Page 5
Chapter Four
Rafaele
I glance at the clock again, my irritation growing. Time is slipping away, and I have more pressing matters to attend to than a social gathering masquerading as an engagement party. Dressed in my tuxedo, I should be ready to step into the charade, but my mind is on the weapons shipment that vanished three days ago—a boat completely gone without a trace. Financially, it's not an issue. We can absorb the loss without so much as a dent in our operations, but the principle of the matter is different. No one targets the Lucchese family and walks away unscathed.
Two men were caught today at the strip club on Fifth—rats trying to nibble at the edges of our empire. Just being in that grimy basement for two hours was enough to make me question the will to live. The dancers were tired, the air was thick with the stench of desperation, and the dim lighting only added to the suffocating atmosphere.
Those men are downstairs now with Paolo. I gave him the time it took me to get ready for this damn party to get them to talk. Paolo has a knack for this sort of thing; he knows how to loosen tongues without much bloodshed. But if it comes to that, well, I’m not opposed to getting my hands dirty.
Truth be told, I don’t have to go to this engagement party. No one would bat an eye if Il Mietitore, The Reaper himself, decided to skip out on the festivities. People would understand—or at least pretend to. But something about leaving Nora to face the vultures alone doesn’t sit right with me. She’s walking into a world that’s as much about appearances as it is about power, and those people will eat her alive if they sense any weakness.
It’s strange, this feeling of obligation. I’ve never cared much for social niceties or the opinions of others. But Nora… there’s something about her that pulls at a part of me I didn’t know existed. Or maybe I just hate the idea of anyone thinking they can get the better of me—whether it’s some lowlife stealing my shipments or a room full of people sizing up my fiancée.
I roll my shoulders, loosening the tension that’s settled there, and make my decision. I’ll go to the party, make my appearance, and ensure Nora isn’t thrown to the wolves. After all, what’s one more night in the world of the living dead? At least this time, the mask of civility might make things interesting.
I descend into the basement, my footsteps echoing off the cold concrete walls. The air down here is heavy with the scent of sweat and fear, and as I approach, Paolo looks up from the two men slumped in their chairs. They’re bloody, bruised, and still silent—too silent for my liking.
Paolo shakes his head slightly, his expression grim. “They’re not talking, boss. Stubborn bastards.”
I let out a slow, exasperated breath, feeling the annoyance clawing its way up my spine. The engagement party is waiting, but these two are testing my patience. I slide out of my jacket, draping it carefully over a nearby chair. My movements are deliberate, unhurried, even as my temper simmers just beneath the surface.
“Okay, fine,” I say, my tone calm but laced with cold resolve. “I guess I’ll have to make it quick.”
I reach for the butcher’s apron hanging on the wall, the heavy material cool against my skin as I tie it around my waist. The simple act of donning it settles something inside me, a familiar ritual that brings a certain clarity to my mind.
“Paolo, get me the razor blades.”
He nods, moving swiftly to gather the tools. The men in front of me start to stir, their eyes widening as the reality of the situation begins to sink in. They start to mumble, to plead, their voices weak and hoarse, but I’ve heard it all before.
“Please, we don’t know anything! We were just following orders!”
I ignore them, rolling up my sleeves with meticulous care, exposing the corded muscles of my forearms. The first razor blade gleams in the dim light as Paolo places it in my hand.
“You were following orders, huh?” I muse, inspecting the blade. “That’s a nice excuse. But you see, I’m not interested in excuses. I’m interested in results.”
I step closer to the first man, his breathing quickening as I tower over him. Without another word, I press his hand against the arm of the chair and slide the razor blade under his thumbnail. Maximum pain with minimum blood loss.
His scream pierces the air, a raw, guttural sound, but I remain unmoved, watching as a few droplets of blood well up and drip onto the cold, tiled floor.
“I know nothing,” he gasps out between broken sobs, his eyes wild with fear.
“Okay then,” I mutter, my voice devoid of emotion. I move around to the other side, grabbing another razor blade from the tray. With methodical precision, I slide it under his other thumbnail. This time, he doesn’t even manage a full scream—he stops mid-wail, eyes rolling back as he passes out from the sheer agony.
“Boss, you’re running late,” Paolo reminds me, his voice steady but with an underlying urgency.
