Page 189 of Made for Sinners

Because maybe I had.

EPILOGUE

RAFE

The warehouse air hung thick with salt and secrets.

I checked my watch—3:27 AM. Right on schedule.

My footsteps echoed against the concrete floor, each step deliberate, the sound sharp in the cavernous space. The overhead light swayed gently, casting shifting shadows across the metal walls and the man slumped in the chair at the center of the room.

Giovanni Abate.

He looked smaller than I remembered. Older. His once-pristine suit was wrinkled and stained, his salt-and-pepper hair matted with sweat. His left eye was swollen shut, a deep purple bloom spreading across his cheekbone. Leo’s handiwork. Efficient, as always.

I stopped a few feet in front of him, the silence stretching between us like a blade.

“You know why you’re here,” I said.

Not a question.

His good eye blinked open, bloodshot and glassy, and found mine. “Rafe,” he rasped. “Please. This is a mistake.”

I didn’t respond. Just slipped off my jacket and folded it neatly, placing it on a nearby crate. The Beretta at my back shifted as I rolled up my sleeves, each movement slow, methodical. Controlled.

Order, even in chaos.

It’s what separates us from animals.

“You’ve been working with the Irish,” I said, my voice even. “Helping them make their moves on our ports. Moving their product. Undercutting our shipments. Feeding them intel.”

Giovanni’s head dropped. “I didn’t?—”

“Don’t lie to me,” I said sharply, and the sound of it cracked through the room like a whip. “We traced the containers. The manifests. The bribes. All of it leads back to you. 10 of your men are dead after that explosion!”

He started shaking. “They threatened my family. My son—he’s just a kid. They said they’d?—”

“We all have families,” I said, stepping closer. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to be afraid? To want to protect what’s yours?”

He looked up at me, his voice trembling. “Then you understand.”

“I do,” I said quietly. “But I also understand loyalty. And you chose them over us.”

The drip of water somewhere in the distance punctuated the silence that followed. I drew the Beretta from my waistband, the weight of it familiar, grounding.

Giovanni’s breath hitched. “Rafe, please?—”

“I’m not doing this because I want to,” I said. “I’m doing this because I have to.”

He started to cry then. Not loud. Just quiet, broken sobs that echoed off the walls.

“I’ll make sure your son is looked after,” I said. “He’ll get through school. Your wife will be taken care of. You were family once. That still means something.”

“Then don’t?—”

I raised the gun.

He closed his eyes.

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