Page 9 of Made for Vengeance (Dark Dynasties #3)

GRACE

I couldn't focus on my Constitutional Law reading. The words blurred together on the page, meaningless black marks that refused to form coherent thoughts. I'd been staring at the same paragraph for twenty minutes, reading and re-reading without comprehension.

All because I couldn't stop thinking about him.

Rafe Conti.

The name echoed in my mind, bringing with it a flood of conflicting emotions—wariness, curiosity, a strange, unsettling attraction that made no sense.

He was dangerous. I knew that instinctively, even before I'd learned his name.

There was something in his eyes, in the way he moved, in the careful precision of his words that screamed predator.

And yet...

I closed my textbook with a sigh, pushing it away from me. The library was quiet, just the occasional rustle of pages and soft tapping of keyboards breaking the silence. Normally, I found it soothing—this temple of knowledge, this sanctuary of order and reason. Today, it felt stifling.

Two encounters. That's all it had been. Two brief, strange meetings that should have meant nothing. So why couldn't I stop replaying them in my mind? Why did I keep seeing his face, hearing his voice, feeling the weight of his gaze on my skin?

Someone who sees you.

The words had lodged in my chest like a splinter, painful and impossible to ignore. Because wasn't that what I'd always wanted? To be seen for myself, not as an O'Sullivan, not as Patrick's daughter, not as a potential asset to the family business. Just as Grace.

But Rafe Conti hadn't seen me. He'd stalked me. He'd known my name before I gave it. He'd appeared at the coffee shop I frequented, claiming coincidence when it was clearly calculation.

Conti. The name was familiar, of course.

The Contis were to New York what the O'Sullivans were to Boston—a family with old money, older secrets, and a reputation that existed in whispers rather than headlines.

I'd heard my father mention them occasionally, always with a mixture of respect and wariness.

Competitors. Potential threats. Definitely not people I should be thinking about with anything approaching interest.

I gathered my books, suddenly needing to be anywhere but the library. The walls felt too close, the silence too oppressive. I needed air, space, noise—anything to drown out the thoughts circling in my head.

Outside, the October afternoon was crisp and clear, the campus awash in the golden light of late autumn. Students milled about, laughing, talking, living their normal lives with normal concerns. I envied them their simplicity.

I walked without direction, letting my feet carry me where they would. Eventually, I found myself at the small park near my apartment—a quiet green space with benches and trees and a small pond where ducks gathered in warmer weather.

I sat on a bench, tilting my face up to catch the weak sunlight. The park was nearly empty at this hour, just an elderly man walking his dog and a young mother pushing a stroller along the path.

Normal people. Safe people.

I closed my eyes, trying to clear my mind, to focus on the present moment—the cool air on my skin, the distant sound of traffic, the rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze.

Instead, I saw dark eyes watching me with an intensity that made my breath catch. Heard a voice that seemed to reach inside me and touch places no one had ever reached.

Someone who sees you.

"Stop it," I muttered to myself, opening my eyes and straightening my spine. "Get a grip, Grace."

This was ridiculous. I was a law student, for God's sake. Rational, logical, trained to analyze and evaluate. Not some romantic heroine swooning over a mysterious stranger.

A dangerous stranger. A Conti.

I pulled out my phone, hesitating for a moment before opening the browser. I shouldn't. It was a bad idea. But I needed to know what I was dealing with.

I typed "Rafe Conti" into the search bar.

The results were surprisingly sparse. A few mentions in business publications about the Conti Group's real estate holdings. A photo from a charity gala three years ago, Rafe standing in the background while an older man—Dante Conti, according to the caption—shook hands with the mayor of New York.

Nothing personal. Nothing revealing. Nothing to explain the intensity I'd felt in his presence, the sense that he was something other than what he appeared to be.

I switched tactics, searching for "Conti family Boston" instead.

This yielded more results—articles about the Conti Group's expansion into Boston real estate, speculation about their business interests, a few pieces mentioning tensions with "established local families."

My family.

I clicked on one of the articles, skimming through the carefully worded prose that danced around the truth everyone knew but no one said aloud: that beneath the veneer of legitimate business, both the Contis and the O'Sullivans operated in shadows, in blood, in power that had nothing to do with boardrooms and everything to do with fear.

The article mentioned Dante Conti as the head of the family, with his brothers serving as key lieutenants. Rafe was described as "the enforcer"—a vague term that could mean anything from legal counsel to something far more sinister.

Given the way he moved, the controlled power in his posture, the watchfulness in his eyes—I suspected it was the latter.

I closed the browser, suddenly feeling exposed despite the emptiness of the park. What was I doing? Researching a man who had essentially stalked me? A man connected to a family that was, if not an enemy of my family, certainly not an ally?

I should be calling my brothers. Warning my father. Taking precautions.

Instead, I was sitting in a park, heart racing at the memory of dark eyes and a voice that seemed to see through all my carefully constructed defenses.

"This is insane," I whispered, shoving my phone back into my bag.

I stood, ready to head home, when a prickling sensation at the back of my neck made me freeze. That feeling again—of being watched, observed, hunted.

Slowly, I turned, scanning the park, the street beyond, the buildings lining the perimeter.

Nothing. No one.

Just my imagination. Just paranoia born of too little sleep and too much stress.

I hurried toward my apartment, keeping to well-lit paths, checking over my shoulder more often than I'd like to admit. By the time I reached my building, my heart was racing, though whether from exertion or anxiety, I couldn't say.

Inside, I locked the door behind me, then checked the windows, drawing the curtains against the gathering dusk. The apartment felt different somehow—still mine, still safe, but with an awareness of its vulnerability that hadn't been there before.

I moved to the piano, my sanctuary, my constant. The keys were cool beneath my fingers as I began to play—Chopin's Nocturne in C Minor, the melancholy notes filling the space, pushing back against the silence, against the thoughts I couldn't seem to escape.

As the music flowed through me, I gradually relaxed, the tension easing from my shoulders, my breathing slowing to match the rhythm of the piece. This was real. This was mine. This was something no one could take from me.

When the final notes faded into silence, I felt more centered, more myself. Whatever strange spell Rafe Conti had cast, I wouldn't let it consume me. I was Grace O'Sullivan—stubborn, independent, and far too smart to be drawn into whatever game he was playing.

I would be more careful. More aware. I would vary my routine, take different routes to class, maybe even ask Connor to have someone check on me occasionally.

I would be rational. Cautious. Controlled.

But as I prepared for bed that night, as I moved through my apartment turning off lights and checking locks, a small, treacherous part of me wondered if I would see him again.

If he would appear in my life as suddenly as before, bringing with him that strange, electric awareness that made everything else seem dull by comparison.

And God help me, I wasn't sure if the flutter in my stomach at the thought was fear or anticipation.

Perhaps it was both.

I crawled into bed, pulling the covers up to my chin like a child seeking protection from monsters in the dark. Sleep seemed impossible, my mind still racing with questions, with memories, with the echo of his voice.

Someone who sees you.

Eventually, exhaustion won out, and I drifted into uneasy dreams—of dark eyes watching me from shadows, of hands reaching for me, of a voice that promised both danger and salvation.

I didn't hear the soft click of my balcony door being unlocked, didn't sense the presence that moved silently through my darkened apartment, didn't feel the weight of a gaze that watched me sleep with possessive intensity.

I didn't know that while I dreamed of him, he was already there—a shadow among shadows, patient, calculating, certain.

Waiting for the perfect moment to make me his.