Chapter eight four
Rafaello’s POV
"Come on wife,"
Alora had perfected silence like it was a weapon.
She lay on her side with her back to me, spine rigid, chin lifted in that infuriating way that said I’m listening but I refuse to engage. The blankets were pulled up to her shoulders, as if cotton and thread could protect her from me.
“Say something,” I muttered.
Nothing.
I shifted closer, propping myself on one elbow. “Gattina. I’m talking to you.”
She adjusted the pillow beneath her head. That was it.
I exhaled through my nose, already irritated with myself for caring this much. This was becoming a pattern. She shut down, I pushed, we circled each other like we were negotiating a hostile merger instead of sharing a bed.
“I didn’t lie to you,” I said, keeping my voice level. Calm. Strategic. “I withheld information. There’s a difference.”
She scoffed. A sharp, ugly sound that cut deeper than yelling would have.
“Oh, don’t do that,” I warned. “Don’t dismiss me.”
Still nothing. Not even a glance.
I leaned in closer, my hand resting on her hip through the blanket. She stiffened immediately, which pissed me off more than it should have.
Her voice finally came, muffled but sharp. “I don’t want to talk right now, Rafe.”
I smirked despite myself. Big mistake.
“We’re married. This isn’t a calendar invite.”
She rolled slightly, just enough to glare at me over her shoulder.
“Please,” she said flatly. “Just stop.”
I should’ve stopped.
Instead, I pivoted.
My fingers slid under the blanket, finding her side. I barely brushed her skin before she yelped.
“Rafe don’t you dare.”
Too late.
I attacked her ribs mercilessly, fingers digging in with surgical precision. She shrieked, twisting, laughter betraying her despite her best efforts. The blanket flew off as she tried to escape, kicking, swatting, absolutely losing the upper hand.
“Talk,” I ordered, grinning like an idiot. “Use your words.”
“Stop Rafe oh my God” she laughed, breathless now, trying to push me away. “You’re impossible!”
“And you’re avoiding,” I countered, relentless. “I call that a risk mitigation strategy.”
She managed to grab my wrist, still laughing, cheeks flushed, hair a mess. “You’re abusing your position.”
“I’m the Don,” I said smugly. “It’s literally in the job description.”
Her laughter faded just a little. The grip on my wrist tightened. For a split second, the playfulness cracked and something heavier surfaced beneath it.
Just then, a knock came.
We both froze.
Her laughter still echoed faintly in my ears, but the sound of that knock cut through it like a blade. My chest tightened, instincts flaring before my mind caught up.
I straightened instantly, instincts snapping into place like a switch had been flipped. Alora sat up, pulling the blanket back around herself, her expression shifting from playful irritation to alert confusion.
Another knock. Louder this time.
“Don,” a voice called from the other side.
I cursed under my breath.
Of course. Of course it had to be now.
I glanced at Alora. She was still flushed, still warm from laughter, but her eyes searched my face like she already knew something was wrong.
“I’ll be right back,” I said, already swinging my legs off the bed.
She didn’t answer. She never did when things ended unfinished.
I hated leaving things like this. Half open. Unresolved. But problems didn’t wait, and neither could I.
I leaned down, pressed a quick kiss to her forehead, an apology without words, and reached for my vest.
The knock came again, harder this time.
“Don.”
That tone didn’t belong to hesitation or routine updates. It belonged to problems that refused to wait.
I slipped on my vest and crossed the room, opening the door just enough to step through before closing it behind me.
Luka stood there, pacing a half-step back and forth like a man rehearsing bad news. He straightened the moment he saw me.
“Sorry for interrupting your sleep,” he said quickly. “But it’s urgent.”
“It better be,” I warned, my voice already hardening.
This was a mafia house, yes—but it was still winter, still early, and my wife was in my bed. That mattered.
“Someone’s requesting to speak with you.”
I shut the door fully and gestured for him to walk as we headed toward the stairs. “Who. And why.”
“Your grandfather’s ex tracker.”
I stopped mid-step.
That only meant one thing—he no longer worked for my grandfather. And that raised a far more dangerous question.
Men didn’t walk away from my grandfather. They disappeared.
“Where’s the phone?” I demanded as we continued downstairs. “Put him through. I want to know what he wants.”
Luka hesitated. His eyes flicked briefly toward the hallway behind us.
“That’s the problem,” he said carefully. “He’s not calling. He wants to speak to you in person.”
I turned on him sharply. “What?”
“How is he at a secret location?” I thundered, clenching my fist. “Who let him anywhere near this house?”
He took a step back instinctively, hands gripping the edges of his coat. “He’s not inside, Don.”
That part tracked. Unfortunately.
I dragged in a slow breath, forcing myself to steady. The speed at which I’d been losing my grip these past few days was not ideal.
“Make sure he’s clean,” I said finally. “Usher him to the basement. Call Santino—have him apply pressure. Report back when he talks.”
“Yes, Don.”
Luka disappeared down the corridor, his footsteps echoing through the silent house.
I walked into my office and dropped into the chair behind the desk, flipping open a folder I had no intention of reading. My mind was already miles ahead, connecting dots I didn’t want to acknowledge.
An hour later, the door clicked open.
Luka stepped in first. Santino followed, sleeves rolled up, wiping sweat from his face like he’d just finished a workout instead of an interrogation.
“Such a nice way to start the morning,” Santino said, taking a seat across from me. This was his playground. Of course he was enjoying himself.
“Did he talk?” I asked.
“No,” Santino replied easily. “Tough cookie.”
“He insists on seeing you,” Luka added. “But I got one thing out of him.”
“He has a sister,” Luka continued. “She was taken yesterday. Godfather’s men.”
I leaned back in my chair, feeling my stomach twist like a knife. It hit slowly at first, then all at once. My grandfather didn’t take women at random. He never had. Everything he touched was leverage. Blood, marriage, legacy.
The room felt smaller, the air heavier. I could almost hear my heartbeat pounding in my ears, loud enough to drown out everything else.
My chair scraped back violently as I stood. I drove my fist into the desk, wood cracking under the force. Pain flared up my arm, sharp and grounding, but it didn’t touch the rage burning through my chest.
I swallowed hard, trying to focus, but my mind raced: How close? How much leverage? Who else was involved? And what had they done to her already?
I didn’t say it. I couldn’t.
“Rafe,” Santino said sharply, rising from his seat. “You need to fucking calm down.”