Page 44 of Made for Vengeance (Dark Dynasties #3)

It wasn't everything I wanted, but it was probably the best I was going to get. "Fine," I conceded. "Tonight, then."

He nodded, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "Thank you for your patience."

"Don't thank me yet," I warned, moving toward the door. "I haven't heard what you have to say."

His lips curved in a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Eight o'clock. In my private dining room."

I nodded and left, closing the door behind me with a soft click that belied the turmoil inside me. Rafe was hiding something—something significant enough that he felt the need to protect me from it, despite our evolving relationship, despite his promises of honesty.

The question was: what?

And more importantly: why?

I spent the afternoon in a state of restless anticipation, unable to focus on reading or music or any of my usual diversions. Instead, I wandered the estate, watching, listening, gathering what information I could from overheard conversations and observed behaviors.

The picture that emerged was concerning.

Security had indeed been increased—more men patrolling the grounds, additional checks at the gates, a general atmosphere of heightened vigilance.

The staff moved with a tension that hadn't been present before, their conversations muted, their expressions guarded.

Something was coming. Something everyone knew about except me.

By the time eight o'clock arrived, I was a bundle of nerves and determination.

I dressed carefully for dinner—a simple black dress that managed to be both elegant and understated, my hair loose around my shoulders the way Rafe preferred it, minimal makeup.

I wanted to look composed, in control, ready for whatever truths the evening might reveal.

Rafe's private dining room was located in the east wing of the estate, part of his personal suite of rooms that included his bedroom, office, and the library he'd shown me months ago.

It was smaller and more intimate than the formal dining room, with a table that seated only four, a fireplace that cast a warm glow over the space, and windows that looked out over the moonlit gardens.

He was waiting when I arrived, standing by the fireplace with a glass of wine in his hand.

He'd changed for dinner as well—dark slacks, a charcoal shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms, his dark hair slightly damp as if he'd recently showered.

He looked both relaxed and alert, a combination I'd come to recognize as his default state.

"You look beautiful," he said, setting down his glass and crossing to greet me. His hands settled on my waist, drawing me closer for a kiss that was gentle but thorough, as if he were reacquainting himself with me after a long absence rather than just a few hours.

I allowed the kiss, even returned it, but maintained a certain reserve. I hadn't forgotten the purpose of this dinner, the questions that needed answering, the truths that had been withheld.

"Wine?" he offered when we separated, gesturing to the bottle breathing on the sideboard.

"Please."

He poured me a glass, his movements precise and controlled as always. We took our seats at the table, where the first course was already waiting—some delicate arrangement of seafood and microgreens that looked more like art than food.

For a few minutes, we ate in silence, the only sounds the clink of silverware against china and the soft crackle of the fire.

It wasn't an uncomfortable silence—we'd grown accustomed to each other's presence in ways that still surprised me—but it was charged with the weight of unspoken words, of questions waiting to be asked and answered.

"Did my father ever try to negotiate for my return?" I asked finally, setting down my fork and looking directly at Rafe. "After that meeting I overheard. Did he ever reach out again?"

Rafe's expression didn't change, but I saw the slight tension in his shoulders, the momentary pause before he reached for his wine glass. "No," he said after taking a sip. "He did not."

The confirmation hurt, despite being expected. "Not once? In all this time?"

"Not once," Rafe confirmed, his voice gentler now. "I'm sorry, Grace."

I nodded, absorbing this. It wasn't new information, not really. I'd known my father had abandoned me, had chosen his business interests over his daughter's freedom. But hearing it confirmed, months later, still stung.

"And my brothers?" I pressed. "Connor left me that voicemail, but nothing since. Has he tried to find me?"

Rafe hesitated, and I knew the answer before he spoke.

"Not that we're aware of. Your brother Sean has been fully involved in your father's business dealings.

Michael manages the legitimate enterprises.

Connor..." He paused. "Connor has been kept close to your father.

