Page 263 of Rosetti Family New York

Her voice quivers just enough to betray the fear hiding underneath. Her eyes stay locked on mine, a flash of resolve in them like a blade in the dark. Bright and sharp. I can see the questions she’s not asking. I can see the doubts she’s afraid to voice. She wants to know what happens now. To us. To me. To this thing we’ve started and whether it’s already breaking before it even has the chance to begin.

“I don’t want to be the kind of man who only knows how to break things," I tell her, my voice dropping low.

There’s a world of meaning in that one sentence. It’s everything I am and everything I wish I weren’t. It’s every fear that keeps me up at night. But she doesn’t hesitate. She never does.

“Then don’t let go of the one thing you didn’t.”

She speaks softly, the words a lifeline. An anchor. She’s holding me together.

Her hand presses against my chest, and I don’t think she knows how close I am to losing it right there. To falling apart in a way I’ve never let myself before. We’re caught in this momentwhere nothing else matters. Not the war we’re about to start, not the chaos waiting around the corner, not the blood that’s been spilled or the blood that will be. Just us. Just this.

For a man who never lets himself beg, never lets himself break, never lets himself lean on anyone else, her touch is everything I need right now.

I let out a breath, like a war’s ended inside me, like I’m finally at peace.

"Will you stay with me tonight?" I ask, my voice all gravel and need.

Sloane nods once

"Always."

Sloane doesn’t hesitate for a second. Her fingers curl around my hand, not caring about the blood or anything else. It's a small touch, but right now, it feels like an anchor. She pulls me toward the mansion, both of us silent as we push open the heavy door and step inside. The grand, cold expanse of the front hall looms around us. Each step echoes off marble floors and high ceilings. It’s dim, a few lamps casting weak halos of light around the space. My family’s home, all sharp angles and cold shadows, nothing homely except the lingering scent of garlic.

But right now, it doesn’t feel like mine at all. She leads me up the stairs, her grip firm, as if she’s afraid I might turn back or disappear.

I follow without a word as we reach the second floor and move down the long hallway. Room after empty room. Each one is cleaner and more polished than the last. We pass the guest room she used when she first arrived. Then we’re at my door, and she pushes it open without pausing. We step inside.

She doesn’t even stop to take a breath as we pass through the bedroom and into the adjoining bathroom. Without a word, she sits me on the edge of the bathtub, her movements gentle but sure. Water runs in the sink, drowning out everything else, and athin mist rises as it heats up. I sit there and watch her, my heart a dull, deep thud in my chest.

She grabs a washcloth and wrings it out, not even looking at me as she concentrates. Her lips are set in a determined line. She’s careful, precise, focused on what she’s doing. As if this, right here, is the most important mission in the world. I stare at her in silence, taking it all in, the way this woman has wedged herself into my life, into my heart, without asking for permission, without caring how damaged I am. Like she’s decided I’m hers.

Then, finally, she kneels in front of me. The cloth is warm and wet in her hands as she begins to clean the blood from my knuckles, wiping away Dale Callahan and wiping away the night. Her fingers are soft as they work, gentle as they trace over cuts and bruises.

“I don’t deserve you,” I say softly.

I’m bare in a way I’m not used to, open and raw in the face of everything Sloane is. She doesn't lift her head, doesn't miss a beat in her careful work. She just keeps wiping the blood away, her touch steady and warm.

Her fingers are gentle as they glide over bruises and trace over my battered skin. The cloth feels soothing, like her touch alone can erase the night's chaos. I’m afraid if I blink, she might vanish.

“Good," she says, her voice light but firm. "Then maybe we’re even.”

32

Sloane

The whole graveyard is empty except for me and Rafe. The only signs of life are the street sounds off in the distance and the red graffiti staining Maddy's tombstone. JUNKIE, it says. An accusation. An insult. A lie.

I dip my brush into a bucket of soapy water and scrub, each stroke of my hand slow and careful.

Three days since Rafe killed Dale Callahan, and I still don't know how to process it. He came home that night with blood under his fingernails and a hollow look in his eyes. His leather gloves were missing—a detail I noticed immediately. When he told me what he'd done, his voice was flat, unapologetic. "It's finished," he'd said simply. "Dale won't hurt anyone else."

I didn't ask for details. Part of me didn't want to know. But another part already understood. Rafe had crossed a line for me, had taken a life because Dale was responsible for Maddy's death. Because he'd used her, betrayed her, marked her for death. Because he'd hurt someone I loved.

The air is crisp with the kind of chill that settles into your bones, even as the sun fights to break through the New York haze. March, but it feels like winter.

I press the brush against the granite, the bristles hard and rough in my hand. I work with determination, each stroke taking a little more of the ugly red away. I can see the words disappearing, and it feels like they're scrubbing themselves out of my heart too. I can breathe for the first time in a long time, knowing I'll finally clear her name.

This is what Rafe gave me—justice, closure, the truth I'd been searching for since Maddy died. He killed for me. The thought should terrify me. It should send me running as far from him as possible. Instead, I feel a complex tangle of emotions, gratitude, guilt, and something darker I don't want to name. What does it say about me that I can love a man capable of such violence? That I can stand beside him and not flinch away?