Rafe
The car rolls through the city and slows outside a high-end French restaurant on
the edge of Rittenhouse Square. Theodora gazes out the window beside me, watching
the buskers and the pedestrians while my eyes scan the crowd and the nearby street
for threats.
“You know what I hate?”
Theodora doesn’t bother looking over. “Ice cream. Puppies. Rainbows. Smiling.”
“Center City in the middle of the day.” My nose wrinkles in disgust. “Too damn
crowded.”
“I like all the people.”
“All I can see are threats.”
“You’re too paranoid, Rafe. Look, there’s a cop on a bike. Don’t you feel safer
already?”
I give her a flat look. She grins, but she’s not funny.
We get out together. Theodora checks her briefcase while I make contact with my
guard team. Four men are nearby ke eping watch. Theodora doesn’t know about them
and I don’t bother telling her.
While she knows most of what goes on in my operation, I try to ke ep her in the
dark about some aspects.
I trust her, but I don’t trust anyone all the way.
“He should be waiting inside.” Theodora heads up the st eps and in through the
entrance. The young hostess takes us through the Art Deco interior, past men and
women in business attire laughing over mid-day martinis, and toward a booth at the
back.
A man’s waiting. He’s in his forties, balding, wire-thin, with a nice suit that looks
like it’s hanging off him. He stands and shakes Theodora’s hand. They seem to know
each other already, but his gaze flits to me and something about him changes.
Tension rolls over his shoulders.
“Mr. Corvino, it’s good to finally meet in person. I’m Wallace Wayne, I work with
Mark Thurston. I’m helping to close the deal.”
“Mr. Wayne, it’s good to meet you. Where is Mr. Thurston today?”
“Ah, Mark’s busy.” Wayne’s gaze cuts sideways toward the entrance. He clears his
throat and adjusts his cuffs. “Shall we sit?”
“We appreciate you meeting with us,” Theodora says, taking charge of the
conversation. She talks easily and makes people feel safe around her. I’m content to
sit back and observe, but the more I watch, the more uncomfortable I feel.
Wallace Wayne isn’t happy. No, he’s downright twitchy, like he can’t stop looking
around. Like he’s afraid of something.
“I don’t want to waste more time,” he says abruptly after sending the waitress
away without ordering. “I respect you too much for that, Dora.”
I glance at my lawyer. She leans in closer. “What’s going on, Wally?”
Wally? Dora? Jesus fuck.
“We’ve been getting messages. People have been... very interested in our deal.”
“What people?” I ask sharply, interested now.
Wayne flinches and looks at the table. “I’m not at liberty to say. It’s client
privilege.”
“Come on, Wally, don’t play around,” Theodora encourages. “We’re old friends. We
went to law school together.”
“Which is the only reason I’m here. Dora, Mark straight up refused to come meet
with you two.” He clears his throat. “Look, I have papers for you. The deal’s still
going, but there are hiccups... some issues...” He cracks open his briefcase and
pushes a folder across to Theodora.
She acc epts the stack and glances inside. “Amendment documents?”
“Take your time with those. There’s no rush.”
I want to throttle the slimy fuck. There absolutely is a rush; I want my damn
pharma company and I want to start my business. I’m sick of playing games, making
offers, bitching and moaning about the details, wrangling every little crossed T and
dotted I.
If this were my business, the deal would’ve been done weeks ago. I set terms, I get
what I want, and that’s the end of it.
But this is the legit world and I have to play by different rules.
“Wally, this is bizarre.”
“I’m so sorry, Dora.” He gets up, glancing around nervously. “Mr. Corvino, nice to
meet you. Please, take care, okay?”
Wallace Wayne hurries out of there, walking so fast he almost bumps into our
server bringing coffee for another table.
“What the fuck was that, Dora?”
She grimaces as she skims the docs we were given. “I’m not sure. These aren’t
that strange. Standard stuff. Request to push closing back a few weeks... diligence
turned up some minor problems and now they want the cash allocation changed...
insurance stuff... nothing crazy. I don’t get it.” She snaps the folder closed.
“They’re spooked.” I say it through my teeth. “And we both know why.”
“We don’t, and I don’t want the details.” Theodora rises, adjusting her skirt. “I
want it fixed, that’s all.”
I give her a flat stare as I place cash down on the table. “Are you in a position to
make demands of me, Dora?”
For a moment, I think she might try to argue. But she flushes and dips her chin.
“Sorry, Rafe.”
“Good.” I slide from my seat and stand. “I will look into this. You ke ep the lawyers
happy.”
“That’s my specialty.”
We part ways on the sidewalk. I instruct two of my men to follow her and the other
two will stay with me. I get back in the car and have the driver head out toward New
Jersey.
It’s an hour to the house, which means I have time to kill, sitting alone in the back
seat.
Two problems war for my attention. There’s the deal and this mysterious problem.
