My coffee had gone cold 3 hours ago. I stared at the architectural rendering on my screen, adjusting the roof pitch for what felt like the hundth time, 3° off. The judges at the citywide competition would notice. They always did.
I glanced at the clock. 11:47 p.m. The eighth floor of this Manhattan office building was silent except for the hum of my computer and the distant whale of sirens somewhere in the city below. Everyone else had left hours ago. Even my boss had stuck his head in around 9, told me to go home, get some rest. But this project was my chance. Senior architect, maybe my own firm someday. I just needed to win this competition.
My stomach growled. When had I last eaten? Carmen would lecture me about that tomorrow. My 21-year-old sister had somehow become the responsible one between us, making sure I remembered to take care of myself. 7 years since our parents died in that car accident, and she still worried I’d work myself to death.
I hit save and leaned back. The rendering finally looked right. Clean lines, functional beauty, a community center the neighborhood desperately needed. For the first time all night, I smiled, the fire alarm shattered the silence. The piercing whale made me jump, my heart slamming against my ribs. I grabbed my phone and bag, leaving my laptop behind as I yanked open my office door.
Heat slapped my face. Smoke, thick and acurid, was seeping through the hallway. Not a drill, not burnt popcorn. Real fire. The emergency lights cast everything in hellish red as I ran toward the south stairwell. I knew this building’s layout by heart. We’d consulted on the renovation 2 years ago.
I pushed through the metal door into the concrete shaft and immediately started coughing. The smoke was worse here, a choking fog that burned my lungs. I counted steps down, keeping one hand on the wall. Eight floors. Just get down eight floors.
By the fifth floor landing, I could barely see. Each breath felt like inhaling broken glass. That’s when I nearly tripped over him.
A man sprawled across the landing, blocking my path. Blood matted his black hair above his temple. More blood soaked through his white dress shirt on his right side. The fabric torn and shredded. Not burned, cut, stabbed, maybe.
My hands moved before my brain could catch up, checking for a pulse. Strong, steady. He was alive. I shook his shoulders. Nothing. Dead weight. And the flames were climbing up from below, cutting off the main exit.
Think like an architect, Valentina. The ventilation shaft. It ran from basement to roof with access panels every three floors. If I could get us to the panel on this floor, we could climb up instead of down. But I’d have to drag this unconscious stranger through the fifth floor offices first.
I hooked my arms under his armpits and pulled. He was easily 6 feet tall, pure muscle. I weighed 130 lb, soaking wet, but I dug my heels in and pulled again. He moved inches, but progress.
The fifth floor door wasn’t locked. I dragged him through the open office layout, my arms screaming, sweat and tears mixing on my face. The ventilation access was in the northwest corner. I found the metal panel, fumbled with the latch, and it swung open to reveal a maintenance ladder.
His eyes opened, just barely, blue gray, even through the smoke haze. His lips moved, forming words I didn’t understand. Italian, maybe.
“Stay with me,” I gasped. “You have to climb.”
He focused on me then. Really looked at me with an intensity that made something electric shoot down my spine despite the circumstances.
“Your eyes,” he murmured in accented English. “Green, like a wet, painful cough. Like emeralds.”
Delirious. Definitely delirious.
I got my shoulder under his arm and half carried, half dragged him up that ladder. He helped more than I expected. Muscle memory kicking in, even semi-conscious. We climbed through smoke and darkness until we reached the roof access. Cold night air hit my face as we stumbled onto the rooftop. I sucked in clean oxygen, my lungs grateful, and laid him down on the concrete.
Blood was still seeping through his shirt. The head wound looked bad. I pressed my cardigan against his abdomen. applying pressure. Sirens grew louder. Red and blue lights flashed from the street below. The fire department had arrived.
“Help!” I screamed toward the edge. “Up here. We need help.”
Within minutes, firefighters appeared through the same roof access we’d used. Two paramedics rushed over with equipment.
“Ma’am, step back. Let us work.”
I moved aside, trembling now that the adrenaline was fading. One paramedic cut away the man’s shirt, revealing a nasty stab wound. The other checked his vitals, called out numbers I didn’t understand.
“We need to transport now,” one said. “He’s lost a lot of blood.”
That’s when they appeared. Three men in dark suits materialized from nowhere, moving with purpose across the rooftop. They weren’t firefighters or police, the way they carried themselves, the bulges under their jackets. These men were something else entirely.
“We’ll take it from here,” the tallest one said. His voice was cold. Final.
The paramedic frowned. “Sir, this man needs immediate medical attention. We need to—”
“We have our own medical team waiting.” The suited man gestured and the other two moved to lift the injured man. “You’re dismissed.”
“You can’t just—”
One of them flashed something. A badge maybe, or identification I couldn’t see from where I stood. Whatever it was made the paramedics step back, confusion and frustration clear on their faces.
I watched, stunned, as they carried him to the roof access before disappearing through the door. The injured man’s eyes found mine one last time. That same intense gaze, even through pain and blood loss, like he was memorizing my face. Then they were gone.
Two police officers approached me next, notebooks out.
“Ma’am, I’m Officer Rodriguez. Can you tell us what happened?”
I explained about working late, the fire alarm, finding the man in the stairwell. I described dragging him up through the ventilation shaft to the roof. What I didn’t mention was the stab wound. The way those suited men had taken control, or the feeling in my gut that something about this entire situation was very wrong.
“Did you know the man you rescued?”
“No. Never seen him before.”
“Can you describe him?”
“tall, dark hair, maybe mid-30s, expensive suit.” I left it at that.
They took my contact information, told me I might need to come in for additional questions. I nodded numbly. All I wanted was to go home, take a scalding shower, and forget this night ever happened.
By the time I made it back to my apartment in the Upper West Side, dawn was threatening the horizon. I climbed the four flights to my floor, let myself in quietly so I wouldn’t wake Carmen, and collapsed on my bed, fully clothed.
Sleep didn’t come. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw those blue gray eyes staring at me through smoke and blood.
The sound of Carmen’s voice yanked me from restless halfleep.
“Val, Valentina.”
I opened my eyes. Sunlight streamed through my window. My phone said 8:07 a.m. I’d been asleep less than 2 hours.
“What?” My voice was rough from smoke inhalation.
Carmen appeared in my doorway, her curly hair still messy from sleep, but her expression was alert, worried.
“There are three black SUVs parked outside our building, expensive ones, and there are men in suits just standing there watching.”
Ice flooded my veins. I scrambled out of bed and moved to the window. Carmen wasn’t exaggerating. Three identical black SUVs lined the street below and at least six men in dark suits stood on the sidewalk, waiting, not talking, just watching our building.
My phone rang. Unknown number. My hand trembled as I picked it up. Every instinct screamed not to answer, but something made me swipe to accept.
“Hello, Miss Valentina Brennan.” A man’s voice, smooth, accented, controlled. “I believe we need to talk.”
The voice on the phone was smooth as expensive whiskey with an accent that turned each word into something deliberate. Dangerous.
“Who is this?” My voice came out steadier than I felt.
“My name is Rafael Cordare. We met last night under unfortunate circumstances. You saved my life, Miss Brennan. I’d like to express my gratitude properly.”
I glanced at Carmen, who was still staring out the window at the SUVs. My heart hammered against my ribs.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
A soft laugh, not mocking, almost appreciative. “The fire at the office building on 7th Avenue, the stairwell on the fifth floor. You dragged me through a ventilation shaft despite weighing a fraction of what I do. Your eyes are green, like emeralds, I believe, I said.”
