Page 30 of Made for Vengeance (Dark Dynasties #3)

With that, he left, his footsteps fading across the terrace, leaving me alone with a half-eaten breakfast and the distinct feeling that I'd just entered a game whose rules I didn't fully understand.

I spent the day exploring parts of the estate I hadn't yet seen, testing the limits of my new freedom.

The guards were still present but less obvious, maintaining a respectful distance as I wandered through gardens, examined art in long galleries, and discovered a small but well-equipped gym in the east wing.

No one stopped me. No one questioned me. It was as if overnight I'd transformed from prisoner to guest—or something else entirely.

By late afternoon, I found myself back in my room, contemplating Rafe's instruction to dress formally for dinner. It was a small thing, a trivial request. Complying would cost me nothing.

Which was precisely why part of me wanted to refuse.

I showered and stood before the closet, examining the array of evening wear provided for me. Dresses in every color and style, all in my size, all exquisite. The attention to detail was both impressive and unsettling—further evidence of how thoroughly Rafe had studied me before taking me.

My fingers lingered on a deep blue gown with a plunging back, the kind of dress I would have chosen for myself in another life. It would be so easy to put it on, to play along, to be the obedient captive he wanted.

Too easy.

Instead, I selected a simple black sweater and jeans, casual but elegant enough that he couldn't accuse me of being deliberately slovenly. A compromise, of sorts—neither full compliance nor outright defiance.

At precisely seven, a knock came at my door. I opened it to find not Rafe but Marco, his expression carefully neutral as he took in my attire.

"Mr. Conti is waiting in the dining room," he said, giving no indication whether he approved or disapproved of my choice.

I followed him downstairs, through the grand foyer, and into a formal dining room I hadn't yet seen—a cavernous space with a table that could seat twenty, crystal chandeliers overhead, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the now-darkened gardens.

Rafe stood at the head of the table, his back to me as he examined a painting on the far wall. He was dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, his dark hair combed back, the picture of elegant authority.

"Ms. O'Sullivan," Marco announced, then withdrew, closing the door behind him.

Rafe turned, his eyes taking in my casual attire with a single sweep. His expression didn't change, but something in the air shifted—a tension, a charge, like the moment before lightning strikes.

"I see you've made a choice," he said, his voice deceptively mild.

I lifted my chin slightly. "I have."

"An interesting one." He moved toward me, his steps measured, unhurried. "Not quite defiance, not quite compliance. Testing the boundaries already, Grace?"

"Interpreting the rules," I corrected. "You said formal. This is formal by some standards."

He stopped before me, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "Not by mine."

"You should have been more specific, then."

A smile curved his lips, not quite reaching his eyes. "Perhaps I should have. A lesson for next time."

He gestured to the table, where two place settings had been arranged at one end—intimate despite the grandeur of the room. "Shall we?"

I took the seat he indicated, noting the crystal, the silver, the fine china—all the trappings of wealth and privilege that seemed to follow Rafe like a shadow. He sat at the head of the table, to my right, close enough that our elbows nearly touched.

Dinner was served by staff I barely noticed, course after course of exquisite food that I ate without tasting. The tension between us built with each passing moment, each sip of wine, each glance exchanged across the small distance.

"You're quiet tonight," Rafe observed as dessert was served—some elaborate confection of chocolate and berries that looked too beautiful to eat.

"I'm thinking," I replied, taking a small bite of the dessert. It was delicious, of course. Everything in Rafe's world was perfect on the surface.

"About?"

I met his eyes directly. "About the nature of obedience. About why it matters so much to you."

Something flickered in his gaze—surprise, perhaps, that I'd cut so quickly to the heart of the matter. "Does it require explanation? I would think the advantages of having those around you follow instructions would be self-evident."

"It's more than that," I pressed. "This isn't just about practicality. This is personal for you. Important."

He was silent for a moment, considering his response. Our agreement of honesty hung between us, binding him as surely as his rules bound me.

"Control has always been... necessary in my life," he said finally. "My father was a violent man. Unpredictable. Dangerous when crossed. I learned early that control—over myself, over my environment, over others—was the only defense against chaos."

