned back to me, his expression already composed, the wall sliding back into place like it had never cracked at all.

I studied his face, my chest tightening with a familiar, sinking feeling.

Nothing, he had said.

This was how it always started, not with lies, but with silence.

And somehow, I knew that whatever had just lit up his screen had already changed something he could not take back.