Heat flushed my cheeks. He remembered that through blood loss and smoke inhalation. He remembered saying that.
“How did you get my number?”
“I have resources.” A pause. “I also know you live on the fourth floor of a building on West 83rd Street with your sister Carmen, who’s 21 and studying medicine. You work as a junior architect at Morrison and Associates. Your parents died 7 years ago in a car accident on the Taconic Parkway. You have $43,000 in student loan debt and send $400 monthly to a care facility in Baltimore where your grandmother lives with advanced dementia.”
My blood turned to ice. “Are you threatening me?”
“On the contrary, I’m demonstrating that I take my debts seriously. You saved my life, Valentina. That matters. In my world, it matters more than anything.”
“Your world.” I looked at the SUVs again. “What world is that exactly?”
“one we should discuss in person. Dinner tonight, 7:00. I’ll send a car.”
“I’m not getting in a car with strangers who investigated my entire life.”
“Then I’ll meet you somewhere public. Choose the location.”
“I don’t want to meet you at all. I don’t want anything from you. Just leave me alone.”
Silence stretched for several seconds. When he spoke again, his voice had changed. Softer, but somehow more intense.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible. What happened last night has consequences for both of us, but especially for you and your sister. The men who tried to kill me know you exist now. They have security footage from the building. They know you saved me. That makes you a target.”
Fear clawed up my throat. “Why would I be a target? I didn’t do anything except help someone who was hurt.”
“Because in their culture, saving me is the same as choosing a side. And the Russian Bratva doesn’t forgive perceived enemies.” He let that sink in. “Dinner Valentina, let me explain. Let me protect you. It’s the least I can do.”
“The Russian what?”
“7:00. There’s a restaurant in Little Italy. Asteria Duna. I’ll reserve it.”
“I can’t just—”
“The SUVs will leave once you agree. They’re there to ensure no one else gets to you first.”
My hands were shaking. I looked at Carmen, who was chewing her bottom lip, anxiety written across her face.
“Fine. 7:00. But I’m driving myself.”
“As you wish. The address will be sent to your phone.” He paused. “Thank you, Valentina. For last night and for tonight.”
The call ended. The SUVs pulled away within minutes, disappearing into Manhattan traffic like they’d never been there.
The call ended. The SUVs pulled away within minutes, disappearing into Manhattan traffic like they’d never been there.
“Val, what the hell is going on?” Carmen grabbed my arm. “Who was that?”
“The man from the fire.” I sank onto the couch. “He wants to thank me. Apparently, with a fleet of SUVs and men in suits.”
“That’s not normal gratitude.”
“No.” I rubbed my face. “It’s really not.”
7:00 arrived too quickly. I’d spent the day googling Rafael Cortemare and finding almost nothing. No social media. A few business records linking him to import companies and restaurants. One society page photo from 3 years ago at a charity event where he stood in a tuxedo looking like he owned the room.
I chose black jeans and a simple green sweater. Nothing fancy. This wasn’t a date. This was—I didn’t know what this was.
Austria Duna was tucked on a quiet street. The kind of place tourists walked past without noticing. Oldworld Italian with ivy climbing the brick facade and warm light glowing through leaded glass windows. The front door was locked. I knocked. A man in a suit opened it. Not the same ones from this morning, but cut from the same cloth. He looked at me, nodded once, and stepped aside.
The restaurant was empty except for one table. Every other surface had been cleared, chairs stacked, like the place had been closed for a private party of two. Rafael Corttomare stood from the table as I entered. Seeing him upright, cleaned up, not bleeding or unconscious, stole my breath. He was taller than I remembered, 6’2, maybe 6’3. His black suit was immaculate, tailored to perfection. His hair was combed back from his face, still damp like he’d recently showered. Those blue gray eyes tracked me across the room with the same intensity I remembered from the rooftop. A small bandage covered his temple where the head wound had been. He moved carefully like his ribs hurt. The stab wound probably, but he didn’t show pain, just control.
“Valentina.” He said my name like he was tasting it. “Thank you for coming.”
“Did I have a choice?”
That almost smile appeared. “There’s always a choice. You could have refused. Called the police. Run.”
“I googled you. There’s almost nothing.”
“I prefer privacy.”
“Or you scrub the internet clean.” I stayed near the door. “Who are you really?”
He gestured to the table. “Sit. Let me explain.”
Against my better judgment, I crossed the room and sat. He took the chair across from me. A waiter appeared from nowhere, pouring wine I hadn’t ordered.
“I run an organization,” Raphael began. “Import, export, restaurants, real estate. Some of my business is legitimate, some isn’t. I won’t insult your intelligence by pretending otherwise.”
“You’re a criminal.”
“I prefer businessman. But yes, technically.” He watched my reaction. “Does that frighten you?”
“Should it?”
“Not from me. I don’t hurt innocents. I have rules. Lines I don’t cross.” His fingers drumed once on the table. “The men who attacked me last night don’t share those rules. They’re Russian. Bratva organized crime from Moscow trying to take over territory on the east coast. I was meeting an informant who claimed to have information about their operations. It was a trap.”
“They tried to kill you.”
“Yes. Two men ambushed me in that office building. I managed to eliminate them, but not before taking damage. They hit my head, stabbed my side, then set the fire to destroy evidence. I would have died if you hadn’t found me.” His eyes held mine. “You risked your life for a stranger. Why?”
“Because you needed help. That’s it.”
“No hesitation, no thought for your own safety.”
“I’m a human being. You were hurt. I couldn’t just leave you.”
Something shifted in his expression. Softness I didn’t expect. “Most people would have, especially in this city. You’re unusual, Valentina Brennan.”
The waiter returned with food I hadn’t ordered. Fresh pasta, perfectly seasoned. My stomach reminded me I’d barely eaten all day.
“I don’t want your money,” I said. “Or gifts or whatever you think you owe me.”
“What do you want?”
“To go back to my normal life. To stop being involved in whatever this is.”
Raphael leaned back, wincing slightly. The movement pulled at his injury. “I can’t give you that. The Bratva knows your face now. They’ll come for you eventually to punish me through you, or to use you as leverage.”
“Then what am I supposed to do?”
“Let me protect you. And your sister.”
“By surrounding us with armed men? By controlling where we go?”
“By keeping you alive.” His voice hardened. “Make no mistake, Valentina. These men will hurt you. They’ll hurt Carmen. They don’t care that you’re innocent.”
Fear curled in my stomach, but I pushed it down. “And what do you get out of protecting me? Nobody does something for nothing.”
“Peace of mind.” He picked up his wine glass. “And perhaps your company. I find you fascinating.”
“I’m not fascinating. I’m an architect who works too much.”
“You’re brave, resourceful. You don’t want anything from me when most people want everything.” His gaze traced my face. “That green sweater brings out your eyes. I was right about the emeralds.”
Heat flushed through me. Not fear this time. Something else. Something I absolutely should not be feeling for a man who just admitted to being a criminal.
“This is insane,” I whispered. “Yes, I should walk out right now.”
“You should.” But I didn’t move. And from the way he watched me, he knew I wouldn’t.
His phone buzzed. He glanced at it, and his entire demeanor changed. The relaxed, almost flirting vanished, replaced by cold calculation.
“What?” I asked.
He turned the phone toward me. A photo filled the screen. Carmen walking out of her university building. Two men in leather jackets following 10 ft behind her. The angle suggested it had been taken by someone else. Someone watching. Below the photo, a message in cerillic alphabet.
