RAFAEL
Enzo walks into my office, his face pulled into that judgmental mask I have zero patience for. I tug at my constricting jacket, practically ripping the darned thing off and tossing it on my desk as I circle behind it. My skin feels like it’s on fucking fire.
I loosen my tie as I sink into my seat, doing my best not to let Enzo see how shaken I am. But heat still pulses through every inch of my body, burning me from the inside out. I roll up my sleeves, needing air, needing space, needing— “What is it, Enzo?” I ask when he just stands there, staring at me like I’m some kind of specimen under glass.
“Roan Përmeti is here.”
That should snap me out of it. Should douse the arousal running through my veins like a fucking drug. But it doesn’t. Not even close.
“I’ll be right out,” I reply with a control I absolutely do not possess. The moment he leaves, I slump back in my chair with a raw, guttural sigh, ignoring the throbbing need between my legs.
“Fucking hell,” I growl into the empty room. I’m not goingto jerk off. I’m not some randy teenager, damn it. I’m Rafael Moretti. I don’t lose control—I take it.
I wrench open my desk drawer and grab the half-empty whiskey bottle left over from my meeting with some of my capos a few days ago. I unscrew the cap, lift the bottle to my lips—then stop.No.
Drinking it would be admitting defeat. Admitting she’s gotten to me. And fuck, has she gotten to me. My nerves feel flayed raw, exposed to the bone.
Capping the bottle, I shove it back into the drawer, then get to my feet, tugging at my tie until it comes undone. I drop it carelessly on my desk as I leave my office. I refuse to wallow in these emotions for another second.
At least Roan will provide a much-needed distraction.
Almost like they sense my foul mood, my men glance away as I descend the stairs into the main club. I scan the room. No Emilia.Good. Because if I saw her right now, I’d probably drag her into the nearest restroom and finish what we started, consequences be damned.
The thought makes my cock twitch, and I have to grit my teeth. Christ, I haven’t been this worked up since… well,since her. She gets under my skin, turns me inside out, and leaves me raw. I sweep my gaze across the writhing bodies on the dance floor with complete disinterest. I could have any woman here with a mere nod of my head, but the idea alone has my cock going soft.
Now that I’ve tasted her again, now that I know she’s within reach, no one else will satisfy this hunger.
I make my way to the back door where Roan Përmeti is waiting, flanked by his men and mine. The freezing night air is a cool balm to my overheated skin and helps my cock soften the rest of the way.
The men begin unloading the heavy wooden crates, carrying them through the back entrance into the club. To anycurious onlooker, it looks like an ordinary shipment of liquor for a nightclub. Nothing unusual here.
“Is it everything we agreed on?” I ask Roan.
He nods. “Of course. Enzo is verifying the inventory as we speak. I have complete confidence you’ll find everything in order.”
“Good.” I take out my phone and transfer the payment balance into his offshore account. Since the transaction is camouflaged under a legal business font, no red flags will be raised if anyone investigates the transfer.
After all, Roan Përmeti runs a thriving beverage company, importing tea and coffee from his home country, Albania, along withraki—the traditional Albanian alcohol.
Lately, he’s been dabbling in alcohol imports from other countries too. So tonight, it’s just business as usual. No evidence exists linking this payment to anything beyond what’s listed on the invoice: premium whiskey and wine for my nightclub. That’s the beauty of having legitimate businesses to wash the dirty ones.
I stay outside until every single crate has been transported inside.
“Payment received. It was a pleasure doing business with you, Rafael.” Roan extends his hand to me, his sleeve riding up slightly to reveal a hint of dark ink snaking up his wrist—the marks of his own bloody rise to power.
“Much obliged, Roan.” We shake hands, and as he steps into his SUV, I head back into the club’s warmth.
The bass from the club rumbles through the floor as I make my way to the storage room at the back.
Now that my ardor has cooled and I’m no longer distracted with overseeing my weapons transfer, my mind circles back to Emilia’s accusation.
I killed her father? Ridiculous.
I scowl, recalling the female agent who actually fired theshot that killed Tomassi. The agency must have fed Emilia lies about what really happened that night, in a bid to preserve Tomassi’s heroic image in his daughter’s eyes.
Because while Tomassi’s first ‘death’ might have been that of a hero, his second death—his real death—was unquestionably that of a villain.
Yet that doesn't explain why the agency is protecting Tomassi’s real killer. Unless it’s not about protection. Maybe it’s about keeping Emilia loyal—keeping her fueled by hatred. Forme. Maybe it’s even both.
