RAFE
Iknew her schedule better than she did.
For the past week, I'd been a shadow in her life—present but unseen, watching her every move with the patience of a predator. I knew when she woke (6:15 AM, like clockwork). I knew her running route through Cambridge (3.2 miles, always counterclockwise). I knew which coffee shop she frequented (Blackbird Coffee on Tuesdays and Thursdays, Darwin's on Mondays and Wednesdays, nowhere on Fridays because she studied at home).
I knew the precise shade of blonde her hair turned in the morning sunlight. I knew she bit her lower lip when concentrating. I knew she played piano when she couldn't sleep, her fingers dancing across the keys like she was trying to exorcise something from her soul.
Knowledge is power. My father taught me that before he taught me how to shoot.
Today, I was parked across from her apartment in a nondescript sedan with tinted windows. 7:15 AM. She would be leaving for her morning run in exactly five minutes, wearingblack leggings and a gray Harvard hoodie, her hair pulled back in a ponytail that swung with each step.
My phone buzzed. Luca. Again.
I silenced it without looking. Whatever crisis needed my attention at the estate could wait. This was more important. She was more important.
The front door of her building opened right on schedule. Grace stepped out, exactly as I'd predicted—black leggings, gray hoodie, blonde ponytail. She paused to adjust her earbuds, her breath visible in the cool morning air.
Beautiful. Even like this—makeup-free, dressed for comfort rather than style—she was beautiful in a way that made my chest ache.
I watched as she stretched briefly before setting off at an easy jog, unaware of my presence across the street. Unaware that every step she took was being observed, cataloged, memorized.
It would be so easy to approach her now. To step out of the car, to call her name, to watch her face as she recognized me. To see that flash of fear and fascination I'd glimpsed at Tenebris.
But timing was everything. And this wasn't the moment.
I started the car and followed at a distance, keeping her in sight without getting close enough to be noticed. She ran with focus and discipline, her pace steady, her form perfect. No wasted energy. No unnecessary movement.
She reminded me of myself in that way—efficient, controlled, purposeful. It made the rare moments when she let her guard down—like when she'd danced at Tenebris, eyes closed, body swaying to the music—all the more intoxicating.
I followed her through her entire route, watching as she circled back to her apartment building, slightly flushed from exertion but barely winded. She disappeared inside, and I checked my watch. 7:52 AM. She would shower, dress, and leave for her 9:30 AM class by 8:45 AM.
I had time.
I drove to a nearby coffee shop—not one she frequented—and ordered an espresso, taking it to a corner table where I could review the day's plan. My phone buzzed again. This time I answered.
"What?" I kept my voice low, controlled.
"Where the hell are you?" Luca demanded. "We have a situation with the shipment from Naples. Customs is asking questions."
"Handle it," I replied, my tone leaving no room for argument. "I'm busy."
"Busy with what? You've been disappearing every day this week. Dante's going to be back in three days, and we need to have everything in order."
I took a sip of my espresso, the bitter taste grounding me. "And it will be. I'll be at the estate this afternoon."
"Rafe—"
"I said I'll handle it." I ended the call before he could respond.
Luca was right to be concerned. The family business required attention, especially with Dante away. But he didn't understand—couldn't understand—what I was building here. This wasn't a distraction. This was essential.
I finished my espresso and returned to my car, driving back to position myself near Grace's apartment. 8:40 AM. She would be leaving soon.
Right on cue, she emerged from the building, dressed in a cream blouse and navy skirt, her hair loose around her shoulders, catching the morning light like spun gold. She carried a leather messenger bag over one shoulder, her posture straight, her chin lifted slightly—the stance of someone who refused to be intimidated by the world.
I watched as she walked to the corner and hailed a cab, disappearing into the yellow vehicle that would take her to campus. I didn't follow. I already knew where she was going, what classes she was taking, which seat she preferred in each lecture hall.
Instead, I drove to the bookstore she visited every Thursday afternoon. The small, independent shop was one of her regular haunts—a place where she often spent an hour or more browsing the shelves, losing herself in potential purchases before selecting something with careful deliberation.