“What does it say?” My voice shook.
Raphael’s jaw tightened. “It says they know.”
Raphael was on his phone before we even left the restaurant, speaking rapid commands in a language I assumed was Italian. His entire demeanor had shifted from the almost charming man across the dinner table to something cold and lethal. This was the real Rafael Corttomare, the one who ran a criminal empire.
“Get Carmen now.” He held the door open for me, his hand at my back, guiding me toward a waiting SUV. “My people will bring her to a secure location. You’re coming with me.”
“I’m not going anywhere until I know my sister is safe.”
“She won’t be safe if you’re standing on a Manhattan street arguing with me while Russian hitmen triangulate our position.” His eyes met mine and I saw genuine fear there. Not for himself—for me. “Please, Valentina, trust me this once.”
The SUV pulled up. I got in.
The drive to Long Island was silent except for Raphael’s phone calls. He switched between English and what I now recognized as Italian, coordinating movements like a general preparing for war. I caught names—Gabriel, Sophia, Elena—people in his organization, apparently loyal enough to mobilize at midnight.
“Where are we going?” I finally asked.
“My home. It’s the most secure property I own. Walls, cameras, armed guards. The Bratvo won’t get within a mile without me knowing.”
“For how long?”
“Until I eliminate the threat.” He said it so matter-of-factly. Until I eliminate the threat—like he was talking about fixing a leaky faucet, not killing people.
The mansion appeared through the trees like something out of a Gothic novel. Stone and glass lit from within, surrounded by walls that looked more suited to a military compound than a home. Guards stood at the gate, nodding as we passed through. Raphael helped me out of the SUV. His hand lingered on mine, warm and steady.
“Welcome to my home.”
“This isn’t a home. It’s a fortress.”
“It needs to be.”
He led me inside. The foyer was massive. All marble and dark wood. Tasteful. Expensive. Nothing like I expected from a mob boss.
“Your sister will be here soon. Gabriel is with her.”
As if on cue, another SUV pulled up. Carmen burst through the front door, her eyes wild with panic, and threw herself into my arms.
“Val, what the hell is happening? These men showed up at my dorm and said I was in danger. They wouldn’t let me call you. They just put me in a car. And—”
“I know. I’m sorry.” I held her tight. “It’s complicated.”
A woman entered behind Carmen. Late 40s. Silver streaked black hair pulled back severely, wearing a suit that screamed competence and danger. She moved like someone who’d seen violence and wasn’t afraid of it.
“Sophia Montesani,” Raphael introduced. “My adviser and most trusted associate.”
Sophia’s dark eyes assessed me thoroughly. “So, you’re the woman who saved his life.”
“I didn’t know who he was at the time.”
“Lucky for him.”
Sophia turned to Raphael. “Gabrielle is sweeping the perimeter. Elena is monitoring all communications. We’ve picked up increased Bratva chatter in the last hour. They know about the girls.”
“How?” Raphael’s voice dropped to something dangerous.
“Someone at the hospital recognized Carmen from security footage. They’ve been watching her for days, waiting to see if we’d move her.”
Sophia’s gaze flicked to me. “When you showed up at the restaurant tonight, they confirmed you were both targets.”
My blood ran cold. “Days? They’ve been following my sister for days.”
“This is your fault.” Carmen’s voice shook with fury. She pulled away from me, glaring at Raphael. “She saved your life, and now we’re hunted because of it.”
“Yes.” Raphael didn’t flinch from her anger. “That’s exactly what happened. And I take full responsibility, which is why you’re both under my protection now.”
“We don’t want your protection. We want our lives back.”
“That’s not possible anymore.” Sophia’s tone was blunt, but not unkind. “The Bratva doesn’t forgive. They’ll use you to hurt him, or they’ll kill you just to prove a point. Your only option is to accept his help.”
Carmen looked at me, tears streaming down her face. “Val.”
I pulled her close again. “We don’t have a choice, Carmen. Not right now.”
Raphael gestured toward the stairs. “Sophia will show you to your rooms. East wing, private. You’ll have everything you need.”
The rooms were beautiful. A suite larger than our entire apartment with two bedrooms connected by a shared sitting area. Plush furniture, art on the walls, windows overlooking gardens lit by soft landscape lighting. Luxury I’d only seen in magazines.
Carmen collapsed on one of the beds. “This is insane. This is actually insane.”
“I know.”
“Are we prisoners?”
“I don’t think so. Not exactly.” But I wasn’t sure. The line between protection and captivity seemed very thin.
Sophia appeared in the doorway. “There are clothes in the closets, your sizes, toiletries in the bathrooms. If you need anything, press the intercom. Someone will respond immediately.”
“How did you know our sizes?” I asked.
“Raphael is thorough.” She turned to leave, then paused. “For what it’s worth, he’s genuinely trying to keep you safe. He doesn’t make promises lightly.”
After Sophia left, I helped Carmen get ready for bed. She was exhausted, emotionally rung out. Within minutes of lying down, she was asleep. I wasn’t tired. Too much adrenaline, too much fear, too many questions racing through my mind.
I changed into pajamas—someone had provided soft cotton that fit perfectly—and left the suite.
The mansion was quiet. I wandered through hallways, memorizing the layout with my architect’s eye. North wing offices, south wing private quarters, center was public spaces. And then I found the library. Floor-to-ceiling books, leather furniture, a fireplace crackling with dying embers, and Raphael sitting in a wingbacked chair with a crystal tumbler of amber liquid, staring into the flames.
“Can’t sleep either?” I asked from the doorway.
He looked up and something in his expression softened. “The guest accommodations not to your liking?”
“They’re beautiful. Probably the nicest room I’ve ever been in.” I stepped inside. “I just needed to think.”
“And I’m disturbing your solitude.”
“No.” I sat in the chair across from him. “Actually, I have questions.”
“I assumed you would.” He took a slow sip of his drink. “Ask.”
“That scar on your eyebrow. How did you get it?”
He touched it unconsciously. “My father. I was 12. My mother had just died of cancer. At the funeral, I cried. He said, ‘Cordmare men don’t show weakness.’ When we got home, he hit me with his ring, split the skin, told me to remember.”
Horror curled through me. “Your father did that.”
“He did worse to others. He was a brutal man. Effective, but brutal.” Raphael’s eyes met mine. “I’m not him, Valentina. I do what’s necessary for my business, but I have lines I don’t cross. I don’t hurt innocents. I don’t tolerate trafficking or violence against women and children. I’m a criminal, yes, but I’m not a monster.”
“You kill people.”
“People who chose this life, who understand the risks. Not civilians. Not people like you.”
“Then why did you assume control after he died? Why not walk away?”
“Because the alternative was watching everything collapse into chaos. Men who worked for us being killed or absorbed by other families, businesses destroyed. I took control to protect what was ours. And maybe—” he hesitated, “maybe to prove I could do it better without his cruelty.”
The vulnerability in his admission surprised me. This powerful, dangerous man admitting he’d wanted to prove something to a dead father who’d abused him.
“My parents died when I was 19,” I said quietly. “Car accident. Carmen was only 14. I became her legal guardian overnight. Dropped out of college for a year to work, pay bills, keep us afloat. When I finally went back to finish my degree, I worked three jobs to cover tuition and her expenses. I’ve been responsible for her ever since.”
“That’s why you saved me.” Raphael leaned forward. “You see someone in trouble, you help. It’s who you are.”
