Page 177 of Rosetti Family New York

I continue, knowing that stopping now might mean never starting again.

"We're going to track down this guy she was seeing and figure out why Maddy never told anyone what was really going on. Even if…"

"Even if we might not want to know the answer," he adds quietly.

His phone buzzes again. This time, he doesn't even check it. He just stares at the pocket where it vibrates, like it's a ticking bomb.

We share a look, the weight of our questions hanging in the air. And for the first time in weeks, despite the fear, I feel a spark of purpose beneath it all.

"Okay," I say, with a new sense of resolve. "I'm going to start looking into it. You do the same, and we'll meet back here in…"

"Two days?" he suggests, shifting a bit as a fire kindles behind his eyes. "Or three? What do you think?"

I almost smile, even laugh a little, because he sounds so much like Maddy right now, full of that familiar confidence and determination.

"Two days," I decide. "By then, we'll have something. Even if it's just a little clue, it's better than nothing, right?"

A small knot in my chest eases a bit as we both stand up, neither willing to be the first to let down our guard. Lucas gives me one long, unreadable look before turning away.

"Sloane," he says, turning back suddenly. His face is a mask of desperation. "Whatever happens, please remember... I loved her. More than anything. Remember that, okay?"

The intensity of his plea catches me off guard. "Of course, Lucas. I know you did."

He nods once, like he's made a decision, then he's gone, shouldering his way through the coffee shop door.

Outside, the wind bites lightly at my skin as I leave the coffee shop. I take a deep breath, letting the crisp air fill every corner of me. Maddy's memory is everywhere, and this time, instead of feeling drowned by it, I let her memory pull me forward.

8

Sloane

The crowd is loud and close, its restless energy pulsating through me with each moment. Voices call out from all sides, raw and eager, while fists and flesh clash in the center ring. I know I shouldn't be here, but after days of hitting dead ends, I need to find Rafaele. He's leaning against the far wall, as relaxed as he can be in this mess. This is his turf—where sweat and smoke mix in the stale underground air, and bodies and bruised egos collide—and he watches it all with a cool detachment. I head toward him, one eye on the fighters and the other fixed on the one person I know in this chaos.

My heart stutters as I draw closer. Even half-hidden in the basement's dim lighting, he stands out, all hard edges and barely contained power. The yellow lights hanging from the low ceiling catch on his profile, highlighting the sharp cut of his jaw, the intensity in his eyes as he watches the fight. I can't help but notice how his black t-shirt stretches across his shoulders, how his hands flex almost imperceptibly at his sides. My mouth goes suddenly dry.

Someone bumps my arm, and a whiff of beer-scented breath hits my face. I nudge past a bunch of guys hollering numbers and swapping cash like it's no big deal. In the ring, two fighters grunt and bleed as they exchange blows. The crowd erupts in shouts and cheers, a wall of sound that echoes off the concrete walls and leaves my ears buzzing. I'm used to noise these days, but the idea of coming up empty isn't something I can settle with. If I want answers, I have to go through him.

Rafaele leans casually against a concrete support beam, calm in the middle of all this madness. He's in a black shirt and jeans that match the shadow on his face. Even from a distance, his intensity is crystal clear. Everything I'm not. My pulse starts racing, and for a split second, I wonder if this was a mistake.

I keep moving toward him, my boots sticking slightly to the beer-slick floor. The closer I get, the more my nerve endings seem to spark to life. The air down here is heavy with moisture and the tang of blood and sweat, but there's something about him that draws me in, a gravitational pull I can't explain and don't particularly want to examine.

He catches sight of me before I reach him, and his ice-blue eyes narrow in surprise. I'm probably the last person he expected to see at an illegal underground fight. Well, that makes two of us. As his gaze locks with mine, heat floods my cheeks despite the damp chill of the basement. I silently curse my body's betrayal.

I make it just in time to see the bigger fighter slam the smaller one to the floor. Shouts rise, wild and sharp, a pack of wolves going in for the kill. Even amid the chaos, I'm hyperaware of Rafe—the subtle shift in his posture as I approach, the way his eyes track my every move. The air between us feels charged, electric, despite the heavy atmosphere of the crowded basement.

"I thought you'd be buried in schoolbooks and coffee mugs," Rafaele says, his voice slicing through the noise. "What brings you here, Sloane?"

Hearing my name like that twists something inside me, but I straighten my back and reply, "I need your help."

He raises an eyebrow and offers a half-smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. His scent reaches me, leather, clean sweat, and something darker, more primal. It stands out against the musty underground odors of beer and blood. It makes my head spin for a moment before I regain my focus.

"You seem pretty good at doing things on your own."

Not good enough, though. After a small pause, I push on: "It's about Maddy."

That wipes the smile clean off his face. He folds his arms and leans back, acting like he couldn't care less. The movement pulls his shirt tighter across his chest, and I have to force my eyes to stay on his face. A drop of condensation falls from a pipe above us, landing on the concrete floor beside my boot.

"She had a boyfriend I never knew about, and he's into some pretty nasty stuff. I've tried tracking him, but he's like a ghost. I was hoping—"