“I know,” I groan, frustrated by the delay. “But I need answers now. I will not jeopardize something important for this stupid party.”
For a brief moment, I feel a slight twinge of something—guilt, maybe, or some other emotion I can’t quite place. But I smother it quickly, focusing on the task at hand. Nora must know she’ll never make the list of priorities, and that’s something she’ll have to accept.
I turn my attention to the other man, noting the darkened stain spreading across his jeans. The fear radiating off him is almost palpable. He’s seen enough to know what’s coming, and I can’t blame him for losing control. Many men did the same when faced with this version of me.
“You know what hurts more than razor blades under the nails?” I ask, my voice calm, almost conversational. “A knitting needle in the corner of the eye. It goes straight to the nervous system.” I smile—an icy, calculated expression that does nothing to ease his fear. “Let me show you.”
I grab a needle from the tray, its thin, sharp point gleaming under the dim light. As I bring it closer to his eye, just barely brushing the corner, he cracks.
“Bonanno! It’s them!” he sputters, his words tumbling out in a frantic rush.
I straighten, still holding the needle, my mind processing the information. “Francisco Bonanno?” I ask, more out of habit than actual belief. The Bonannos have never been friends with the Lucchese, but we’ve managed to maintain a delicate truce. Besides, Francisco’s recent loss—his wife’s death and the burden of raising his twins—makes it hard to believe he’d be behind this.
“No, not Francisco,” the man gasps, his voice shaking. “One of his men. I-I don’t know his name, but he works with some of yours. We-we know all the shipment details until next March.”
I lower the needle, considering his words. If this is true, someone close to us has been feeding information to the Bonannos. This is bigger than just a lost shipment—it’s a breach, a betrayal from within.
This changes everything.
I turn to Paolo. “Get him to tell you what they have planned for tonight,” I say, my voice cool and controlled. “Get the names of everyone who’s had access to the shipment schedules. I want a full list by the end of the night.”
Paolo nods, already pulling out his phone to relay the orders.
I glance at the men before me, their fear-stained faces a reminder of what’s at stake. “And make sure these two stay alive until I decide what to do with them.”
With that, I hand the needle back to Paolo and grab my jacket. It’s time to switch gears and play the role of the dutiful fiancé.
But as I head to the engagement party, the weight of this new information hovers. The Bonannos’ involvement complicates things, and as much as I want to dismiss the party as trivial, I can’t miss it because Francisco Bonanno should actually be here, or at least his second-in-command, and I can use the opportunity to get a feel.
As I step out of the basement, I steel myself for the evening ahead. The game just got more interesting.
When I arrive, the party is already in full swing, and I curse the entire event under my breath as I adjust my tuxedo jacket and step into the main room. At first, no one notices me, but as the chatter dies down subtly and the crowd parts, I see where the focus is—where Nora is.
I find her standing with my brother, looking like she’s about to bolt, and her mother right beside her, a glass of champagne in hand, beaming at Leo as if he’s some sort of messiah.
Nora is dressed in an austere maroon dress—perfectly suitable for the bride-to-be of the Lucchese sottocapo. But contrary to what I would have expected, I find myself missing the vibrant girl full of color she was the day we went to buy the engagement ring. Now, she looks sad, lost in the room, and I’m struck by a strong compulsion to protect her.
“Sorry I’m late,” I say, stepping closer, my tuxedo-clad arm brushing against hers.
Her mother sighs dramatically. “Well, I was just telling Nora she needs to get used to this. This will be her life from now on.”
I throw her a cold look. “I wasn’t apologizing to you. Your opinion holds no value. I was apologizing to my fiancée. Nora?” I wait for her to meet my gaze. “I am sorry for being late.”
I have no reason to apologize. I shouldn’t, but seeing her like this, I can’t stop myself.
Her eyes widen with surprise, and as my brother chokes on his drink. I know he’s just as shocked.
“It’s okay. It’s not important,” she murmurs.
“Still,” I continue, “it was something that only I could handle. If not, I would have been here on time.”
“Ah, you must have been out torturing people then.” Leo smirks, trying to lighten the mood.
“Yes, I was,” I say, deadpan, meeting his gaze without flinching. “I was obtaining answers you could never get.”
Nora’s eyes flicker with something unreadable, and for a moment, I feel the urge to say more—something to comfort her, perhaps. But before I can act on it, I notice Francisco Bonnano entering the room. His presence is an unwelcome distraction, but I know it’s something I can’t ignore.