“Maybe I’m just stupid.”
“No, you’re good. Genuinely good. That’s rare in my world.” His gaze traced my face. “It’s rare anywhere.”
The moment stretched between us, charged with something I didn’t want to name. He was a criminal, a killer, everything logical said I should fear him. But sitting in that library, firelight casting shadows across his face, all I felt was an impossible pull toward this complicated, dangerous man who’d been hurt by his father and built an empire from pain.
Gabriel appeared in the doorway, his expression urgent. “Boss, Sophia got intel from Elena. We have a problem.”
3 days.
That’s how long it had been since Gabriel interrupted us in the library with news of increased Bratva movements. Three days of living in Raphael’s fortress, watching Carmen struggle between fear and resentment, feeling the weight of armed guards following my every step outside our suite. And three days of Raphael keeping a careful distance from me. Professional, polite, nothing like the man who’d shared vulnerabilities over firelight, whose gaze had traced my face like he was memorizing it.
Until tonight.
Sophia burst into the dining room where Carmen and I were picking at our dinner. Her expression was grim.
“They’re moving on the hospital. Mount Si. They’ve taken a patient hostage. Man in his 70s with ties to your organization.” She looked at Raphael. “They’re using him as bait to draw out Carmen.”
My sister went pale. “The hospital where I volunteer?”
“Yes.”
Raphael was already on his feet, phone in hand, issuing rapid commands.
“Gabriel, mobilize everyone. We intercept before they breach the building.”
“Wait.” I stood too. “I know that hospital. My firm did the renovation plans 2 years ago. I know every entrance, every stairwell, every blind spot in their security.”
Raphael barely glanced at me. “Not relevant. You’re staying here.”
“It’s completely relevant. If you want to evacuate patients without causing panic, I can tell you exactly how to move through the building without triggering main hallways. I can help.”
“Absolutely not.”
“She has a point, boss.” Gabriel appeared in the doorway, already armed. “Hospital layouts are complicated. Having someone who knows the architecture could save time.”
“She’s a civilian. She’s also the reason we’re in this mess.”
I regretted the words the moment they left my mouth. But I didn’t take them back. “Let me help fix it.”
Raphael’s jaw tightened. For a long moment, he just stared at me. Then reluctantly: “Fine. But you wear a vest and you follow my orders exactly. No arguments, no heroics.”
The bulletproof vest was heavy, uncomfortable, making it hard to breathe as I climbed into the SUV. Raphael sat beside me, silent and coiled tight like a spring about to snap.
“Why did you really agree?” I asked quietly.
“Because you’re stubborn enough to try something foolish if I left you behind.” His eyes met mine. “And because I can protect you better if you’re where I can see you.”
We reached Mount Si at 4:37 a.m. The hospital was a massive complex of interconnected buildings, most of the windows dark at this hour. Raphael’s men were already positioned around the perimeter. Sophia coordinated through an earpiece, her voice calm and efficient.
“Security is on our payroll,” she told me. “They’re evacuating the patient quietly through the service elevator. You need to guide our people through the fastest route to the underground parking where the exchange is supposed to happen.”
My architect’s brain kicked in. I pulled up the renovation plans on my phone, traced the route with my finger. “There. Loading dock access to the basement level connects directly to parking structure. Avoids all main corridors.”
“Smart girl,” Gabriel murmured.
We moved through the hospital like ghosts. I led six of Raphael’s men through maintenance corridors I’d memorized from blueprints, past sleeping patients and skeleton crew nurses who never noticed us. By the time we reached the underground parking level, it was 5:03 a.m.
The Russians were already there. Four men, maybe five. It was hard to tell in the shadows cast by flickering fluorescent lights. They stood near a black van, weapons visible, professional, calm, waiting.
Raphael stepped forward into the light, and I finally saw him as he truly was. Not the vulnerable man sharing whiskey by firelight, not even the controlled businessman across a dinner table. This was Raphael Cortomare in his element. Cold. Lethal. Absolute.
“You’re on my territory,” his voice carried across the concrete expanse. “Leave now.”
One of the Russians laughed. “Cortemare. We were hoping you’d come yourself. Makes this easier.”
“Where’s the patient?”
“Released. We don’t actually want him. We want the sister.” He gestured vaguely in my direction, even though I was hidden behind a pillar. “The one who saved your life. Victor Sokalov sends his regards.”
“Tell Victor he can deliver his regards in person.” Raphael’s hand moved to his weapon. “After I’m done with you.”
Everything happened at once.
Gunfire erupted. I ducked behind the pillar, hands over my ears, my heart trying to punch through my ribs. The sound was deafening in the enclosed space. Concrete exploded where bullets struck. Glass shattered. Men shouted in Russian and Italian.
Through the chaos, I watched Raphael move. Fluid, precise, each shot calculated. He wasn’t just fighting. He was conducting a lethal symphony. His men moving in perfect coordination around him. This was what true power looked like. Not wealth or influence. This command over life and death.
I saw the ricochet before I understood what was happening. A bullet struck the metal frame of a parked car. Angled wrong. Bounced toward me at impossible speed.
Raphael was there. I didn’t even see him move. One second, he was 20 feet away. The next, he was in front of me, his body between mine and the bullet. It caught his left arm, tearing through his jacket, leaving a streak of red in its wake.
He didn’t even flinch. “Stay down,” he growled, then returned fire.
The Russians retreated when more of Raphael’s reinforcements arrived. Two were captured. The others escaped into the early morning darkness.
Back at the mansion, I found Raphael in the library. He’d removed his jacket, his white shirt sleeve soaked red. He was trying to examine the wound himself, his face tight with controlled pain.
“Let me.” I grabbed the first aid kit Sophia had left on the side table. “Sit down.”
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s a bullet wound. Sit.”
He obeyed—surprisingly. I cleaned the blood away carefully. The bullet had carved a groove along his bicep. Deep, but not catastrophic. Still, seeing his blood on my hands made something twist painfully in my chest.
“You could have been killed.” My hands trembled as I applied antiseptic.
“So could you. That bullet was meant for your head.”
His uninjured hand caught my wrist, steadying me. I could feel my heartbeat hammering against his touch.
“I promised to keep you safe, Valentina.” His fingers were warm against my pulse point. We were too close. I could see gold flecks in his blue gray eyes. See the tension in his jaw. The way he was breathing just slightly too fast.
“Thank you.” The words came out barely above a whisper. “For saving me. Always.”
His thumb moved against my wrist, a gentle stroke that sent electricity up my arm.
“I will. Always.”
Sophia appeared in the doorway. Raphael released me instantly, and I stepped back, suddenly aware of how intimate the moment had been.
“Interrogations complete,” Sophia said, her sharp eyes noting our positions. “You need to hear this, Raphael.”
The library suddenly felt too small. The information Sophia delivered was worse than I’d imagined.
Victor Sokalov wasn’t just fighting a territorial war. He was systematically eliminating every Italian organization on the East Coast, creating a Russian monopoly. And the Cordmare family was his primary target because they controlled the port of New York, essential for international smuggling operations.
“There’s more,” Sophia continued. “Elena hacked their encrypted communications. Sokalov has someone inside your organization, an informant. Someone close to you.”
Raphael’s expression went arctic. “Who?”
“We don’t know yet, but whoever it is has been feeding the Bratva information for months. Including the location of every safe house, every movement, every vulnerability.”
Sophia’s gaze flicked to me. “Including when you brought Valentina and her sister here.”
