Page 45 of Made for Vengeance (Dark Dynasties #3)

"But to others?" I guessed. "To Dante? To your captains? To whoever makes decisions when things get ugly?"

He was silent for a moment, and I knew I'd hit on something significant. "There are those who see you primarily as Patrick O'Sullivan's daughter," he admitted. "As an asset to be utilized if necessary. Dante understands my... feelings for you, but his priority is the family's interests. Always."

"And if those interests conflict with your feelings for me?" I asked, my voice steadier than I felt. "What then, Rafe?"

His eyes met mine, dark and intense. "Then I would find a way to protect both. To protect you while serving the family's needs. It wouldn't be the first impossible balance I've had to strike."

There was something in his voice when he said this—a weight, a history, a pain that went beyond our current situation. It made me curious despite myself, despite the seriousness of our discussion.

"What do you mean?" I asked, my tone softening slightly.

He was quiet for a long moment, his expression distant, as if looking into a past I couldn't see. When he spoke, his voice was different—lower, rougher, stripped of its usual careful control.

"My mother died when I was twelve," he said, the apparent non sequitur catching me off guard. "She was beautiful. Kind. The only gentle thing in my father's life. In any of our lives."

I remained silent, sensing that whatever he was about to share was significant, was perhaps an answer to my question in ways I didn't yet understand.

"My father was not a kind man," Rafe continued, his eyes fixed on something beyond the room, beyond the present.

"He was powerful. Respected. Feared. But not kind.

Never kind. Except sometimes, with her. She could reach something in him that no one else could.

Could calm the violence that always simmered just beneath his surface. "

He took a sip of wine, his hand steady despite the tension I could see in his shoulders, in the set of his jaw.

"One night, he came home drunk. Angry about some business deal gone wrong.

Some disrespect from a rival family. She tried to calm him, as she always did.

But this time..." He paused, his expression hardening.

"This time, her gentleness enraged him. He saw it as weakness.

As a reflection of his own perceived weakness in the eyes of his enemies. "

My stomach tightened, sensing where this story was heading. "Rafe, you don't have to?—"

"He beat her," he continued, as if I hadn't spoken.

"In front of me. In front of Dante. Made us watch as he destroyed the one beautiful thing in our lives.

Made us understand that love was a luxury we couldn't afford.

That attachment was vulnerability. That in our world, there was only strength and weakness, and weakness got you killed. "

The pain in his voice, in his eyes, made my chest ache. I reached across the table, covering his hand with mine in a gesture of comfort I couldn't hold back despite the tension that still lingered between us.

"She died three days later," he said, his voice flat now, emotionless. "Internal bleeding. The doctors couldn't save her. Or wouldn't—my father had them in his pocket, like he had everyone in his pocket. They called it an accident. A fall down the stairs. No one questioned it. No one dared."

"I'm so sorry," I whispered, the words inadequate but sincere.

He turned his hand beneath mine, his fingers intertwining with my own in a grip that was almost painful in its intensity.

"The day after her funeral, my father took me to a warehouse by the docks.

There was a man there—bound, gagged, terrified.

One of our rivals' soldiers who'd been caught in our territory.

My father handed me a gun and told me to kill him. "

I couldn't hide my shock, my horror at the image of a twelve-year-old boy being handed a weapon, being ordered to take a life. "Rafe..."

"I refused," he continued, his eyes meeting mine now, present again rather than lost in memory. "I told him I couldn't do it. That my mother would have hated it. That it was wrong."

"What happened?" I asked, though part of me didn't want to know.

"He beat me," Rafe said simply. "Not like he'd beaten her—he needed me functional, needed me whole for what came next.

But enough to make his point. Enough to make me understand that in his world—in our world—there was no room for conscience.

For hesitation. For the kind of gentleness my mother had embodied. "

He was silent for a moment, his grip on my hand loosening slightly, though he didn't let go.

"When it was over, when I was on the floor bleeding, he handed me the gun again.

Told me I had a choice. Kill the man, or watch as Dante did it instead.

Watch as my brother took the step I was too weak to take. "

I could see it so clearly—the injured boy, the impossible choice, the weight of expectation and fear and grief. "What did you do?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.

"I took the gun," he said, his voice steady now, controlled again. "I stood up, despite the pain, despite the blood running down my face. And I shot the man. One bullet, right between the eyes. Clean. Quick. Merciful, in its way."

"And your father?"

"He was pleased. Proud, even. Said I'd taken my first step toward becoming a man worthy of the Conti name.

" Rafe's lips twisted in a bitter smile.

"What he didn't know, what I never told him, even on his death bed, was that in that moment, I made a promise to myself.

A promise to my mother's memory. That I would become powerful enough, strong enough, that no one could ever force me to do something against my will again.

That I would take what I wanted, protect what was mine, and never, ever allow myself to be as vulnerable as she had been. As I had been."

The story settled between us, heavy with implication, with understanding.

This was the crucible that had formed the man before me—the trauma, the loss, the impossible choice between conscience and survival.

This was the root of his need for control, his obsession with power, his determination to possess what he desired.

Including me.

"So you see," he said, his voice gentler now, "I understand impossible choices, Grace.

I understand having to balance competing loyalties, competing needs.

If it comes to a conflict between protecting you and serving my family's interests, I will find a way to do both.

Because I've spent my entire life finding ways to honor contradictory imperatives.