The admission surprised me—not just the content, but the fact that he'd shared it at all. A glimpse behind the perfect facade, a piece of the man beneath the monster.

"And now?" I asked softly. "What are you defending against now?"

His eyes held mine, dark and unreadable. "Old habits die hard, Grace."

"That's not an answer."

"No," he agreed. "It's not."

He stood abruptly, extending his hand to me. "Come. I want to show you something."

I hesitated, then placed my hand in his, allowing him to lead me from the dining room, through corridors I hadn't explored, to a part of the house that felt older, more intimate than the grand public spaces.

We stopped before a door of dark wood, carved with intricate patterns that seemed to shift in the dim light. Rafe produced a key from his pocket—an actual metal key, not the electronic cards that secured most of the estate.

"Few people have seen this room," he said, unlocking the door. "It's... private."

He pushed the door open, revealing a space that took my breath away—not with grandeur, but with unexpected warmth.

It was a library, but unlike the formal one I'd explored earlier.

This was smaller, cozier, with worn leather chairs, shelves that reached the ceiling, and books that looked read rather than displayed.

A fire burned in a stone hearth, casting golden light across the room. The walls not covered by bookshelves held paintings—not the formal portraits or landscapes that decorated the rest of the house, but more modern works, abstract and emotional.

"My sanctuary," Rafe said quietly, watching my reaction. "The one place in this house that's truly mine, not the family's, not the business's. Just mine."

I moved into the room, drawn by its unexpected charm, by the glimpse it offered into a Rafe I hadn't known existed.

I ran my fingers along the spines of books—classics, philosophy, poetry, history.

Not the collection of a man who read for show, but of someone who read for understanding, for pleasure, for escape.

"Why show me this?" I asked, turning to face him.

He closed the door behind him, leaning against it, his expression thoughtful. "Because you asked for honesty. This room is the most honest part of me."

The admission hung in the air between us, vulnerable in a way I hadn't expected from him. I didn't know how to respond, what to do with this gift he'd offered—a piece of himself beyond the captor, beyond the businessman, beyond the man who had taken me against my will.

"It's beautiful," I said finally, inadequately.

He moved further into the room, stopping before a painting that dominated one wall—an abstract swirl of blues and grays that somehow conveyed both storm and calm.

"My mother loved art. Before she died, she made me promise to surround myself with beautiful things.

To remember that beauty exists even in a world of ugliness. "

Another piece of the puzzle that was Rafe Conti. Another glimpse behind the mask.

"When did she die?" I asked softly.

"I was twelve," he replied, still looking at the painting. "My father... it was not a peaceful death."

The implication was clear, horrifying. I moved closer to him, drawn by some impulse I couldn't name. "I'm sorry."

He turned to me, surprise flickering across his features. "Are you? Sorry for the man who took you, who keeps you here against your will?"

"I can be sorry for the boy who lost his mother while still holding the man accountable for his actions," I said. "The two aren't mutually exclusive."

Something shifted in his expression—a softening, a vulnerability quickly masked. "You continue to surprise me, Grace."

"Good," I said, meeting his gaze steadily. "I wouldn't want to become predictable."

His lips curved in a smile that reached his eyes this time. "I don't think that's a risk."

He moved to a cabinet near the fireplace, opening it to reveal crystal decanters of amber liquid. "Drink?"

I nodded, watching as he poured two glasses of what looked like expensive whiskey. He handed one to me, his fingers brushing mine in a touch that felt deliberate, charged.

"To honesty," he said, raising his glass.

"To honesty," I echoed, taking a sip. The whiskey burned pleasantly down my throat, warming me from the inside.

We stood in companionable silence for a moment, the fire crackling in the hearth, the room cocooning us in a warmth that felt dangerous in its comfort. It would be so easy to forget here—to forget who he was, who I was, how we had come to be standing together in this beautiful room.

"You didn't obey my instruction about dinner," Rafe said finally, his voice low but not angry. "What am I to make of that?"

And just like that, the spell was broken. Reality rushed back—the power dynamic, the captivity, the game we were playing.

"I obeyed the spirit if not the letter," I replied, taking another sip of whiskey for courage. "I dressed appropriately, just not formally."