The implications crashed over me like ice water. Someone in this house, someone Raphael trusted, was betraying us all.
Paranoia was a living thing inside Raphael’s mansion. Three days since the hospital shootout and trust had become a luxury none of us could afford. I watched Raphael move through his own home like a predator in uncertain territory. Suspicion shadowing every interaction with his men.
He trusted only Gabriel and Sophia now. They investigated quietly, methodically, searching for the traitor who’d been selling us out for months. The rest of the organization operated under a cloud of scrutiny. Every conversation monitored, every movement tracked.
Carmen spent most of her time in our suite, alternating between anger and fear. I couldn’t blame her. She’d gone from premed student to prisoner in a criminal’s fortress. But when she looked at me—really looked at me—I saw something else in her expression. Recognition, maybe, or judgment.
“You’re falling for him.” She said it on the fourth morning, watching me stare out the window toward the gardens where Raphael was walking alone.
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it? You light up when he walks into a room. You find excuses to be where he is.” Carmen crossed her arms. “Val, he’s a criminal. A killer.”
“I know what he is.”
“Do you? Because from where I’m standing, you’re forgetting why we’re here. We’re not guests. We’re liabilities he’s managing.”
Her words stung because part of me feared she was right. But another part—the part that remembered firelight conversations and the way Raphael had thrown himself in front of a bullet meant for me—that part knew it was more complicated than liability management.
Raphael gave me space to explore his world during those three days. He showed me the legitimate businesses first. A chain of Italian restaurants that actually served incredible food. An import company dealing in wine and olive oil, all properly licensed and taxed. Real estate holdings across the city, including the building where my firm had offices.
“You own my office building?” I’d asked, surprised.
“I own many buildings in Manhattan. It’s good investment.”
“Legal profit?”
He’d smiled slightly. “Not everything I do is criminal, Valentina.”
But he didn’t hide the rest. The warehouse where shipments arrived at odd hours. Containers holding more than just wine. The club in Tribeca, where money laundered through nightly receipts. The protection payments from business owners who paid to avoid problems Raphael’s own men would create if they refused.
He showed me his world with brutal honesty. Not glorifying it, not apologizing for it, just letting me see.
“Why are you showing me all this?” I asked one evening as we stood in his office overlooking the estate grounds.
“Because if you choose this—choose me—you should know exactly what you’re choosing.” His hand rested near mine on the window frame, not quite touching. “I won’t lie to you, Valentina. Not about who I am or what I do.”
That night, unable to sleep, I found myself on the second floor balcony. The moon was full, casting silver light across the gardens I’d been sketching designs for all week. A distraction from fear. A way to feel useful.
“You’re always awake when you should be sleeping.” Raphael’s voice came from behind me.
I turned. He stood in the doorway, dressed casually in dark slacks and a white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Less armor than usual. More human.
“So are you.”
“I have an empire to protect. What’s your excuse?”
“A sister to worry about and a life that’s completely fallen apart.” I held up my sketchbook. “This helps—designing something beautiful even when everything feels chaotic.”
He moved closer, looking at my drawings. The garden redesign I’d imagined for his property. More organic than the current geometric layout. Softer edges. Hidden spaces for privacy. Beauty mixed with function.
“You see potential where others see only what exists.” His finger traced one of my sketches. “You’d transform this place.”
“Gardens are about growth, change, evolution.” I met his eyes. “Even in dark soil, beautiful things can grow.”
The metaphor wasn’t lost on either of us.
“Teach me something,” I said suddenly. “About your heritage, your language. What do you think when you look at me?”
The boldness surprised us both. Raphael’s expression shifted. Vulnerable. Raw.
“I think you’re the most dangerous thing that’s ever entered my life. Not because you threaten me. Because you make me want things I have no right wanting. You make me believe I could be more than what my father made me.”
The air between us crackled with tension that had been building for days, weeks maybe, since that first moment on the rooftop when smoke-filled eyes had met mine.
“Raphael—”
He kissed me. Not gentle. Not tentative. Deep and consuming, like he was drowning and I was oxygen. His hands cupped my face, angling my mouth to his, and I melted into him completely. Every rational thought evaporated. There was only this, only him, only the way my body recognized his, like coming home to something I’d been searching for my entire life.
When we finally broke apart, both breathing hard, his forehead rested against mine.
“I can’t do this to you,” he whispered. “You deserve someone clean. Someone who won’t wake you with nightmares or put you in danger just by loving you. Someone better than me.”
I grabbed his shirt, fisting the fabric, keeping him close. “Stop deciding what I deserve. I’m 27 years old, Raphael. I’ve raised a sister since I was 19. I’ve worked three jobs while finishing my degree. I’ve survived loss and debt and impossible choices. I’m not some naive girl who needs protecting from her own decisions.”
“Valentina—”
“I choose you.” The words came out fierce, certain. “I choose this. Whatever happens, I’m choosing it with my eyes open.”
His thumb traced my cheekbone. “You’ll regret it.”
“Maybe. But it’ll be my regret. My choice.”
He kissed me again, softer this time. Reverent, like I was something precious he was afraid of breaking.
A crackling sound interrupted us. Raphael’s radio clipped to his belt. Elena’s voice, urgent and tiny.
“Boss, now. We found him.”
Raphael pulled away immediately. All business again. But his hand caught mine, squeezed once before he pressed the radio button.
“Talk to me.”
“The traitor. It’s Adriano Luminari.”
I watched Raphael’s face transform. Cold. Lethal.
“You’re certain?”
“Positive. Elena traced encrypted communications back to his phone. He’s been feeding the Bratva everything for 8 months.”
Sophia’s voice cut in. “Since you initiated the territorial push that got his brother killed.”
“Where is he now?”
“That’s the problem.” Elena’s voice was grim. “He just sent a message to the Russians. He gave them the Queen’s safe house location where Carmen was moved yesterday.”
My heart stopped. Carmen.
Gabriel’s with her. Only four men for security. We thought it was temporary, just overnight.
Sophia’s voice tightened. “Russians are mobilizing. Elena intercepted the chatter. They’ll be there in 15 minutes.”
Raphael was already moving, pulling me with him toward the stairs. “Get everyone now. Full mobilization.”
“Raphael—” My voice broke. “My sister—”
“I know.” His eyes met mine. And I saw the promise there. “I’ll get her back. I swear it.”
We ran through the mansion. Sirens already blaring. Men scrambling to vehicles. Carmen was in danger because of me. Because I’d saved Raphael. Because I’d chosen this world. And we had 15 minutes to save her life.
The drive to Queens was 40 minutes of pure hell. I sat in the backseat of the SUV, pressed between Raphael and Sophia, watching city lights blur past at speeds that should have terrified me. But fear for Carmen eclipsed everything else.
Raphael was on the phone constantly, coordinating his forces in clipped Italian. His face was carved from stone, emotionless. But his hand found mine in the darkness, fingers interlacing, grip almost painful. That squeeze was the only indication he felt anything at all.
“We’re 5 minutes out.” Gabriel’s voice crackled through the radio. “I’ve got visual on the safe house. Gates intact. No movement outside.”
Raphael’s jaw tightened. “Stay sharp.”
We arrived at 2:47 a.m., according to the dashboard clock. The safe house was a nondescript building in a residential neighborhood. The kind of place that blended into Queen’s anonymity. Except the gate hung crooked on its hinges. The front door stood open, and even from the street, I could see broken glass glittering on the concrete.
