Chapter eight two

Chapter eight two
Rafaello's POV

"We need to talk," Santino’s voice echoed after me, but I ignored it. I had to see her first. Only then could I think straight.
I braced myself. God, I hoped she was alright.

The lock clicked, and I froze. There she was, curled on the carpet at the foot of the bed, her phone clenched in one hand, the gun lying just out of reach. Pain shot through my chest. This wasn’t how I’d ever imagined finding her.

I crouched beside her. Each shallow breath made my chest tighten. Gently, I lifted the phone from her hand and set it aside before easing her onto the bed.
So many missed calls. I had no right to be away.
Fragile. Broken. I had done this to her, and she didn’t even know it yet.

I pulled the blanket over her and sat down beside the bed, my gaze lingering as I brushed stray strands of hair from her face, feeling the weight of every tear she hadn’t cried yet.

"Help me… Rafe…" Her voice cracked as her eyes squeezed shut. A lump lodged in my throat. Her nightmare. My hands found hers. "I’m here," I murmured into her hair. Gradually, her breaths slowed, steadied. My fingers traced her face, brushing away the tears she couldn’t hold back.

I let go, pressing a light kiss to her forehead, though every fiber of me screamed to stay. I tucked the gun back in its drawer and stepped out, closing the door with more weight than I intended.
Every step away felt like a betrayal, but staying wasn’t an option either.

The hallway yawned ahead, silent except for the hollow click of my shoes on marble. I strode through it, nodding to the men in acknowledgment. They were visibly tense after my warning. If anything happened to Alora while I was away, consequences would be severe.

I reached my office. Santino was already seated, his posture calm, but eyes sharp.

"What’s with the long face? Another fight?" he asked casually.

"No, she’s asleep," I replied shortly, though my mind replayed every second of her fragile state.

"Man, you’re safe for now. But be prepared for a rough night," he warned. He was right. Alora wasn’t going to let me off the hook for ignoring her calls.

"It was one of your old man’s snipers," he said firmly.

The room shifted with intensity as I leaned back in my chair. "Yeah, it was," I said flatly.

"Did you know about this? You don’t seem surprised."

"I did," I admitted, voice low. I couldn’t afford to reveal more. Not now. One slip with my right-hand man could feel like betrayal.

"Is there something you’re not telling me?" He raised an eyebrow, meeting my gaze.

I shifted, toying with the pen in front of me. He knew me too well.
I measured every word, knowing a slip could cost more than just trust.
Navigating this without exposing too much was going to be tricky.

"You’ve been off since the conference. Is this about your mother?"

"He refused to let her go. My hands are tied," I said briefly, running my fingers through my hair.

"I’m sure we’ll figure things out."

Silence stretched between us, my mind racing through a million possibilities. My gaze lingered on him. He was my brother in everything but blood, my anchor in chaos.

"What? Why are you looking at me like that?" he asked, snapping me out of my daze.

"Would you ever hate me?"

He smirked, lips tugging slightly. "Man, you’ve taken bullets for me countless times. What’s with all the sentiment?"

Typical Santino. I rolled my eyes, regretting the question immediately.

"Why would you tell Alora her gun is legalized? You know that’s crap, right?"

My jaw dropped as I rubbed my face. How did they even get into that conversation?

"Whatever you’re planning, man, I hope you have it under control," he said, standing abruptly.

"Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some business to attend to before the damsel changes her mind," he added, lightly brushing my shoulder.

The door clicked shut behind him. My hand rested on my chin. Right in front of me, things were slipping, yet I couldn’t do anything.

The hallway stretched ahead, silent but for the faint echo of my shoes on the marble floor. My hand hovered over the bedroom door. For a fleeting heartbeat, I pictured stepping outside, letting the night swallow the tension.

And then she was there.

She pounced before I even twisted the knob. Her arms locked around me, heartbeat drumming against my chest. She shook violently, sobs soaking through my shirt, and I couldn’t stop the guilt from tightening its grip around my own heart.

“Why… why didn’t you answer me, Rafe?” she gasped, voice breaking with all the hurt she’d been holding in. “I… I was—”

Her words trailed off into tears, and I had to hold her tighter just to keep her from collapsing entirely. My own throat tightened, guilt clawing at me.

“Shh… I know,” I whispered, pressing my forehead against hers. “I know I should’ve… I should’ve answered. I—”

“I called you so many times!” she broke through, frantic, tears soaking into me. “Do you have any idea what it felt like, thinking something had happened to you?”

“I… I can’t explain it, Gattina,” I murmured, my hands tangled in her hair, holding her as if letting go would make everything fall apart. “But I swear… I’ll do anything to make it up to you. Anything.”

She searched my face, tears streaking down her cheeks, hands gripping my shirt like she could anchor me there forever. For a moment, everything else disappeared. Every danger, every secret, every calculation. It was just her and me, raw and unguarded.

Her head lifted slightly, studying me, trembling but fierce, like a hurricane in a fragile frame.
Her gaze pierced me, and I felt the weight of every promise I’d ever broken.

“Anything?” she whispered, fragile yet fierce, and the word struck deeper than any bullet.

My chest constricted, my pulse a thunderclap. “Anything,” I vowed. “Name it, and I’ll make it happen.”