Someone’s trying to make trouble, and I’d bet both my kidneys that it’s the same
person who left that photograph of Hattie and June on my desk.
Which leads into the other issue.
My god damn wife.
I knew she wasn’t happy and I couldn’t blame her. She was essentially kidnapped
and blackmailed into marrying me and living on my property. It was only natural that
she’d push against the boundaries of her situation.
But it still hurt when she tried to take my daughter away.
Which is strange, if I’m honest. I’ve lived for years knowing about Hattie, but it
didn’t kill me not being with her. I did what I could for them from afar, writing
checks, moving money through various shell companies, finding creative ways to get
that cash to them without being too obvious. All without endangering them—or that’s
what I thought.
But now my daughter’s been under my roof for a couple weeks and I can’t imagine
her anywhere else.
It’s the small things. Waking up with June at my side. Feeling my wife breathe.
Sneaking out to find Hattie waiting at her door, taking her down to the kitchen,
making her breakfast. She’s a part of my morning routine now, as reliable as coffee,
and much funnier. We talk about ponies, about what shows she watched, the art
projects she’s thinking about, whatever she wants. The girl knows how to talk and
talk, and I’m good at listening.
Her little voice is my favorite sound in the world.
Only slightly above the sound her mother makes when she comes on my tongue.
Probably not two sounds I should be mixing in my head.
The driver reaches the Walt Whitman Bridge. Traffic is light, which is good. I’m
not paying attention as we glide toward the center of the span, the Delaware rolling
lazily beneath us, massive container ships lined up at the port.
How did it pain me so much when June tried to es cape? Was I really starting to
believe we were a family?
That’s my last thought before the truck rams us.
Metal crashes against metal. Plastic bends and scrapes. The driver curses as I’m
tossed sideways, the world lurching. My shoulder hits the glass and my head knocks
my arm, and I barely hold on as our car is pushed up against the guardrail.
Sparks fly, screaming wildly. The driver slams on the brakes, yanking me against
my seatbelt. The truck careens ahead, gray smoke flaring from its wheels as it comes
around, screeching to a halt.
The rail held. It’s bent sideways and we’re leaning precariously toward the water,
but not over.
“Boss, are you okay?” The driver turns around. His name’s Tony? Or maybe
Michael? Good man, clever—
His head explodes and blood mists the interior of the car.
More bullets smash into the front windshield. I grunt, slipping down, snapping off
my seatbelt. The truck fires on our car, lighting it up. I reach into my jacket and grip
my gun, edging across like I’m slithering on my belly, barely reaching the handle
when the shooting pauses.
I shove the door open, but don’t get out.
The delay saves my life. More gunfire erupts, ripping into where I would’ve been.
I pop up and use the distraction. The windshield is mostly gone, leaving chunks
and spider-webbed pieces. I fire at the truck and land direct hits to where the driver
should be. Their glass is tinted so dark I can’t tell what’s inside, but I’m betting
whoever is behind the wheel is dead.
In the next lull, I throw myself sideways and out, this time scrambling to the back
of the car. The truck slews, wheels spinning out of control. It rams straight into the
railing. I open fire, not sure what I’m aiming at. Anger takes over and all I can think
is blood, is killing, is hurting those who tried to hurt me.
This is what I am at its purest. What I’ve always been, ever since coming home to
my house burning, my car slamming to a halt in the front yard. My hands burning as I
wrenched open the back door, my lungs bursting as I ran through the downstairs to
find my brothers, my arms screaming as I dragged them out. Silas crying, Devlin in
his arms; Kellan and Cassian clinging to each other, begging me to go back in for
Leanna. The interior of the back room suddenly collapsing, the force of it flinging me
into the yard. My brothers huddled together, sobbing, burned, coughing, bloodied.
The ashes of our life spread out before us.
I come up shooting, a snarl in my throat. The gun bucks in my hand. The truck
swerves, hits a sedan, goes spinning sideways. I walk toward it, shooting, shooting,
pausing only to reload. I ke ep squeezing the trigger as rage turns my vision red, or
maybe that’s the driver’s blood in my eyes. I still can’t remember his name.
The truck comes to a stop. The back door opens. I drop to a knee, aiming, as a
body falls out.
It’s a young man in a black jacket. He hits the pavement and drags himself. Blood
leaks from his throat. His jaw works, fear in his eyes.
I calmly cross to him and kick him in the teeth.
His face snaps sideways and he goes still.
The interior of the truck is carnage. The driver is dead. Another passenger is
trapped by his seatbelt, struggling to get it off. He screams, cursing, tries to raise a
gun. I shoot him in the face. His skull splatters more red across the seat.
Then it’s silence, followed by the distant wail of sirens.
I set my gun on the ground, get down on my knees, and put my hands behind my
head.
Theodora’s going to earn her retainer today.