Raphael was out before the SUV fully stopped, weapon drawn, moving toward the building with lethal precision. Gabriel and four other men flanked him. Sophia grabbed my arm when I tried to follow.
“Stay in the vehicle.”
“That’s my sister in there.”
“Which is why you stay here. You can’t help her if you’re dead.”
I watched through the windshield as they entered the house. Every second stretched into eternity. Then Raphael emerged, supporting Gabriel. Blood streaked Gabriel’s face from a gash above his eye. He was conscious but staggering.
Raphael’s expression when he looked at me confirmed my worst fear. Carmen was gone.
I was out of the SUV and running before Sophia could stop me. Inside the safe house, I found two of Raphael’s men dead. Clean shots to the head. Professional. The kind of killing that left no room for survival.
“How long?” Raphael barked at Gabriel.
“Maybe 10 minutes. They came through the back. Six of them took Carmen and vanished.” Gabriel winced. “I’m sorry, boss. I tried.”
“I know.” Raphael’s voice was ice. “Elena, talk to me.”
The woman’s voice came through his earpiece, loud enough for me to hear. “I’m in their system. Hacked the cameras at three Bratva locations. Found her. Red Hook, Brooklyn warehouse district, near the old grain terminal.”
“How many hostiles?”
“Can’t tell. But Sokalov just sent a message.” Elena’s voice dropped. “He wants to trade Carmen for Valentina. Says you have 1 hour to decide.”
The world tilted. Raphael’s eyes met mine, and I saw something break in them. Fury mixed with desperation.
“Not happening.”
“Raphael—”
“No.” He grabbed my arms. “I will not trade your life for hers. We’re going in, full assault. I’ll get Carmen out.”
“And if he kills her the moment you breach that warehouse?” My voice shook. “He’s using her as bait, but it’s me he really wants. Let me do this.”
“Valentina, no.”
“She’s 21 years old. My sister. My responsibility.” Tears blurred my vision. “This is my fault. I saved you. I brought this down on her. Let me fix it.”
Sophia touched Raphael’s shoulder. “Boss, we need to move. One hour isn’t much time.”
Raphael’s hands tightened on my arms. Then he pulled me against his chest, held me so tight I couldn’t breathe. “I will come for you. Both of you. Do you understand? This isn’t goodbye. This is me asking you to trust me one more time. Always.”
He kissed me then—hard and desperate, full of promises we both knew he might not be able to keep. Then he released me and turned to his men.
“We have 53 minutes. Get me schematics of that warehouse. I want every entry point, every window, every way in and out. Sophia, coordinate with the other families. I don’t care what favors I owe. I need every available man in Red Hook in 40 minutes.”
The plan was flawless. Precision, strategy, everything Raphael was famous for. Except I wasn’t part of it.
Back at the mansion, they left me in the command center with Elena monitoring her screens. Raphael and his forces mobilized, heading for Red Hook.
I had 20 minutes before they arrived at the warehouse. 20 minutes to do what I had to do.
Elena was brilliant with technology, but useless at physical security. I’d been studying this mansion for days, using my architect’s eye to memorize layouts, to notice the maintenance corridor that connected the east wing to the garage, the exit that bypassed all the main security checkpoints because it was designed for staff and deliveries.
I found the corridor, slipped through like a ghost, and reached the garage where a dozen vehicles sat idle. Keys hung on hooks labeled by car. I grabbed the first set I found, climbed into a BMW, and drove through the service gate that opened automatically for outgoing vehicles. I was half a mile away before anyone noticed.
I used my phone to call the number Sokalov had sent. A voice answered in accented English.
“The Cortemare girl, calling to beg.”
“I’m calling to trade. Me for Carmen. I’m on my way to Red Hook now. Alone.”
Silence. Then: “You’re lying. Cortemare would never allow it.”
“He doesn’t know. I left. Tell Sokalov I’ll be there in 30 minutes. He gets what he wants—me. But Carmen walks free.”
“How do we know this isn’t a trap?”
“Because if Raphael knew I was coming, he’d stop me. This is my choice. My trade. Tell Sokalov.”
I ended the call before they could respond. My hands shook on the steering wheel. What I was doing was insane. Suicidal, probably. But Carmen was innocent. She’d been dragged into this because of me. Because I’d saved a stranger in a burning building without knowing he was a mafia boss.
I’d fix this—or die trying.
The warehouse district in Red Hook was exactly as bleak as I’d imagined. Abandoned buildings, broken street lights, the smell of industrial decay and saltwater.
I followed the address Elena had identified, found the warehouse with its rusted door and shattered windows. Three men waited outside. They grabbed me the moment I stepped out of the car, searched me for weapons or wires, then dragged me inside.
The warehouse was cavernous, empty except for chains hanging from the ceiling and Carmen tied to a chair in the center. She looked up as they pushed me forward, her eyes widening in horror.
“Val, no. No. What did you do?”
“Saved you.” I tried to smile. Failed. “It’s okay, Carmen. It’s going to be okay.”
Victor Sokalov emerged from the shadows. Tall, barrel-chested, with cold eyes and a smile that promised violence.
“The hero. Twice now you save lives. Cortemare’s. Now your sister’s.” He circled me slowly. “Such selflessness is rare. Stupid, but rare.”
“Let her go. That was the deal.”
“The deal was you for her. But perhaps I keep both. Use you to destroy Cortemare completely. Or perhaps you die in the next 30 seconds.”
Raphael’s voice cut through the warehouse like a blade.
He stepped into the light, weapon raised, with what looked like 40 men fanning out behind him. I’d never seen anything more beautiful—or terrifying—in my life.
Sokalov’s men raised their weapons. For one heartbeat, the entire warehouse balanced on the edge of massacre.
“You bring an army to a hostage exchange.” Sokalov laughed. “Predictable, Cortemare.”
“You threaten what’s mine.” Raphael’s eyes never left Sokalov. “Also predictable.”
Gunfire erupted.
I dropped, crawling toward Carmen as bullets shredded the air above us. Raphael’s men moved like a coordinated machine, taking positions, returning fire with brutal efficiency.
I reached Carmen, started working on her ropes with shaking fingers.
“You came for me,” she sobbed.
“Always. I’ll always come for you.”
The rope finally gave. Carmen’s hands came free just as I saw Sokalov running toward a back door. He slammed something on the wall as he disappeared—a digital timer glowing red, counting down from 30 seconds.
“Bomb!” someone shouted.
Raphael was there, cutting my ropes, pulling us both to our feet, his arm around my waist, supporting Carmen with his other hand.
He ran.
20 seconds. 15. The exit seemed impossibly far.
10 seconds. Nine.
We burst through the door and into the cold night.
Raphael threw us both to the ground, covered our bodies with his. The explosion was deafening. Heat and pressure blasted over us. Debris rained down—concrete and metal and fire.
When the ringing in my ears finally subsided, Raphael was pulling us up, checking for injuries with hands that moved over us frantically.
“Valentina, Carmen—are you hurt?”
Carmen had bruises on her face, a cut on her lip, but she was alive, conscious. “I’m okay, Val. I’m fine.”
I clung to Raphael. “You came.”
“Always.” He crushed me against him. “Don’t ever do that again. Don’t ever sacrifice yourself like that. Promise me.”
“I can’t. She’s my sister.”
His laugh was strained. “Then I’ll have to make sure neither of you are ever in danger again.”
Back at the mansion, a doctor treated Carmen while Sophia debriefed Raphael on casualties. Two of his men dead, five injured. Sokalov escaped through underground tunnels. The warehouse was ash.
