"What kind of items?" I pressed.
"The kind I don't discuss in detail," he replied, his tone making it clear this was one of those business operations he had no intention of fully disclosing. "Suffice it to say, they were valuable enough to risk breaking our agreement."
The second course arrived—some kind of pasta with a delicate sauce—providing a brief respite from the intensity of our conversation. We ate in silence for a few minutes, each processing what had been said and what remained unspoken.
"There's more happening than just a warehouse attack and a retaliatory fire," I said finally, setting down my fork. "The increased security here. The tension among your men. The way conversations stop when I enter a room. Something bigger is brewing."
Rafe studied me for a long moment, his dark eyes unreadable. "Yes," he admitted finally. "Something bigger is brewing. Your father's actions have escalated tensions between our families to a point where conflict seems... increasingly likely."
"War," I translated, the word falling between us like a stone. "You're preparing for war with the O'Sullivans."
He didn't deny it. "We're preparing for all contingencies."
"Including violence," I pressed. "Including bloodshed."
"If necessary," he confirmed, his voice steady. "Though it's not my preferred outcome."
"What is your preferred outcome?"
"A return to the agreement. Respected boundaries. Mutual understanding of consequences for violations." He took a sipof wine, his eyes never leaving mine. "Peace, but peace with strength. Not capitulation."
I absorbed this, trying to reconcile the man sitting across from me—the man who touched me with such tenderness, who had held me while I cried, who looked at me as if I were the most precious thing in his world—with the man who could discuss potential warfare with my family in such calm, measured tones.
"And where do I fit into all this?" I asked, the question that had been lurking beneath all the others. "Am I still leverage? A bargaining chip? A way to hurt my father if it comes to that?"
Pain flickered across his features—not physical, but emotional. "You know better than that," he said quietly. "You've always been more than leverage to me. From the beginning."
"But I could be used that way," I pressed. "If this conflict escalates. If it comes to war. I could be used against my family."
"You could be," he acknowledged, his honesty both painful and appreciated. "But I won't allow that to happen. You're not a pawn in this game, Grace. Not anymore. Not to me."
"But to others?" I guessed. "To Dante? To your captains? To whoever makes decisions when things get ugly?"
He was silent for a moment, and I knew I'd hit on something significant. "There are those who see you primarily as Patrick O'Sullivan's daughter," he admitted. "As an asset to be utilized if necessary. Dante understands my... feelings for you, but his priority is the family's interests. Always."
"And if those interests conflict with your feelings for me?" I asked, my voice steadier than I felt. "What then, Rafe?"
His eyes met mine, dark and intense. "Then I would find a way to protect both. To protect you while serving the family's needs. It wouldn't be the first impossible balance I've had to strike."
There was something in his voice when he said this—a weight, a history, a pain that went beyond our current situation.It made me curious despite myself, despite the seriousness of our discussion.
"What do you mean?" I asked, my tone softening slightly.
He was quiet for a long moment, his expression distant, as if looking into a past I couldn't see. When he spoke, his voice was different—lower, rougher, stripped of its usual careful control.
"My mother died when I was twelve," he said, the apparent non sequitur catching me off guard. "She was beautiful. Kind. The only gentle thing in my father's life. In any of our lives."
I remained silent, sensing that whatever he was about to share was significant, was perhaps an answer to my question in ways I didn't yet understand.
"My father was not a kind man," Rafe continued, his eyes fixed on something beyond the room, beyond the present. "He was powerful. Respected. Feared. But not kind. Never kind. Except sometimes, with her. She could reach something in him that no one else could. Could calm the violence that always simmered just beneath his surface."
He took a sip of wine, his hand steady despite the tension I could see in his shoulders, in the set of his jaw.
"One night, he came home drunk. Angry about some business deal gone wrong. Some disrespect from a rival family. She tried to calm him, as she always did. But this time..." He paused, his expression hardening. "This time, her gentleness enraged him. He saw it as weakness. As a reflection of his own perceived weakness in the eyes of his enemies."
My stomach tightened, sensing where this story was heading. "Rafe, you don't have to?—"
"He beat her," he continued, as if I hadn't spoken. "In front of me. In front of Dante. Made us watch as he destroyed the one beautiful thing in our lives. Made us understand that love was a luxury we couldn't afford. That attachment was vulnerability.That in our world, there was only strength and weakness, and weakness got you killed."
