Page 27 of Made for Vengeance (Dark Dynasties #3)

GRACE

T hree days after learning my father had abandoned me, Rafe gave me the run of the estate.

"Within reason," he'd clarified, standing in my doorway with an expression I couldn't quite read. "The grounds, the library, the music room. Not my office, not the security wing, not beyond the gates."

Still a prison, then. Just a larger, more luxurious one.

I'd nodded, too numb to argue, too exhausted to fight. The revelation about my father had hollowed me out, leaving an empty space where certainty used to live. Nothing made sense anymore. Not my past, not my present, certainly not my future.

"There will be guards," Rafe continued, watching me carefully. "Not to intimidate you. For your protection."

"From what?" I'd asked, my voice flat. "Who's going to hurt me here, in your fortress?"

He'd hesitated, something flickering in his dark eyes. "There are... complications. People who might not understand my interest in you. People who might see you as leverage rather than..."

"Rather than what?" I'd pressed when he didn't finish.

"Rather than precious," he'd said finally, the word hanging between us like a confession.

I hadn't known how to respond to that. Hadn't known how to process being called "precious" by the man who had kidnapped me, who kept me prisoner, who had shown me the truth about my family's indifference.

So I'd said nothing, and he'd left, and I'd spent the next three days exploring my expanded cage.

The Conti estate was even more impressive than I'd initially realized.

The main house was a sprawling mansion of stone and wood, with wings branching off in multiple directions.

The grounds stretched for acres—manicured gardens giving way to wilder woodland, all enclosed by a high stone wall topped with what I assumed was electrified fencing.

Beautiful. Secure. Inescapable.

I spent most of my time in the library, a two-story room lined with books from floor to ceiling.

It reminded me of something from a fairy tale—Beauty and the Beast, perhaps, which felt grimly appropriate given my circumstances.

I'd curl up in a window seat with a book, pretending to read while actually watching the guards patrol the grounds, memorizing their patterns, their faces, their weapons.

Old habits die hard. Even when escape seemed pointless, I couldn't stop planning for it.

The music room became my sanctuary in the evenings.

It housed a magnificent Steinway grand piano that made my baby grand at home seem like a toy.

I played for hours, losing myself in Beethoven and Debussy, letting the music express what I couldn't—grief, rage, confusion, and something else I refused to name.

Sometimes, I sensed Rafe watching me from the doorway, though he never interrupted. Just listened, his presence a weight I felt rather than saw, before silently withdrawing.

It was a strange limbo—not quite freedom, not quite captivity. A gilded cage with the door left tantalizingly ajar, but nowhere safe to fly.

On the fourth day of my expanded privileges, I was returning to my room from the library when I heard voices from behind a partially open door.

I recognized Rafe's immediately—that distinctive timbre that somehow managed to be both smooth and rough at the same time.

The other voice was male, similar in cadence but higher, sharper.

"—becoming a liability," the unknown man was saying, his tone urgent. "Dante's back from Europe. He wants to know what the hell you're thinking."

"My personal life is none of Dante's concern," Rafe replied, his voice cold.

"It is when it involves Patrick O'Sullivan's daughter! Christ, Rafe, do you have any idea the position you've put us in? The Irish are furious."

"The Irish," Rafe said dismissively, "are in no position to make demands. Patrick practically gift-wrapped her for us. He doesn't care what happens to her as long as his precious business interests are protected."

I flinched, the casual cruelty of the truth still raw.

"That may be," the other man conceded, "but it doesn't change the fact that she's a complication we don't need right now. Use her as leverage. Get something valuable out of this obsession of yours."

"She's not leverage," Rafe's voice had dropped to a dangerous register I recognized. "She's mine."

"For fuck's sake, listen to yourself! This isn't like you. You're the rational one, the strategist. And now you're risking everything for what? Some girl you've known for a few weeks?"

"Enough, Luca." Rafe's tone left no room for argument. "The meeting with the O'Sullivans is set for tomorrow. We'll use the opportunity to make our position clear. Grace will be present, visible but untouchable. A reminder of what happens when they cross us."

