Page 8 of Raphael
"Always," I respond, though my thoughts briefly flicker to Marco. To what happens to him if something goes wrong tonight. To Annie, and how she would handle finding out who I really am.
We park a block away, and I help Dante with his jacket—a ritual that dates back to when I first started working for him. He straightens his cuffs, checking his reflection in the car window.
"Let's go make a statement," he says with a cold smile.
We enter the club easily, Dante's name getting us past the bouncers without question. Inside, the music is deafening, the crowd oblivious to what's about to happen. We spot Moretti in the VIP section, surrounded by his men and several women who laugh too loudly at whatever he's saying.
Franco's voice comes through my earpiece: "In position. Back entrance secured. We’re moving in."
Dante makes eye contact with me, a slight nod, and then strides directly toward Moretti's table. I follow two steps behind, hand inside my jacket, ready.
What happens next is something I won't be telling Marco about. Ever. Moretti's surprise at seeing Dante turns quickly to fear as he realizes what's happening. His security reacts too slowly. Franco's team has already neutralized the ones stationed at strategic points around the club.
We get Moretti into a back office, away from the crowd. The music continues to pound through the walls as Dante delivers a message that will never be repeated outside this room. And then, with cold efficiency, the problem of Vincent Moretti is permanently solved.
Forty-five minutes later, we're back in the car, driving away from a club where the party continues, the patrons unaware that the power structure of New York's criminal underworld has just shifted significantly.
"Clean exit," Franco confirms through the earpiece before signing off to handle the cleanup crew.
Dante sits in the back seat, checking his knuckles where the skin has split. "Drop me at Elena's gallery," he instructs. "She's working late."
"It's nearly midnight," I point out.
"She hasn’t been sleeping well. Nervous with the new exhibition," he explains. "Says working on it helps."
I nod, adjusting our route. Elena's art gallery is her passion, separate from the family business but protected by it nonetheless. A few minutes later, I pull up in front of the elegant storefront where lights still glow softly inside.
"Franco will meet us at your place after the cleanup," Dante tells me as he exits the car. "We need to go over next steps now that Moretti's out of the picture."
"My place?" I repeat, a knot forming in my stomach. "Tonight?"
"Problem?" Dante raises an eyebrow, “I’ll take Elena’s car”
I should mention that I have a new nanny who might still be at the house. I should warn him that there will be a civilian present. I should definitely make sure Franco knows not to discuss the night's events until we're alone.
But Dante is already greeting Elena through the gallery window, and I'm exhausted from the adrenaline crash, and frankly, I assume Annie will either have gone home by now since it's so late or will be sleeping in the guest room.
"No problem," I say instead. "See you there."
I’m exhausted and hungry. I stop to eat a nice, packed hotdog at a nearby gas station. All I want is to check on Marco, take a hot shower, and wash away the night's events. I text Annie that I'm on my way home but get no response.
By the time I pull into my driveway, Franco's black SUV is already there. He stands beside it, talking quietly with Dante who surprisingly arrived before me.
"Everything good?" I ask as I approach them.
Franco nods. "Cleanup is handled. No traces."
"Good." I lead them toward my front door, suddenly remembering that I never properly secured my home office before leaving this morning. If Annie got curious...
But no, she wouldn't. She seemed to understand the boundaries immediately, one of the things that impressed me about her.
I punch in the security code and push open the door, expecting a dark, quiet house. Instead, soft light spills from the kitchen, and the faint sound of music reaches us. A female voice hums along, unaware of our arrival.
Dante and Franco both tense beside me, hands moving toward their weapons.
"Wait," I hiss, suddenly remembering what I should have told them earlier. "That's—"
But it's too late. Annie appears in the hallway, a dish towel in her hands and a startled expression on her face as she takes inthe three of us standing in the entryway. Her eyes widen as she registers Franco's imposing height and Dante's cold stare.