I sat with Carmen until she fell asleep, exhausted and medicated. Then I found Raphael in his office, staring at a computer screen.
“What is it?”
He turned the monitor toward me. A video file, playing on loop. The view was from outside the mansion, zoomed in on our bedroom window. A red laser dot danced across the glass where I’d stood just hours ago.
Below the video, a message in English: I know where she sleeps.
Sokalov hadn’t given up. He’d just declared war.
The bunker beneath Raphael’s mansion wasn’t what I expected. No cold concrete or steel walls. It was a fully furnished apartment hidden three levels underground with filtered air, stockpiled supplies, and enough security to withstand a siege.
Carmen sat on one of the beds, arms wrapped around herself, still processing everything that had happened.
“We’re safe here,” Raphael said, though his expression told a different story. He was preparing for war, and safe was a relative term.
“For how long?” I asked.
“Until I end this.” He checked his weapon with practiced efficiency. “Victor Sokalov has declared war. Not just on me. On every Italian family in New York. He wants a Russian monopoly on the East Coast. That makes him everyone’s problem now.”
Sophia entered carrying a tablet, her face grim. “The five families have agreed to meet. One hour. They want guarantees this won’t blow back on their operations.”
Raphael’s jaw tightened. “They’ll get their guarantees. Tell them I’m calling in every favor owed. Tonight we dismantle the Bratva’s entire New York operation.”
The plan was audacious. Twelve simultaneous strikes across the city. Nightclubs laundering Russian money. Warehouses storing smuggled weapons. Drug distribution points. Raphael coordinated with leaders whose names I’d only heard whispered in fear—the Fontinelli family, the Vertziani brothers—old enemies setting aside grudges because Sokalov threatened them all.
Carmen watched me pace the bunker. “You’re going to do something stupid, aren’t you?”
“What?”
“You have that look. The same one you had before you traded yourself for me.” She stood, grabbed my arms. “Val, please. Stay here. Let him handle this.”
“I will.”
The lie tasted bitter, but I couldn’t tell her the truth. That I’d already made arrangements with Sophia. That when Raphael left for war, I’d be following in a separate vehicle. Not to fight—I couldn’t fight—but to be there, because if something happened to him, I needed to know.
Raphael returned to the bunker as his forces mobilized. He cupped my face with both hands, those blue gray eyes searching mine.
“Stay here. Promise me.”
“I promise I’ll be smart.”
Not the promise he wanted, but the only one I could give.
He kissed me then—deep and desperate, like he was trying to memorize the taste of me.
“When this is over, we need to talk about our future. If you still want one with me.”
“Always.”
He left. The bunker door sealed with a heavy clang.
I waited exactly 10 minutes. Then I pressed the emergency release Sophia had shown me, the one that bypassed the main security protocols. Carmen tried to stop me, but I was already moving.
Sophia waited in the garage with a nondescript sedan.
“He’s going to be furious.”
“I know.” I climbed in. “But I can’t sit in a bunker while he might be dying.”
The city transformed into a war zone that night. Elena coordinated through encrypted channels, her voice calm despite the chaos. Strike teams hit twelve locations simultaneously at 10 p.m. The precision was terrifying. Raphael’s men moved like ghosts, dismantling Sokalov’s empire piece by piece.
But Sokalov wasn’t at any of the locations.
Elena tracked him through security cameras, following his movements across Brooklyn until he reached Red Hook. The port. Exactly where Raphael predicted he’d run.
We arrived as the confrontation began.
Raphael stood on the dock, backed by Gabriel and 30 men. Sokalov waited near a cargo ship, his own forces forming a barrier. Between them, 50 feet of concrete and the knowledge that only one man would walk away.
“Cortemare.” Sokalov’s voice carried across the distance. “You’ve cost me everything tonight. My operations, my money, my reputation.”
“You threatened what’s mine.” Raphael’s voice was ice. “Did you think there wouldn’t be consequences?”
“I’m leaving. Back to Russia. This is your victory. Let me go.”
“No.” Raphael stepped forward. “You put a target on innocent women. You used civilians as weapons. You broke every code. There’s no walking away from that.”
Sokalov smiled. “Then we both die tonight.”
The gunfight erupted like thunder.
I watched from behind a shipping container where Sophia had positioned us. My heart in my throat as Raphael and Sokalov’s forces clashed. Men fell. Blood painted the concrete. The smell of gunpowder choked the air.
Then it was just Raphael and Sokalov. Both out of ammunition. Both wounded. They circled each other like wolves, and I realized with horror they’d fight hand-to-hand.
Sokalov was bigger, heavier. But Raphael was faster, more precise. They collided in a brutal exchange—fists and elbows, grappling, each trying to kill the other with bare hands. Raphael used the environment, slamming Sokalov against a steel post, using a chain hanging from a crane to choke him.
Sokalov went down hard, gasping. Defeated, Raphael stood over him, chest heaving, blood running from a cut above his eye.
“It’s over.”
But it wasn’t.
Sokalov’s hand moved, pulling a backup weapon I hadn’t seen. The gunshot cracked like a whip. Raphael staggered. Red bloomed across his chest, left side, near his heart.
I was running before I could think, Sophia shouting behind me. I reached Raphael as he collapsed, pressed my hands against the wound, felt his blood hot and terrifying against my palms.
“No. No, you don’t get to die. You promised to keep me safe. I can’t be safe without you.” Tears blurred my vision. “Raphael, stay with me. Please.”
His eyes focused on mine. He tried to smile. Failed.
“Always. So stubborn. Because you taught me to fight for what I want. And I want you. Alive.”
I looked up at Sophia. “Where’s the medic?”
“Already called. Two minutes out.”
Those two minutes stretched into eternity. I kept pressure on the wound, kept talking to Raphael, kept him conscious through sheer force of will.
The surgeon Sophia had on standby arrived with a mobile unit, worked on Raphael right there on the dock until he was stable enough to transport.
Six hours of surgery. Six hours of pacing hospital corridors while Carmen held my hand and Sophia coordinated cleanup of the night’s carnage.
Sokalov was dead. His organization dismantled. The Russian threat eliminated.
But none of it mattered if Raphael didn’t survive.
The surgeon finally emerged, exhausted but smiling. “He made it. Bullet missed his heart by 2 cm. He’ll recover fully.”
I collapsed into Carmen’s arms, sobbing with relief.
Two weeks later, Raphael was released from the secure medical facility. He recovered in his mansion while I returned to our apartment—per his request, delivered through Sophia. He needed time to heal, time to think, time to decide if dragging me deeper into his world was fair.
I gave him a week. Then I couldn’t take it anymore. I drove to the mansion, walked past guards who’d been ordered to let me through, and found Raphael in the library.
He looked thinner, paler—but alive. So beautifully, impossibly alive.
“Valentina—”
“No. You don’t get to push me away now. Not after everything.” I crossed to him. “I chose this. I chose you, and I’ll keep choosing you every single day if you let me.”
His hand caught mine, pulled me down to sit beside him.
“You deserve better than a life of looking over your shoulder. Better than wondering if tonight’s the night someone comes for me.”
“For us, maybe. But I don’t want better. I want you.” I laced our fingers together. “The question is, do you want me more than anything?”
His voice broke. “You terrify me, Valentina Brennan. Because losing you would destroy me completely.”
“Then don’t lose me. Keep me. Let me stay.”