“I have to take care of something,” I say, more to Nora than anyone else. The reluctance in my voice surprises me. I’m not accustomed to feeling torn between duty and anything—or anyone—else.
She nods, offering me a small, understanding smile that makes something twist uncomfortably in my chest. “Of course,” she replies, her voice soft, almost resigned.
I give her a slight nod, then turn on my heels and make my way toward Francisco. As I approach him, I take in his demeanor—calm, confident. It doesn’t add up with someone who might be plotting to destroy my family’s business.
“Bonanno,” I greet him curtly, my eyes narrowing slightly as I study his expression.
“Lucchese,” he replies, offering a handshake that I accept, though I don’t miss the way his eyes briefly scan the room, almost as if he’s looking for an escape route.
I can’t blame him for that. I would do the same.
“I’m surprised to see you here. I expected your sottocapo to show, but not you. With the kids and all.”
He throws me a guarded look. “I have a nanny for the kids, and frankly, I wanted to see who you picked as your bride.” He turns to look at Nora, and I’m not a fan of the way his gaze lingers on her.
I step into his field of vision, blocking his view, and he smiles. “Defensive?”
I cock my head to the side. “Are we going to play this game?”
He sobers up and meets my eyes—this is how we engage in battle in our world. You threaten my future wife—I’ll threaten your children.
He smiles again. “Interesting.”
“What is?”
“It seems that the most feared killer in the famiglia can feel something after all.”
I ignore the part about feelings because, truthfully, I don’t know anymore. “Yes, remember that ‘most feared killer’ before you decide to start a war.”
He scoffs. “Is this why you invited me? To threaten me?” He shakes his head. “I will not start a war against you, Lucchese. I’ve got too much on my plate, but know that if you start one, I won’t be shy in answering.”
I scrutinize Francisco’s expression, searching for any sign of deceit, but all I find is a man who, like me, is navigating the dangerous waters of our world with caution. Despite Francisco’s words, there’s a tension between us that’s impossible to ignore—an unspoken understanding that, while we may not be enemies today, the wrong move could change everything.
“I didn’t invite you; my father did,” I reply evenly, though my voice carries a warning. “But I needed to be sure of where you stand.”
Francisco nods, his face unwavering. “And now you know. I have no interest in conflict with the Lucchese. But don’t mistake my restraint for weakness.”
I give a small, almost imperceptible nod, acknowledging his stance. “Nor should you mistake mine. We have an understanding, then.”
“For now,” he agrees, his tone measured. “But we both know how quickly things can change.”
I watch as he takes a step back, his eyes glancing once more toward Nora, who is now engaged in a conversation with one of my aunts. There’s something in his gaze that makes my blood simmer with a possessiveness I’m not accustomed to.
My father’s voice booms across the room, cutting through the tension as he clinks a spoon against his glass. “Rafaele! Nora! Over here, please.”
Instead of heading straight to my father, I make a beeline for Nora, not wanting her to cross the room on her own. Without even thinking, I grab her hand, and the feeling of her small, soft hand in mine is both unfamiliar and unsettling, but it feels nice nonetheless.
Her cheeks are slightly pink, and I’m honest enough to admit that I enjoy this reaction from her. I enjoy that she’s not repulsed by my touch—maybe, dare I say, she likes it?
I squeeze her hand as we reach my father and hers, and she squeezes it right back.
“Don’t they just look perfect for each other?” My father beams. And if I didn’t know better, I might almost believe him.
Except that I do know better. I remember how annoyed he was in those first couple of weeks after Nora chose me. He had high hopes for our bloodlines—that any grandchildren would carry the blood of the daughter of one of the original famiglia. He was hoping to find me a wife straight from Sicily.
I also have a mirror, and Nora and I? No, we don't fit by any criteria. I’m too old, too tall, too jaded, too cruel, and emotionless. I’m hard and cold, and this reflects in every sharp angle of my face. Nora is all curves, softness, gentleness, and passion. I saw glimpses of that fire when we had dinner. She is life and light, and I’m death and darkness, so no—we do not fit.
But here we are, standing together, hand in hand, in front of everyone. And despite the circumstances, despite my father’s earlier frustrations, there’s a strange sense of rightness in the way Nora fits beside me.
