Page 1 of Made for Vengeance (Dark Dynasties #3)

RAFE

T he warehouse air hung thick with salt and secrets.

It clung to everything—the walls, the floor, the back of my throat. Rust, oil, and old blood lingered beneath it, a scent so familiar it barely registered anymore.

Overhead, a light creaked on its chain, swaying gently, casting long, shifting shadows against the corrugated metal.

It was quiet the way only warehouses are at night, hollow, vast, and tense with things unsaid.

My footsteps echoed sharp against the concrete, each step deliberate, like punctuation in the silence. The sound bounced back at me, circling, amplifying the weight of what I was about to do.

At the center of the room, beneath that swaying light, Giovanni Abate sat slumped in a chair.

He looked smaller than I remembered. Older.

Time hadn’t been kind to him, but tonight had been worse. His once-pristine suit, a symbol of his vanity, was wrinkled and stained, clinging to him like regret. His salt-and-pepper hair was matted with sweat, strands plastered to his forehead.

His left eye was swollen shut, a deep purple bloom spreading across his cheek. Marco’s handiwork. Efficient, as always.

I stood a few feet away, letting the silence stretch between us like a blade.

Giovanni’s chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths. The faint whistle through his nose cut through the stillness.

He didn’t see me at first. Head low. Shoulders slumped. A man already half-dead.

“You know why you’re here,” I said.

Not a question.

His head jerked up, blinking through the haze. His one good eye locked on mine—bloodshot, glassy. The look of a man with no moves left.

“Rafe,” he rasped. “Please. This is a mistake.”

I didn’t answer.

Instead, I shrugged off my jacket and folded it neatly, setting it on a nearby crate. The room was cold, but I didn’t feel it.

The Beretta pressed at my spine as I rolled up my sleeves, each movement slow. Intentional.

Order, even in chaos.

That’s what separates us from animals.

Giovanni’s gaze tracked my hands. His breathing quickened.

He knew. He’d known the moment they dragged him in. Maybe before that.

“You’ve been working with the Irish,” I said, voice level. “Helping them move product through our ports. Undercutting shipments. Feeding them intel.”

His head dropped. Shoulders sagged. The weight of it crashing down.

“I didn’t?—”

“Don’t lie to me.”

My voice cracked across the room, loud enough to sting.

He flinched.

“We traced the containers. The bribes. The manifests. Ten of our men are dead, Gio.”

“Ten.”

His hands trembled in his lap.

“They threatened my family,” he whispered. “My son… he’s just a kid. They said they’d?—”

“We all have families,” I said, stepping closer. My shoes scraped against grit on the concrete.

“You think I don’t know what it’s like? To be afraid? To want to protect what’s yours?”

He lifted his head, his eye locking on mine.

“Then you understand.”

“I do.”

The words hung between us, heavy.

“But I also understand loyalty.”

I took another step. The air between us charged.

“And you chose them over us.”

The silence that followed was thick, living.

In the distance, a slow drip echoed—each drop a countdown.

I reached behind me, drew the Beretta. Its weight was familiar. Steadying.

Giovanni’s breath caught. His eye widened. “Rafe, please?—”

“I’m not doing this because I want to,” I said. “I’m doing it because I have to.”

He sagged. The last fight drained from him.

Then came the sobs—quiet, broken.

I let him have that moment. Let him fall apart.

“I’ll make sure your son is looked after,” I said. “Your wife too. You were family once. That still counts for something.”

He looked up, tears carving trails through the bruises.

“Then don’t?—”

I raised the gun.

He closed his eyes.

”Sangue dentro, sangue fuori,’ I said. Blood in, blood out.

The shot was muffled, but it rang in my bones.

“Riposa in pace.”

Giovanni slumped forward. Blood spread beneath the chair, slow and dark.

I stood still. The gun warm in my hand. My heartbeat even.

The air felt colder now. The act complete.

I pulled out a handkerchief, wiped a single drop of blood from my shoe.

Italian leather.

My father always said it mattered.

“You don’t walk into a room looking like a mess and expect to be taken seriously.”

He taught me how to polish my shoes before he taught me how to shoot.

I turned to the shadows.

“Clean this up.”

Two men stepped forward. Silent. Efficient. One covered the body, the other undid the restraints.

“Make sure he’s found with dignity,” I said. “He was still one of ours.”

They nodded.

I holstered the gun and adjusted my cuffs. The cold brushed against my skin, but I barely registered it.

Giovanni made his choice.

And I made mine.

I holstered the gun and pulled my phone from my pocket.

Three missed calls from Dante.

I stared at the screen for a moment, my thumb hovering over the notification. The urge to call him back was there, but so was the weight of everything I’d just done. Dante trusted me to handle things while he was away, to keep the city intact while he played husband on his honeymoon.