To be both the man my father wanted and the man my mother would have recognized. "

I was silent for a long moment, processing everything he'd shared, everything it revealed about him, about us, about the situation we found ourselves in.

"Thank you," I said finally. "For telling me. For trusting me with that."

He nodded, his expression softening into something that wasn't quite a smile but held a warmth that made my heart ache.

"You asked where you fit into all this. The truth is, you don't fit.

You exist outside of it, beyond it. You're the one thing in my life that isn't about power or control or family obligation.

You're the one choice I've made purely for myself, consequences be damned. "

The words hit me with unexpected force, resonating in places I hadn't known were hollow until his words filled them. This wasn't just obsession. This wasn't just possession. This was something deeper, more complex, more human than I'd allowed myself to believe.

"If Dante decides I'm a weakness that can't be afforded in a time of war?" I asked, the question that had been lurking beneath all the others.

"Then he will have to go through me," Rafe said simply, his voice carrying an absolute certainty that should have frightened me but instead sent a shiver of something else entirely down my spine. "And I am not easily overcome."

The main course arrived—perfectly cooked beef, roasted vegetables, a red wine reduction that smelled divine. We ate in a silence that was more comfortable than before, the air between us cleared somewhat by Rafe's unexpected vulnerability, by the truths he'd shared.

But as the meal progressed, as we moved to dessert and coffee, a nagging sense of incompletion lingered.

For all that Rafe had revealed—about his past, about the current tensions with my family, about his determination to protect me—I couldn't shake the feeling that something was still being withheld.

Something significant. Something that might change everything if I knew it.

"There's still something you're not telling me," I said as we finished our coffee, the observation slipping out before I could reconsider.

Rafe's expression didn't change, but I saw the slight tension return to his shoulders, the careful neutrality that settled over his features. "What makes you say that?"

"Instinct," I replied honestly. "The sense that for all your openness tonight, there's still a piece missing. Still something you're protecting me from. Or protecting yourself from having to explain."

He was silent for a long moment, considering his response. "There are always things left unsaid, Grace. Details of business operations that are better kept private. Contingencies that may never come to pass and thus don't need to be discussed. Possibilities that?—"

"Stop," I interrupted, frustration flaring. "Stop talking around whatever it is. Just tell me. Is there something significant about my situation, about what's happening between the Contis and the O'Sullivans, that you haven't shared with me? Yes or no."

His eyes met mine, dark and unreadable. "Yes," he admitted finally. "There is."

"Will you tell me what it is?"

"Not tonight," he said, his tone gentle but firm. "Not until I'm certain of all the facts. Not until I know how it affects you, affects us."

"That's not your decision to make," I argued, echoing my words from earlier. "I have a right to know anything that concerns me directly."

"You do," he agreed, surprising me. "And you will know. When I'm ready to tell you. When I'm certain of what I know."

It wasn't the answer I wanted, but it was probably the best I was going to get tonight. Rafe had already shared more than I'd expected—about his past, about the current situation, about his feelings for me. Pushing for more might close the door he'd opened rather than widening it further.

"Soon," I said, not quite a question, not quite a demand.

"Soon," he promised, reaching across the table to take my hand again. "Trust me, Grace. Just a little longer."

Trust. Such a complicated request from a man who had taken me against my will, who still kept secrets despite promises of honesty, who discussed potential warfare with my family over dinner.

And yet, despite everything, I found that I did trust him—not completely, not blindly, but in ways that would have seemed impossible months ago.

"Alright," I conceded. "Soon."

Relief flickered across his features, quickly masked. "Thank you."

We left the dining room hand in hand, the tension of earlier replaced by a different kind of energy—a quieter, deeper connection born of shared vulnerabilities, of truths revealed if not complete honesty.

When we reached his bedroom—for it was his room we went to now, more often than not—he kissed me with a gentleness that belied the strength I knew he possessed. His hands cradled my face as if I were something precious, something that might break if handled too roughly.

"I want you to know," he murmured against my lips, "that whatever happens, whatever you learn, my feelings for you won't change. Can't change. You're the one fixed point in my life, Grace. The one certainty in a world of shifting allegiances and calculated risks."

The words should have comforted me. Instead, they sent a chill down my spine—a premonition, perhaps, that whatever he wasn't telling me was significant enough to make him fear my reaction, my potential rejection.

But I pushed the thought away, losing myself in the way his hands roamed my body—familiar and greedy, reverent and rough. Like he was relearning territory he’d claimed long ago but still couldn't believe he owned.

He undressed me slowly, not like he was unwrapping something delicate, but like he was unmaking something sacred. Every clasp undone felt like a vow. Every kiss to bare skin, a brand. There was no rush. No game. Just intent. Worship twisted in restraint.

I took my time with him, too. Ran my fingers down the scars etched into him, reminders of who he’d been before me. Before this . Every mark was a history I hadn’t lived—but somehow, still felt like mine to memorize.

When he finally sank into me, it wasn’t rough. It wasn’t fast. It was something else entirely. Like he was carving a place for himself inside me and didn’t want to be gentle about it.

Then—quiet. Close to my ear. Almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud:

“I love you.”

No question. No plea. Just the confession of a man who'd resisted it until it ripped out of him anyway.

“God help me, I love you.”

I didn’t say it back. Couldn’t. Not yet.

But I wrapped my legs tighter around him, pulled him deeper, held him like I could fuse us together and make the ache stop. I moved with him like it meant something more—because it did.

And if I couldn't give him the words, I could give him this.