Page 180 of Rosetti Family New York

He doesn't look back.

9

Rafaele

The city skyline looms against the horizon, with narrow alleys and dim streetlights casting long shadows. I stay in the car, letting the evening's darkness envelop me as I park discreetly across the street from Sloane's apartment building.

I trace the outline of her face on my phone screen, the background check I ran on her still open. I tell myself it's just to make sure she's safe, but that's bullshit. I'm obsessed, and it's getting worse by the day. She haunts me like no woman ever has.

My body responds to just the thought of her—Sloane Carter, with her picture-perfect family and those eyes that see too much. I can't stop imagining how she'd feel beneath me, how she'd taste, how she'd sound when she breaks. The wanting is a physical ache, a distraction I can't afford with the Callahans circling. But I keep coming back to her street, to her apartment, to the dangerous possibility of her.

I could have any woman I want. So why am I sitting in a freezing car, watching over a girl who'd run screaming if she knew what I really was? Whatever this is, it's already gone toofar. I'm compromised. And for men like me, that's usually a death sentence.

I shouldn't be here. I should be overseeing the shipment coming in through the Brooklyn docks, our biggest source of revenue since Dad negotiated exclusive import rights with the Sicilians three years ago. The Callahans would kill to get their hands on those supply lines. Literally. That's why the truce has held for nearly a decade—mutual destruction if either family moves against the other's primary operations.

Twenty years of bad blood between our families, temporarily paused by a business arrangement that benefits us both. The fighting ring was supposed to be neutral ground, a symbol of cooperation. Now, with money disappearing, all those old wounds are about to reopen.

I tap the steering wheel and listen to the city's murmurs around me: distant footsteps, the occasional bark of a dog, all sounds that seem to understand they should avoid this neighborhood. I should be concentrating on keeping an eye out for any trouble, but my thoughts keep drifting back to her.

She clings to my thoughts, stubborn as ever. Sloane. Her name is lodged in my head like it's become part of me. I can't shake her off, even though she's not really my usual type. There was something about the way she looked at me that first time in the alley, when she was running from the scene of her friend's murder, her eyes fired up with unshed tears, wild anger and a demand for answers I didn't have. Her face burns in my memory.

Why can't I just walk away?

I've kept my distance from everyone for years. It's easier that way. Safer. The Rosetti name is enough to make people flinch, to make them cross the street when they see me coming. And that's how I like it. I'm not meant to be close to people like her. People with futures, with clean hands and big plans.

But for her, I break all my rules. I drive by her apartment, memorize her schedule, and know the exact moment she turns out her light each night. It's an addiction I never asked for and can't seem to shake.

It doesn't make sense: Sloane Carter, with her picture-perfect family. A former cop for a dad, a saint-like stay-at-home mom, siblings with respectable jobs, and a nurse sister, for Pete's sake. It all seems too pristine compared to the intensity in her eyes that day. And perhaps that's exactly why she sticks in my mind.

All the facts say she's a normal girl with a normal past. A kid who once got blamed for killing her pet dog, with her parents smoothing things over. Just another rich family cleaning up a little mess. Preppy, privileged, but then, why is she tangled up in a murder case? That question spins in my head, along with the bigger one: why do I care so much?

I didn't used to be like this. I was content in my isolation. Content to do my job, to keep the Rosettis on top, to exist in that space between respect and fear. Before Sloane stormed into my life, determined to find answers about her friend's murder, even if it meant putting herself in danger.

I remember Alisa, years ago. The way she looked at me with that same fierce determination, the way she thought she could save me, change me. I remember how that ended—with her in tears, with her father's hushed threats, with the clear understanding that someone like me doesn't get a happy ending. That I'm not built for normal relationships.

I lost Alisa when she saw what I really am. When she saw the blood on my hands that no amount of scrubbing could remove.

But Sloane... something tells me she might be different. When I caught her after she fled from the crime scene, there was something in her eyes I hadn't seen before. Not just fear, but determination. Fire. The thought alone makes my blood burn.

I set the phone aside and lean back in the seat. The chilly air sneaks in through the window, keeping me awake even as it bites my skin. It's February, and of course, the heater is broken. I'll get it fixed tomorrow.

I breathe on my hands and watch as faint fog drifts off the glass. She has been inside for over twenty minutes now, and the street remains quiet. My eyes adjust to the darkness, tracking the shifting shapes in the parking lot while Sloane's voice echoes in my mind. I still remember our brief encounter, how she ran from me in terror that night, how she looked when I caught up to her. She was angry, yes, but also lost and broken. Maybe I can't get her out of my head because I'm too caught up trying to mend what I see as broken.

I shift in my seat, leaning my head back as her name bounces around in my thoughts. I clench my jaw as my imagination runs wild with thoughts of her. What it would be like if she came to me willingly, without fear. What it would be like to touch her. Before I know it, my hand drifts toward my belt, my jeans shifting aside without thought.

In that private moment, her image sharpens: that pretty, rich girl tangled in feelings she can't quite control, her long legs and tight jeans promising more than they should. I can still hear her voice edged with a delicate sharpness, her fiery green eyes, and the gentle curve of her body.

I let my thoughts wander, picturing how it would feel to give in to what she did to me, letting myself have her, letting myself slide inside her, watching her eyes find a new focus beyond the grief that seems to hold her so damn tight.

And something else. Something a little more selfish than just her release. Something that's all about me. I picture how it would feel to claim that pretty, privileged, prim girl. To tear her away from that perfect life she clings to, to show her things a girl like her should never see, to make her mine.

I shift in the seat, my back arching against the stiff leather as I let my mind run further with it. I lean into the door, letting the rough edge of my belt dig into my skin, bringing a little sharpness into the blurry fog of desire that's wrapping so tight around me. I imagine her hands on my chest, pulling me in, holding me there as if I'm nothing more than a shield against the perfect world she doesn't want. I picture her fingers, soft at first, then firmer, finding their grip. My own hand wraps around me with that same grip, and I stroke and stroke until I come.

My breath turns ragged in the crisp night air. I feel like a total creep, caught in a moment of selfish pleasure while she's been so clearly hurting. But it doesn't stop me from wanting her. I zip my jeans back up, quickly wiping my hand on an old napkin from the glove compartment. I imagine she'd see me as a monster, the kind of trouble her perfect family would warn her away from. After all, she's the daughter of a picture-perfect family, and I'm a Rosetti with too many complications.

This is why I shouldn't get involved. The thought comes unbidden, harsh in its clarity. I'm not made for this, for gentle touches and soft words. I'm made for violence, for intimidation, for the shadows. Not for a woman who studies psychology and still believes in justice.

The last woman who knew what I was, really knew, looked at me like I was a stain she couldn't remove. Like I was diseased. Alisa had been curious too, at first. Fascinated by the danger, the edge of violence always simmering under my skin. Until she saw it firsthand. Until she watched me put a man in the hospital for disrespecting my sister.