My blood turned to ice. After everything—after showing me my father's betrayal, after giving me the run of the estate, after all his talk of seeing me as "precious"—Rafe was planning to use me exactly as his brother had suggested.

As leverage. As a pawn in whatever game the Contis were playing with my family.

I'd been a fool to think anything had changed. To think he was different from my father, from any of the men who had seen me as nothing but a useful object.

I backed away from the door, my heart pounding, my mind racing. I needed to think, to plan, to?—

"Grace."

I froze, caught like a deer in headlights. Rafe stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable as he took in my position, my wide eyes, my pale face.

"How much did you hear?" he asked quietly.

I lifted my chin, refusing to show fear. "Enough."

He sighed, running a hand through his dark hair—a rare gesture of frustration I'd come to recognize. "It's not what you think."

"Really?" I laughed, the sound brittle and sharp. "Because it sounded exactly like you planning to parade me in front of my family tomorrow. To use me as a 'reminder' of your power. How is that different from what my father was going to do with the Giordanos?"

His jaw tightened. "The context is different."

"The context?" I stepped closer, anger burning away the numbness that had enveloped me for days.

"The context is that you kidnapped me, kept me prisoner, showed me my father's betrayal, and now plan to use me in exactly the same way he would have.

The context is that I'm still just a pawn to you, just a possession, just a?—"

"Stop." He moved toward me, closing the distance between us until I had to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "You are not a pawn to me. Not a possession. Not a tool."

"Then what am I?" I demanded, refusing to back down despite his proximity. "What am I to you, Rafe, if not leverage against my family?"

He stared down at me, his dark eyes intense, searching. For a moment, I thought he might not answer. Then:

"You're the only thing I've ever wanted that I couldn't simply take," he said, his voice low and rough. "The only person who's ever made me question myself, my methods, my certainties. The only one who's ever looked at me—really looked at me—and not flinched away from what they saw."

The raw honesty in his voice, in his eyes, made my breath catch. This wasn't the smooth, controlled Rafe I'd come to know. This was something else—something stripped bare, vulnerable in a way I hadn't thought possible.

"You're lying," I whispered, but there was no conviction in it.

"I have never lied to you, Grace," he said, reaching up to brush a strand of hair from my face. "Not once. Not even when the truth was ugly."

I jerked away from his touch, needing distance, needing clarity. "I heard you. You're planning to use me tomorrow. To show me off like a trophy."

Something shifted in his expression—a decision being made, a course being altered. "No," he said finally. "I'm not."

"What?"

"The meeting is canceled. I'll call Dante now and tell him to reschedule. Without you."

I stared at him, disbelief warring with a treacherous hope. "Just like that?"

"Just like that."

"Why?"

He smiled slightly, the expression softening his severe features. "Because you asked. Because it matters to you. Because I want you to trust me, and I know that won't happen if I use you the way your father would have."

I shook my head, trying to make sense of this man who defied every expectation, who shifted from ruthless kidnapper to attentive host to... whatever this was. "I don't understand you."

"I know." He stepped back, giving me space. "But I hope someday you will."

He turned to leave, presumably to make the call he'd promised. I should have let him go. Should have retreated to my room to process this latest development. Should have maintained the careful distance I'd established.

Instead, I found myself saying, "Wait."

He paused, looking back at me with a raised eyebrow.

"Why did you really take me?" I asked, the question that had been haunting me for weeks finally finding voice. "The truth. Not some line about seeing my photo and becoming obsessed. The real reason."

He was quiet for a long moment, considering his answer.

When he spoke, his voice was thoughtful, measured.

"It started as business. Intelligence on the O'Sullivans, a potential weakness to exploit.

But then I saw you—really saw you. Not just your face in a photograph, but you.

Playing piano in your apartment. Studying in the library.

Running in the early morning. And something. .. shifted."

"Shifted how?"

"I recognized something in you," he said simply. "A loneliness. A strength. A determination to carve out your own space in a world that wanted to define you by your name. It... resonated."

I swallowed hard, unsettled by how accurately he'd read me, by how closely his words mirrored thoughts I'd never shared with anyone.

"That doesn't justify kidnapping," I said, but the words lacked their earlier heat.