And I would.

I sighed and slid the phone back into my pocket.

The car was waiting outside, engine idling, the headlights cutting through the early-morning haze. The gravel crunched beneath my shoes as I walked toward it, the sound sharp in the stillness.

I opened the door and slid into the backseat. The leather was cool against my skin, the faint scent of cologne lingering in the air.

“Take the long way,” I told my driver as I shut the door. “Past the port.”

He nodded wordlessly, putting the car into gear.

The tires crunched softly as we pulled out of the lot. I leaned back in the seat, the muted hum of the engine filling the silence as I watched the warehouse disappear in the rearview mirror.

Another piece off the board.

That’s what it means to be underboss. You don’t just carry out orders. You make the hard decisions when no one else has the stomach for it. You clean up the messes. You protect the family—even from itself.

The port came into view, sprawling and silent beneath the glow of sodium lights.

Containers stacked like tombstones.

Cranes frozen mid-motion like steel giants asleep at their posts. From a distance, it looked peaceful—orderly, quiet. The kind of place that could almost fool you into thinking it was just another port, just another piece of the city’s infrastructure.

But I knew better.

I knew what was buried under those stacks of steel. What had been smuggled in and out of this place for decades. The deals made in the shadows. The blood spilled between the cracks in the pavement.

I rolled the window down slightly, letting the salt air cut through the lingering scent of gunpowder and sweat. The breeze was cool, but it didn’t clear my head. Nothing would. Not tonight.

“Slow down,” I told the driver.

He eased off the gas, and we coasted along the outer edge of the port. My eyes scanned the fences, the gates, the towers. My men were out there—watching, waiting. Always on alert. Always ready.

But even with all that, we’d still missed it.

Giovanni had betrayed us. Quietly. Methodically. And I’d missed it.

That was on me.

I closed my eyes for a moment, leaning my head back against the seat. The faint hum of the tires on the asphalt vibrated through my chest, but it didn’t settle the storm inside me.

I could still hear the shot.

Still see the way his body slumped forward, lifeless, the blood pooling beneath him.

Still feel the weight of the gun in my hand.

I didn’t regret it.

But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

Giovanni had been family once. He’d taught me how to bluff in poker when I was fourteen. Taught me how to keep a straight face, even when I wanted to fold. He used to bring me pastries from his wife’s bakery, slipping me an extra cannoli when my father wasn’t looking.

And he’d lied to me.

I opened my eyes, staring out at the stacks of containers as we passed them. They loomed in the darkness, casting long shadows beneath the floodlights.

Dante trusted me to handle the city while he and his wife were away on their extravagant honeymoon.

And I would.

By the time we reached the estate, the sun was just starting to rise. The sky was painted in soft pinks and oranges, the kind of morning that makes you believe in second chances.

But I didn’t believe in that shit. Not anymore.

I stepped out of the car, the gravel crunching beneath my shoes. The guards at the gate nodded as I approached, their eyes sharp but silent. They didn’t say anything as they opened the doors and let me through.

Inside, the house was quiet. Most of the staff was still asleep, the early hour wrapping the estate in a kind of stillness that felt both comforting and suffocating.

The only sound was the soft ticking of the grandfather clock in the foyer and the distant hum of the espresso machine warming up in the kitchen.

I didn’t go to the kitchen.

I went to the study.

I needed to think. To plan. To figure out who else had been whispering in the dark.

Because Giovanni hadn’t acted alone.

He wasn’t smart enough.

Someone had helped him. Someone had opened the door, fed him the intel he needed, and cleared the path for the Irish.

And I was going to find out who.

The study was dim, the heavy curtains drawn against the rising sun. I poured myself a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the faint light as I sat behind the desk. The leather chair creaked beneath me, the sound familiar, grounding.

I set the gun on the desk beside the glass. Just in case.

The file on the Irish was still open, spread across the desk like a map of betrayal. Names, numbers, routes, payments. I flipped through it slowly, methodically, my eyes scanning each page, each line, looking for the thread I’d missed.

It was there. I could feel it.

I just had to pull it.

My phone buzzed, the sound cutting through the quiet.

I glanced at the screen.

Luca.

Luca: Heard about Giovanni. You good?

I stared at the message for a long moment, my thumb hovering over the keyboard.

Me: Doesn’t matter. It’s done.

The response was immediate.

Luca: You need anything?

I hesitated, my mind already racing ahead, piecing together the next move.

Me: A meeting with the fucking Irish.

There was a pause. Then:

Luca: That’s a death wish.

I smirked faintly, but there was no humor in it.

Me: No. It’s a declaration of war.