Page 11 of Made for Vengeance (Dark Dynasties #3)

RAFE

I knew her schedule better than she did.

I knew the precise shade of blonde her hair turned in the morning sunlight. I knew she bit her lower lip when concentrating. I knew she played piano when she couldn't sleep, her fingers dancing across the keys like she was trying to exorcise something from her soul.

Knowledge is power. My father taught me that before he taught me how to shoot.

Today, I was parked across from her apartment in a nondescript sedan with tinted windows. 7:15 AM. She would be leaving for her morning run in exactly five minutes, wearing black leggings and a gray Harvard hoodie, her hair pulled back in a ponytail that swung with each step.

My phone buzzed. Luca. Again.

I silenced it without looking. Whatever crisis needed my attention at the estate could wait. This was more important. She was more important.

The front door of her building opened right on schedule. Grace stepped out, exactly as I'd predicted—black leggings, gray hoodie, blonde ponytail. She paused to adjust her earbuds, her breath visible in the cool morning air.

Beautiful. Even like this—makeup-free, dressed for comfort rather than style—she was beautiful in a way that made my chest ache.

I watched as she stretched briefly before setting off at an easy jog, unaware of my presence across the street. Unaware that every step she took was being observed, cataloged, memorized.

It would be so easy to approach her now. To step out of the car, to call her name, to watch her face as she recognized me. To see that flash of fear and fascination I'd glimpsed at Tenebris.

But timing was everything. And this wasn't the moment.

I started the car and followed at a distance, keeping her in sight without getting close enough to be noticed. She ran with focus and discipline, her pace steady, her form perfect. No wasted energy. No unnecessary movement.

She reminded me of myself in that way—efficient, controlled, purposeful. It made the rare moments when she let her guard down—like when she'd danced at Tenebris, eyes closed, body swaying to the music—all the more intoxicating.

I followed her through her entire route, watching as she circled back to her apartment building, slightly flushed from exertion but barely winded. She disappeared inside, and I checked my watch. 7:52 AM. She would shower, dress, and leave for her 9:30 AM class by 8:45 AM.

I had time.

I drove to a nearby coffee shop—not one she frequented—and ordered an espresso, taking it to a corner table where I could review the day's plan. My phone buzzed again. This time I answered.

"What?" I kept my voice low, controlled.

"Where the hell are you?" Luca demanded. "We have a situation with the shipment from Naples. Customs is asking questions."

"Handle it," I replied, my tone leaving no room for argument. "I'm busy."

"Busy with what? You've been disappearing every day this week. Dante's going to be back in three days, and we need to have everything in order."

I took a sip of my espresso, the bitter taste grounding me. "And it will be. I'll be at the estate this afternoon."

"Rafe—"

"I said I'll handle it." I ended the call before he could respond.

Luca was right to be concerned. The family business required attention, especially with Dante away. But he didn't understand—couldn't understand—what I was building here. This wasn't a distraction. This was essential.

I finished my espresso and returned to my car, driving back to position myself near Grace's apartment. 8:40 AM. She would be leaving soon.

Right on cue, she emerged from the building, dressed in a cream blouse and navy skirt, her hair loose around her shoulders, catching the morning light like spun gold.

She carried a leather messenger bag over one shoulder, her posture straight, her chin lifted slightly—the stance of someone who refused to be intimidated by the world.

I watched as she walked to the corner and hailed a cab, disappearing into the yellow vehicle that would take her to campus. I didn't follow. I already knew where she was going, what classes she was taking, which seat she preferred in each lecture hall.

Instead, I drove to the bookstore she visited every Thursday afternoon. The small, independent shop was one of her regular haunts—a place where she often spent an hour or more browsing the shelves, losing herself in potential purchases before selecting something with careful deliberation.

The morning passed slowly. I used the time to answer emails, make necessary calls, maintain the appearance of a man focused on business rather than obsession. But beneath the surface, my mind was fixed on a single point—the moment when she would walk through those doors and see me again.

At 3:30 PM, I positioned myself in the philosophy section, knowing she would eventually make her way there. I selected a volume of Nietzsche—her favorite, I'd noticed from observing her apartment through binoculars—and pretended to be absorbed in its contents.

