Page 60 of Made for Vengeance (Dark Dynasties #3)
RAFE
T he O'Sullivan estate loomed before me, a sprawling colonial mansion set back from the road behind wrought iron gates and a stone wall that had probably stood for a century.
Security cameras tracked my approach, their mechanical eyes swiveling to follow the sleek black Bentley as it rolled up the long driveway.
I'd come alone. No backup. No hidden team waiting to storm the place. Just me, a single gun holstered beneath my jacket, and a plan that relied more on psychological warfare than physical force.
Patrick wouldn't expect that. Wouldn't believe that Rafe Conti—the calculated enforcer, the cold strategist, the man who always moved with precision and overwhelming advantage—would walk into enemy territory without an army at his back.
That was the point.
The car stopped at the security checkpoint thirty yards from the main house.
Two guards approached—professional, alert, hands resting near their weapons without drawing them.
They recognized me immediately. I saw it in the widening of their eyes, the sudden tension in their postures, the quick glance they exchanged.
I rolled down the window, my expression neutral, my hands visible on the steering wheel.
"I'm here to see Patrick O'Sullivan," I said, my voice steady and controlled. "He's expecting me."
A lie, but delivered with such confidence that it created momentary uncertainty. The guards hesitated, caught between protocol and the audacity of my arrival.
"Wait here," the senior guard finally said, stepping back to speak into his radio, his voice too low for me to catch the words.
I waited, outwardly calm despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins, the hyperawareness of every detail around me—the positions of the guards, the locations of the cameras, the distance to the house, the potential obstacles between me and Grace.
Grace. The thought of her name centered me, focused me, reminded me why I was here. Why I was taking this risk. Why nothing—not protocol, not security, not Patrick O'Sullivan's entire organization—would stop me from reaching her today.
After a tense minute, the guard returned, his expression carefully blank. "Drive to the main entrance. You'll be escorted inside."
Interesting. I'd expected more resistance, more questions, more time while they consulted with Patrick. The ease of my entry suggested either overconfidence or a trap—possibly both.
I nodded and put the car in drive, proceeding slowly up the remainder of the driveway to the circular courtyard before the main entrance.
More guards waited there—four of them, positioned strategically, weapons visible but not drawn.
A show of force without immediate threat.
A message: you're outnumbered, outgunned, on our territory.
I stepped from the car, buttoning my suit jacket with deliberate calm, my movements unhurried despite the tension crackling in the air.
I'd dressed with care for this confrontation—charcoal suit, crisp white shirt, no tie.
Professional but not formal. The attire of a man conducting business rather than attending a funeral.
Though by the end of the day, it might serve for both purposes.
"This way, Mr. Conti," one of the guards said, gesturing toward the massive front doors. "Mr. O'Sullivan is in his study."
I followed without comment, noting details as we moved through the house—the layout, the number of staff visible, the security measures, the potential exits.
The interior was exactly what I'd expected from Patrick O'Sullivan—traditional, expensive, designed to impress rather than comfort.
Old money aesthetics covering new money reality.
The trappings of legitimacy over a foundation of violence and control.
We reached a set of double doors at the end of a long hallway. My escort knocked once, then opened the door without waiting for a response, announcing my arrival with a deference that spoke volumes about the hierarchy within the O'Sullivan organization.
"Mr. Conti, sir."
The study was large, wood-paneled, dominated by a massive desk behind which Patrick O'Sullivan sat like a king holding court.
He wasn't alone. Sean and Michael, his oldest sons, stood to his right—Sean tense and hostile, Michael more controlled but equally wary.
A few other men I recognized as high-ranking members of the O'Sullivan organization were positioned around the room, creating an impression of casual gathering that didn't quite hide the strategic placement of armed men surrounding a potential threat.
Connor, the youngest son, was notably absent.
Patrick himself looked exactly as I remembered from our few previous encounters—silver-haired, impeccably dressed, his posture perfect, his expression a careful mask of paternal authority and business acumen. The respectable face of an organization built on blood and fear.
