Page 179 of Rosetti Family New York
"Okay."
The word slips out as easily as a secret, and I let the tattooed man guide me away from the wall. We weave through the crowd, past all the noise and chaos, and out of my own head.
I can't help but think Maddy would be so proud of my flirting success.
We are almost at the door when a blur of movement catches my eye. Suddenly, Rafaele is there, grabbing the tattooed man by the collar and hurling him against the damp concrete wall. Standing over him, Rafe is dark and intense, every muscle coiled with purpose, radiating a deadly energy that makes my breath catch.
The basement suddenly feels still and heated. I can hear my heart pounding as the crowd parts to give us room. The tattooed man scrambles up, cursing under his breath, while Rafaele's hands clench into fists in his black leather gloves. His voice drops low, angry, bouncing off the concrete walls around us.
"Nobody in this room is good enough to talk to Sloane Carter, asshole. Least of all you."
Rafaele's fist strikes out, hard and precise, right into the guy's jaw. The tattooed man's head snaps back, his eyes wide with shock. Before he has a chance to react, Rafaele hits him again, once, twice, the blows landing with the force of a freight train. Blood splatters against the wall, and I feel a wild thrill of horror and fascination as I watch, frozen in place. I've never seen violence like this up close. It's raw and unfiltered, nothing like how I imagined.
Rafaele doesn't let up, doesn't pause, just keeps at him until the man is nothing but pulp on the floor. My heart is racing, and I can't tell if it's fear or excitement making me so breathless.
Rafaele watches him for a moment, then turns his gaze on me. I catch the tension in his jaw and step close enough to feel the heat behind his anger, even the roughness of his breath. The confined space of the basement makes his presence even more overwhelming, like he's taking up all the available air.
"Is that the best you can do, Carter?" he asks.
"I'm not the one who just turned a human into mince meat."
I'm breathless, and I can't figure out why. Something to do with this monster of a man stepping in to protect me. And with the fact that it works. He makes me feel safe.
I stand my ground, a playful challenge in my tone. My heart pounds in a rhythm that has nothing to do with fear as I move closer to him, close enough to catch the metallic tang of blood and the heated scent of his skin.
"Didn't like the competition?"
What the hell is wrong with me? Why am I inciting this monster to violence? Why am I riling him up? And why am I stepping closer to him when I should be running away?
"I don't play games," he replies, his voice icy.
Though his tone sends chills down my spine, I feel no cold, only the warmth of having gotten under his skin. I try my bestfor an innocent look, wide-eyed and sweet, even though my pulse is racing.
I avoid looking at the bloodied mess on the floor, which now has several people hovering over it, but we both know what I'm talking about.
He steps even closer, but I don't back down. Our bodies are inches apart now, and I can feel the heat radiating from him, can see the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. The basement's cramped quarters make it impossible to ignore his physicality, the way he seems to fill the space around me.
"Go home, Sloane."
"I thought—" I begin.
"You thought wrong. I can't help you," he interjects, pausing as a flicker of something—maybe jealousy or regret—crosses his eyes and makes my heart skip. "And neither will anyone else in here. Not now."
Well, that seems true enough. No sane person would leave with me after witnessing Rafaele's response.
"Leave it alone, Carter. Go back to your normal life and forget any of this ever happened."
I stand there, waiting for him to change his mind, waiting for his anger to fade until Rafaele is just Rafaele again.
"I'm never giving up," I say, quietly, but I know he hears me.
Rafaele stares at me. He beckons someone over and tells them to get me home safe, then, with one final look at me, he turns his back and disappears into the crowd.
Well, fuck him. If he thinks I'm giving up on clearing Maddy's name, he's even crazier than he seems.
As I watch him go, I can still feel the phantom heat of his body near mine, can still smell the leather of his gloves and the faint trace of cologne beneath the sweat and smoke of the underground fighting ring. I hate that my body reacts to him, hate that even as he walks away, my eyes follow him, drinkingin the confident set of his shoulders, the dangerous grace of his movements as he navigates through the basement crowd.
Worst of all, I hate that a part of me wants him to turn around, to come back, to decide I'm worth helping after all.