My father beams at us, and I do my best not to roll my eyes. As I scan the crowd, I meet my brother’s glare and catch her mother’s disapproving look. She seems like she’s attending her daughter’s funeral instead of an engagement party.
Nora’s hand starts to sweat in mine, pulling my attention back to her. I glance down, noticing how she’s staring straight ahead, unfocused, clearly uncomfortable with all the attention. I pull her a little closer, and when she looks up at me, her eyes are shining with what looks like tears. That strange protectiveness I’ve been feeling stirs again. I need to find a way to smother this—it has no place in my life. But for tonight, I give in.
I lean in close, keeping my voice low. "Il coraggio, uno, se non ce l'ha, mica se lo può dare," I whisper, the words slipping out before I can second-guess them.
She startles slightly, her eyes meeting mine, surprise simmering in their depths. Then she gives me a small, almost imperceptible smile.
"Courage, if one doesn’t have it, cannot be given. Alessandro Manzoni, how fitting," she finishes, her voice soft yet steady. There’s a quiet strength in her, one that I’m sure most people miss, but I see it—and it’s far more appealing than anything else.
My father clears his throat, drawing the room’s attention back to him. "Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for being here to celebrate this special engagement. I couldn’t be more pleased with the addition of Nora Falcone to our family. After much discussion, Maurizio and I have agreed on a date. The wedding will take place exactly four weeks from today, on October fourth."
The announcement sends a ripple of murmurs through the crowd, but I’m not focused on them. Instead, I look down at Nora, who’s trying to process the whirlwind of events. Four weeks. Just four weeks, and everything will change.
The room erupts into applause, and people begin to approach us, offering their congratulations. I nod, acknowledging them without really seeing who’s who. My focus is divided, distracted by the vibration in my pocket. I pull out my phone discreetly and see a message from Paolo—he has all the details, and the team is ready to strike. But I want to be there too; I need to be there.
I glance down at Nora again, feeling a tug of something unfamiliar, something conflicting. This is too important to stay, but leaving her here alone doesn’t sit well with me.
“Nora,” I lean in slightly, “I need to take care of something.” Her shoulders tense almost imperceptibly, and she pulls away just enough to create distance.
“It’s fine,” she replies, but her voice lacks conviction, her eyes fixed on a spot somewhere over my shoulder. “It’s not like I thought you cared. Truly. Do whatever you have to.”
Her dismissal grates on me in a way I didn’t expect. There’s a challenge in her tone, a quiet resignation that feels like a slap. For a moment, I hesitate, torn between my obligation and this strange, uncomfortable pull toward her.
But this mission is too important, and I can’t let sentimentality cloud my judgment. This should be simple. It’s always been simple. Duty comes first—always. But now, standing here, searching her eyes, I feel a heaviness I can’t quite shake. What is it about her that’s making me hesitate? I’ve never felt this—this pull to someone before. The logic of duty is clear, but for the first time, it’s not the only thing I’m thinking about. With a final nod, I turn and leave, the weight of her words settling uncomfortably in my chest as I head out to do what I must.
Just as I’m about to exit the house, I hear sniggering behind me. I turn to see my brother drunkenly staggering toward me.
“Go back to the party, Leo.” I sigh, already feeling the exhaustion creeping in.
“Are you even feeling a little bit bad for stealing the club from me?” His words are slurred, but the bitterness in them is clear.
Here we go again. I can’t help but roll my eyes. “No.”
“But you know what makes me feel better?” he continues, his grin widening as he sways slightly.
I glance at my watch, impatient. “No, what?” I reply, not bothering to hide my disinterest.
“There’s no way she chose you because she likes you better. You know that, right? There’s something else going on, and I can’t wait for it to be exposed.” He grins again, a drunken sneer that only deepens my irritation.
“Are you done?” I ask, my voice flat and impassive.
“Yes,” he replies, the grin still plastered on his face.
“Good. I have to go. I have an empire to run, and you have…” I pause, chuckling as I look him over. “Oh, that’s right, nothing. Have a good night, brother.”
I turn on my heel and walk away, leaving him to stew in his bitterness. The momentary satisfaction of putting him in his place is fleeting, though, as my mind quickly returns to the task at hand. The mission. The duty. The life I’ve chosen over everything else.