Page 33 of Broken Honor

I don’t know where to look. My cheeks burn as they walk past me, their eyes lingering too long, too boldly. I fold my arms tighter around my chest.

They disappear around the corner, still laughing.

Rafaele leans out the open car window. His smile returns—sweet again, soft.

“Lunetta,” he says kindly, “come in, cara. It’s chilly.”

I hesitate at the edge of the pavement. “Could we… maybe talk outside instead?”

He chuckles, tapping the door panel. “But it’s cold, tesoro. Come on, I don’t bite.”

I swallow hard and step into the passenger seat, closing the door gently behind me.

The car smells strange—a mix of something sharp and sour, like old beer and peppermint. I notice a half-burnt cigarette in the ashtray, and two bottles clinking faintly in the backseat. One is open.

Rafaele notices me looking and chuckles again.

“Ah—don’t worry, that’s from my friends,” he says smoothly, waving a hand. “You know how they are. I don’t touch that stuff.”

But I catch the faint bitter tinge on his breath—it seeps into my nose, sharp and unmistakable.

I nod anyway, pretending to believe him.

He rolls the windows up, locking us in together, then turns toward me, resting his arm casually on the headrest behind my neck.

“I missed you all day,” he says softly. “You look beautiful. So soft. So good.”

I press my back deeper into the seat, trying not to blush.

“You always look like… something holy. Like a painting in a chapel. You know,” he continues, his voice lower now, almost husky, “a man could go mad thinking about you. Those lips, those curves…” His eyes drift down before returning to mine. “You don’t even know what you do to people.”

I shrink farther into the seat, trying to keep my knees pressed together, my hands folded tightly in my lap as if I can hide behind them. My blouse feels too thin now. My cardigan is too small. I’m suddenly too aware of my body, of how much space I take up beside him, of how his arm is draped so close it brushes my shoulder every time he shifts.

Rafaele’s voice turns syrupy. “You don’t have to be nervous, bella. I told you—I’ve wanted you for years.”

His hand drifts across the seat, grazing my wrist.

I pull my hand back gently, pressing it to my chest, but he just smiles like he finds it amusing.

“God made you soft,” he murmurs. “Made you perfect for a man to hold.”

Then he leans in again—closer this time—his shoulder nudging mine, his face tilting toward mine.

I try to pull away, turning my head, my breath catching in my throat. “I—I think we should talk more first—please—”

His fingers close around my neck—not hard, not choking, but firm enough that I feel the strength there. His thumb strokes beneath my jaw, and it makes my skin crawl.

“Don’t pretend it’s your first time,” he says softly, but the sweetness is gone now. His eyes darken with something else—something uglier.

“I—I’m not pretending,” I whisper, panic curling through my stomach, rising up my throat.

His face is too close, his breath tinged with alcohol. He leans in again, mouth open, and I turn my face sharply, trying to retreat against the door.

And then—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Three rapid, shattering bangs against the window behind him.

---