"Rafe Conti," he said, not rising from his chair, the deliberate discourtesy intended to establish dominance from the outset. "This is... unexpected. Especially without the courtesy of an appointment."
I remained standing just inside the doorway, hands relaxed at my sides, posture open but alert. "Some matters can't wait for the formalities of scheduled meetings, Patrick."
"And what matter is so urgent that it brings you to my home, alone and uninvited?" His tone was conversational, almost amused, but his eyes were cold, calculating, assessing the threat I represented and finding it—apparently—minimal.
"You know why I'm here," I replied, my voice steady despite the rage simmering beneath the surface, the need to locate Grace, to confirm her safety, to see her with my own eyes before proceeding with what came next.
Patrick leaned back in his chair, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Ah, yes. My daughter. Your... what would you call her? Prisoner? Guest? Obsession?"
The taunt was designed to provoke, to make me react emotionally rather than strategically. I didn't take the bait.
"Where is she?" I asked simply.
"Safe," Patrick replied, the smile widening slightly. "Well cared for. Preparing for her future—a future that doesn't include you or your family, I'm afraid."
"The marriage to Alejandro Vega," I said, watching his expression closely, noting the momentary surprise that I knew this detail. "A business arrangement disguised as a family alliance. A transaction between men who see women as commodities rather than people."
Patrick's smile faded, his eyes hardening. "You're in no position to judge how I handle family matters, Conti. Not after you took my daughter against her will, kept her prisoner for months, used her as leverage in your games of power and control."
"I never hit her," I said quietly, the words landing in the room like stones dropping into still water. "I never called her names, never treated her as less than precious, never forgot that she was a person with her own mind, her own heart, her own right to choose her path."
Something flickered in Patrick's eyes—anger, perhaps, or surprise at the direction of my attack. He hadn't expected this approach, this appeal to moral high ground from a man whose reputation was built on cold calculation and controlled violence.
"Bring her in," he said suddenly, the command directed at one of the men standing near a side door. "Let's hear what she has to say about her treatment at your hands, shall we?"
The man nodded and left through the side door, returning moments later with Grace.
The sight of her hit me like a physical blow.
She was thinner than when I'd last seen her, her face pale, her eyes shadowed with exhaustion or fear or both.
She wore a simple dress in deep green—elegant, expensive, but somehow wrong on her, as if she'd been dressed by someone else's vision of who she should be rather than her own choices.
But it was the bruise on her cheek that caught my attention, held it, made my blood run cold with a rage so intense it momentarily blurred my vision. A mark in the shape of a hand—recent, still darkening, the unmistakable evidence of violence against the woman I loved.
Our eyes met across the room, and something passed between us—recognition, connection, a silent communication that transcended words. I saw fear in her eyes, yes, but also relief, hope, a spark of the fierce intelligence and determination that had drawn me to her from the beginning.
"Grace," Patrick said, his voice taking on a false warmth that didn't reach his eyes. "Look who's come to visit. Your captor. Your kidnapper. The man who took you from your home, your family, your future."
Grace said nothing, her expression carefully blank, her eyes never leaving mine despite her father's words.
"Nothing to say?" Patrick pressed, his tone hardening. "No greeting for the man who kept you prisoner for months? Who used you as a pawn in his games against your family? Who turned you into his whore?"
The slur hung in the air, ugly and deliberate, designed to provoke a reaction from both of us. I remained still, my expression unchanged despite the fury building inside me, the need to respond to this insult with immediate, decisive violence.
Grace's reaction was different—a flinch, barely perceptible but unmistakable to someone who knew her as well as I did. Not at the word itself, but at the source—her own father, speaking of her with such casual cruelty, such deliberate degradation.
"I asked you a question," Patrick snapped, rising from his chair, moving around the desk to stand before Grace. "Have you nothing to say to the man who ruined you? Who took you from your family? Who made you forget your place, your duty, your obligations to the O'Sullivan name?"
Grace lifted her chin slightly, a small act of defiance that sent a surge of pride through me despite the danger of the situation, the precariousness of our position surrounded by armed men loyal to Patrick.