The bell above the door chimed at 3:42 PM. I didn't look up, but I knew it was her. Could feel her presence like a change in atmospheric pressure. I remained where I was, patient, allowing her to make her way through the store at her own pace, to discover me rather than being approached.

Twenty minutes later, I heard her footsteps approaching my section. I kept my eyes on my book, my posture relaxed, the picture of a man with no agenda beyond literary interest.

She turned the corner and stopped abruptly. I could feel her gaze on me, the moment of recognition, the slight intake of breath that told me she remembered our encounter at Tenebris.

I looked up then, allowing surprise to register on my face—practiced, controlled, but convincing enough for someone who didn't know better.

"Ms. O'Sullivan," I said, my voice pitched low enough that only she could hear. "What a pleasant surprise."

Her eyes narrowed slightly, suspicion warring with social conditioning. "Mr. Conti. I didn't expect to see you here."

"Nietzsche," I replied, holding up the book. "A particular interest of mine. And yours, I believe?"

The question was calculated to unsettle her—how would I know her philosophical preferences unless I'd been paying attention? Watching? Learning?

"How did you—" She stopped herself, reassessing. "Yes. Though I prefer his earlier works."

"Before the madness took hold," I agreed, setting the book back on the shelf. "When his ideas still maintained some connection to reality, rather than spiraling into delusion."

"Some would argue the delusion was always there," she countered, her academic instincts overriding her wariness for a moment. "Just better concealed in the earlier writing."

I smiled, genuinely pleased by her engagement. "A fair assessment. The seeds of madness often exist long before they bloom."

Something in my tone made her step back slightly, her guard rising again. "I should go. I have a paper due tomorrow."

"Of course." I made no move to stop her, to follow, to extend the conversation beyond its natural conclusion. "It was good seeing you again, Grace."

The use of her first name was deliberate—a small intimacy, a reminder that our encounters were becoming a pattern rather than coincidence.

"Are you following me?" she asked suddenly, the directness of the question betraying both fear and fascination. "First the club, now here. It seems... unlikely to be chance."

I held her gaze, neither confirming nor denying. "Would you be upset if I was?"

She laughed, the sound nervous and slightly breathless. "Most women would be, yes."

"But you're not most women," I observed, taking a small step closer, testing her boundaries. "You're curious. Intrigued. Perhaps even a little flattered by the attention."

Her cheeks flushed, anger or embarrassment or something else entirely. "You don't know me."

"Don't I?" I kept my voice soft, intimate. "I know you prefer Blackbird Coffee on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I know you run the same route every morning. I know you play piano when you can't sleep."

The color drained from her face as quickly as it had appeared. "That's—that's not curiosity or attention. That's stalking."

I shrugged, unapologetic. "Labels are so limiting, don't you think? I prefer to see it as... getting to know someone thoroughly before making my intentions clear."

"And what are your intentions, Mr. Conti?" Her voice was steady despite the fear I could see in her eyes, the slight tremor in her hands.

I smiled, allowing her to see something of the truth—not everything, not yet, but enough to unsettle, to intrigue, to ensure she wouldn't forget this conversation or the man who'd initiated it.

"That would be telling," I said softly. "And where's the fun in that? Some things are better revealed through experience than explanation."

She took another step back, her survival instincts finally overriding her curiosity. "I need to go."

"Of course." I nodded, making no move to follow. "Until next time, Grace."

She turned and walked away quickly, not quite running but close, her posture rigid with tension. I watched her go, savoring the moment, the knowledge that I was in her head now. That she would think of me when she went home, when she locked her doors, when she lay in bed unable to sleep.

Perfect.

I waited fifteen minutes before leaving the bookstore, giving her time to distance herself, to believe she'd escaped.

The rest of the day passed in necessary business—calls to Luca, arrangements for the Naples shipment, the mundane details of running a family enterprise that spanned continents and industries both legitimate and otherwise.

But beneath it all, like a current running deep and strong, was the thought of Grace. Of her face when she'd recognized me. Of the fear and fascination warring in her eyes. Of the way she'd asked if I was following her—direct, unafraid, challenging despite her obvious unease.

By nightfall, I was back at the estate, seated in my office with a glass of whiskey, watching the clock.