I give Ras a nod. “Fine. He’s yours. Savor it.”
Ras’s eyes flash with dark excitement. He pulls a knife out of a holster strapped to his arm and walks up to Garzolo.
“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for this,” he croons at the man.
I leave them to it. De Rossi bumps my shoulder with his fist as I walk past him.
The last thing I hear as I step out into the parking lot is Garzolo’s ear-piercing scream.
It’s a twenty-minute drive to get to the address De Rossi gave me. I try Nero, but he doesn’t pick up his phone. I’ve never been an anxious person, but right now, I’m a ball of fucking sweat. My skin prickles with discomfort, and I can’t seem to get enough air. I have to trust that Nero saved Cleo.
My thoughts churn. I can’t seem to hold on to a single thread. My reliable friends—clarity, rationality, common sense—have abandoned me. Everything in my head is disorganized, impossible to piece together. It’s unnerving. As if I’m in a trance.
Finally, I get there. It’s another warehouse, smaller than the one I just left. I park by a car I recognize as Nero’s, leave the engine running, and jump out. Something desperate and terrified claws up my throat as I sprint toward the entrance.
If she’s been harmed, I’ll burn this city to the ground.
The scene inside the warehouse isn’t as bloody as the one I just left. Three bodies lie on the ground, none of the men mine, and I rush past them, my gaze desperately searching for Cleo. I spot Nero and Sandro. They’re arguing loudly with a guy I vaguely recognize as one of Ferraro’s. They hear me and turn.
“Where is she?” I shout.
Nero points to the left, and that’s when I find her.
Cleo’s huddled on the ground by a knocked over chair, someone’s jacket wrapped around her. She’s staring at the ground, eyes wide, like she’s in shock.
De Rossi’s guy, Giorgio, is kneeling beside her, saying something in a low tone.
My lungs expand.
She’s alive. She’s safe.
Slowly, she lifts her face, and her gaze meets mine. A fracture appears inside my chest at how vulnerable she looks. I rush over to her, fall to my knees beside her, and pull her into my arms.
She makes a low sob. “Rafe.”
“Tesoro. Are you hurt?” I can hardly recognize my own voice.
“No.” She shakes her head, holding me tightly to her. “I’m okay. Is my dad…”
“Dead.” Or he’s well on his way there. “He’ll never harm you again.”
She sobs again, and I rock her in my arms. My throat tightens, and everything feels so overwhelming and so fucking raw that a new wave of panic claws up my chest.
The memory of my mother’s pained screams pierce through my head. I squeeze my eyes shut for a long moment and then open them.
I can hear Sandro and the other guy still shouting at each other, but Nero is here now. He’s standing just a few feet away with Giorgio.
They’re both staring at me with strange expressions on their faces. Like they don’t know who they’re looking at. Like the Rafaele they know is gone, and in his place is another man. A man who’s allowed himself to be consumed with fear. A man who’s been brought to his knees. A man who’s weak.
A don must never look weak.
What’s happened to me?
What the fuck am I doing?
Throwing away my reputation, the one I’ve spent a lifetime building, right here on this dirty fucking warehouse floor?
I let go of Cleo and get to my feet. I am not that man. I cannot be that man, or everything I have will be lost.
“Are Garzolo’s men all dead?” I ask Nero.
“Yeah,” my consigliere says. He wipes his palm over his mouth. “But we have a problem.”
“What happened?”
The dark-haired Ferraro who was arguing with Sandro appears in front of me and shoves against my chest. “This fucking fool,” he shouts, pointing at Nero, “shot Michael. My cousin. The don’s nephew. Do you fucking idiots understand what you’ve done?”
Fucking fuck. “Nero, is that true?”
Nero gives me a guilt-ridden look. “It was an accident.”
The guy sneers. “You better pray he makes it.”
I put a hand on his shoulder. “Calm down. What’s your name?”
“Emanuele.”
“Where is your cousin?”
He jerks his head in the direction of a man lying on the ground. Tiny and Sandro are beside him, pressing rags to what looks like a gunshot wound to his gut.