He kissed me then. Gentle because of his injuries, but no less intense. A promise. A beginning.
When we finally pulled apart, he was smiling. Really smiling.
“I love you,” he said. Simple. True. “I’ve loved you since you dragged me out of that burning building.”
“I love you too. Even though you’re complicated, dangerous, and probably terrible for my blood pressure.”
His laugh was warm. Real. “So, what happens now?”
“Now we figure out how to build a life together. One where Carmen can finish medical school without armed guards. One where I can practice architecture. One where you run your empire but come home to me every night.”
“That’s a tall order.”
“You’re Rafael Cortemare. You’ve built an empire. Surely you can build a life.”
He pulled me closer, careful of his wounds. “With you, I’ll build anything.”
Two weeks felt like two years. I moved through my apartment like a ghost, going through motions that used to define my life. Work, sleep, worry about Carmen, repeat. Except now every routine felt hollow, like I was playing a role in someone else’s story.
Carmen was seeing a therapist three times a week—processing trauma, the doctor called it. She’d gone back to her classes, though I noticed the discreet SUV that followed her to campus each morning. Raphael’s doing, though he communicated everything through Sophia now. Keeping his distance. Giving me space I never asked for.
“You should call him,” Carmen said one evening, watching me stare at my phone for the hundredth time.
“He doesn’t want to hear from me.”
“He almost died saving us. I think he wants to hear from you.” She crossed her arms. “Val, I was wrong before. About judging you for falling for him. After everything he did—the way he mobilized an entire city to get me back. The way he looked at you on that dock…” She trailed off. “That’s not just protection. That’s love.”
“It doesn’t matter. His world is too dangerous. He knows it. I know it.” But even as I said the words, I didn’t believe them.
On the third Thursday, I couldn’t take it anymore. I drove to Little Italy, to Austeria Duna, where Raphael had taken me for our first real conversation. The same restaurant that had been closed just for us, where I’d first glimpsed the man beneath the armor.
It was open to the public now. I asked for a table, was seated near the window. The same table where we’d shared wine and truths. I ordered pasta I didn’t want. Drank wine that tasted like regret.
“Still can’t sleep without making sure everyone else is taken care of first.”
I looked up. Raphael stood beside my table, dressed in a dark suit that made his blue gray eyes even more striking. He looked healthier than two weeks ago. The color had returned to his face, but something in his expression was cautious, uncertain—like he wasn’t sure I’d want him here.
“Raphael.” His name came out breathless. “What are you doing here?”
“Sophia told me you were here. I couldn’t stay away.” He gestured to the empty chair. “May I?”
I nodded, not trusting my voice. He sat slowly, carefully, still healing.
“I’ve been trying to give you space. To let you reconsider everything. To realize you deserve better than a life with me.”
“Stop telling me what I deserve.”
“I tried.” His smile was sad. “For two weeks, I tried to convince myself you’d be safer, happier without me. That the right thing was to let you go back to your normal life. But I can’t lie to myself anymore, Valentina. I don’t want to let you go.”
“Then don’t.”
“It’s not that simple. My world will always be dangerous. There will always be enemies, always threats. I can minimize them, but I can’t eliminate them completely. You’d be choosing a life of looking over your shoulder.”
“I’d be choosing you.” I reached across the table, took his hand. “I’ve spent two weeks pretending I could go back to who I was before that fire, before you. And I can’t. You changed me, Raphael. You showed me that I’m stronger than I thought, braver. That I can face impossible things and survive.”
“You showed me I could be more than what my father made me.” His thumb traced circles on my palm. “That I could build instead of just destroy. That I could love someone more than power.”
“So what happens now?”
He was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was steady, but vulnerable in a way I’d never heard.
“I can’t offer you safety. I can’t promise there won’t be danger. But I can promise you choice. Real choice. Valentina, you want to keep working as an architect? I’ll support that. Want your own firm? I’ll invest. Want to stay in your apartment? Keep distance from my business? We’ll figure it out. Want children someday—or never? Your decision. The only thing I can’t offer is the choice of me not loving you. That’s already been decided.”
Tears blurred my vision. “I choose you. Every day. Every risk, every danger. I choose us.”
He stood, pulled me up with him, and kissed me right there in the restaurant. Deep and sure, and full of promises we’d spend a lifetime keeping. Around us, other diners pretended not to stare. I didn’t care. Nothing existed except this man who’d saved me as surely as I’d saved him.
Six months later, I stood on the balcony of a house I’d designed from scratch. Not in Long Island—Westchester instead. Forty-five minutes from Manhattan, surrounded by trees that would turn spectacular colors in autumn.
The house blended security with beauty. Reinforced walls hidden behind elegant stonework. Bulletproof windows that let in streams of sunlight. Guard posts camouflaged as garden structures. It was a fortress that felt like a home.
Raphael came up behind me, wrapped his arms around my waist, rested his chin on my shoulder.
“What are you thinking about?”
“How strange life is. Six months ago, I was working late in an office building. Now I have my own firm. I live in a house I designed with the man I love, and I’m actually happy.”
“You earned every bit of it.” He pressed a kiss to my temple. “Your first commission came through, by the way—the community center in Little Italy. They approved your designs.”
I turned in his arms. “Really?”
“Really. Sophia said it’s brilliant. Contemporary design that honors the neighborhood’s history.” Pride shone in his eyes. “You’re going to transform that neighborhood, Valentina.”
“We’re going to transform it. Your funding made it possible. Our partnership.”
He smiled. “In business and everything else.”
Carmen’s laughter drifted up from the gardens below. She was walking with Gabriel, their heads close together, her hand in his. She’d finished her semester with honors, was thriving in her premed program despite everything. And she’d found something real with Gabriel. Not the violence and danger—just a good man who made her laugh.
“You know, she’s going to end up marrying him,” I said.
“Gabriel already asked my blessing.” Raphael’s smile widened. “I told him only if he promised to treat her better than I treated you at the beginning.”
“You’ve more than made up for that.” I stretched up to kiss him. “Every single day.”
His arms tightened around me. “I love you, Valentina Brennan. More than I thought I could love anything.”
“I love you too. Even though you’re complicated and dangerous and occasionally drive me crazy.”
“Only occasionally?”
“I’m being generous.”
He laughed, the sound warm and free. The laugh of a man who’d found peace in chaos, who’d learned to build a life instead of just survive one.
Sophia appeared on the balcony, tablet in hand. “Sorry to interrupt, Valentina. The permit for the community center came through. Construction can start next month.”
She handed me a folder. “Also, this came for you from the Orphanado fund.”
I opened it. A thank you letter from the children’s home Raphael had established in my name. The one he’d funded after I’d mentioned wanting to help kids who’d lost parents, like Carmen and I had. He’d made it real without asking. Just signed the papers and made it happen.
“You’re going to make me cry,” I whispered.
“Then I’m doing something right.” Raphael took the letter, set it aside, and pulled me close again. “Come on, let’s go inside. I want to show you the plans for the wine cellar renovation. Unless you’d rather keep watching the sunset.”
“The sunset can wait.” I laced my fingers with his. “I’d rather be with you.”
We walked inside together, into the home we’d built. The life we’d chosen. The future we’d create despite all odds.
Behind us, the sun painted the sky in shades of gold and crimson. A promise of tomorrow. A reminder that even in darkness, there was always light if you fought hard enough to find it.
And we had fought. Through fire and blood and impossible choices, we’d earned this peace, this love, this life. And I wouldn’t change a single moment of it.