Under supervision, from what our intelligence suggests. "

"Because he asked questions," I guessed, remembering the tension in Connor's voice in that lone voicemail. "Because he wasn't willing to accept the story about a study retreat."

"Most likely," Rafe agreed. "Your father doesn't tolerate dissent, even from his children. Especially from his children."

The truth of that statement settled heavily in my chest. My father had always demanded absolute loyalty, absolute obedience.

My decision to attend law school rather than join the family business had been met with cold disapproval.

My insistence on living independently, on distancing myself from the O'Sullivan name, had created a rift that had never fully healed.

And now, my disappearance had been met not with concern or effort, but with a convenient story and business as usual.

"Tell me about the warehouse in Charlestown," I said, changing tack. "The one that was attacked. The one that put three of your men in the hospital."

Rafe's expression tightened almost imperceptibly. "You've been listening to conversations not meant for your ears."

"I've been paying attention," I corrected. "Something you taught me to do."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips, there and gone in an instant. "The warehouse was a distribution center for certain imported goods. It was attacked three weeks ago by men working for your father. Three of my people were injured—not critically, but seriously enough to require hospitalization."

"And in retaliation, one of my father's warehouses mysteriously burned down," I guessed, remembering the newspaper article. "The one in Graven Hill."

Rafe didn't confirm or deny this, but his silence was answer enough.

"Why?" I asked, the question that had been burning in my mind all day. "Why now? What changed? You and my father reached some kind of agreement months ago. I heard it myself. Territory for peace. Graven Hill for forgetting about... certain grievances."

"Agreements can be broken," Rafe said simply. "Especially when one party sees an opportunity for advantage."

"My father broke the agreement," I clarified. "He attacked your warehouse. Why?"

Rafe was silent for a moment, considering his response.

"Your father received information that we were moving certain high-value items through Charlestown.

Items that would be... problematic if intercepted by law enforcement.

He saw an opportunity to damage our operations and potentially gain leverage for future negotiations. "

"What kind of items?" I pressed.

"The kind I don't discuss in detail," he replied, his tone making it clear this was one of those business operations he had no intention of fully disclosing. "Suffice it to say, they were valuable enough to risk breaking our agreement."

The second course arrived—some kind of pasta with a delicate sauce—providing a brief respite from the intensity of our conversation. We ate in silence for a few minutes, each processing what had been said and what remained unspoken.

"There's more happening than just a warehouse attack and a retaliatory fire," I said finally, setting down my fork. "The increased security here. The tension among your men. The way conversations stop when I enter a room. Something bigger is brewing."

Rafe studied me for a long moment, his dark eyes unreadable. "Yes," he admitted finally. "Something bigger is brewing. Your father's actions have escalated tensions between our families to a point where conflict seems... increasingly likely."

"War," I translated, the word falling between us like a stone. "You're preparing for war with the O'Sullivans."

He didn't deny it. "We're preparing for all contingencies."

"Including violence," I pressed. "Including bloodshed."

"If necessary," he confirmed, his voice steady. "Though it's not my preferred outcome."

"What is your preferred outcome?"

"A return to the agreement. Respected boundaries. Mutual understanding of consequences for violations." He took a sip of wine, his eyes never leaving mine. "Peace, but peace with strength. Not capitulation."

I absorbed this, trying to reconcile the man sitting across from me—the man who touched me with such tenderness, who had held me while I cried, who looked at me as if I were the most precious thing in his world—with the man who could discuss potential warfare with my family in such calm, measured tones.

"And where do I fit into all this?" I asked, the question that had been lurking beneath all the others. "Am I still leverage? A bargaining chip? A way to hurt my father if it comes to that?"

Pain flickered across his features—not physical, but emotional. "You know better than that," he said quietly. "You've always been more than leverage to me. From the beginning."

"But I could be used that way," I pressed. "If this conflict escalates. If it comes to war. I could be used against my family."

"You could be," he acknowledged, his honesty both painful and appreciated. "But I won't allow that to happen. You're not a pawn in this game, Grace. Not anymore. Not to me."