Page 23 of Raphael
His eyes search mine. "Annie, you just lost your virginity. Of course it feels intense right now."
"It's not just the sex," I insist. "It's you. It's the way you are with Marco. It's how safe I feel with you despite knowing I probably shouldn't."
He cups my face with one large hand. "You shouldn't feel safe with me. I'm the most dangerous thing in your life right now."
"I don't believe that."
"You should."
"Would you hurt me?" I challenge.
"Never intentionally," he says immediately. "But my life... the things I do... they could hurt you by proximity."
I place my hand over his heart, feeling its steady beat beneath my palm. "I'm willing to risk it."
He sighs, bringing his forehead to rest against mine. "We'll figure it out," he says finally. "Not tonight. Tonight, just let me hold you."
It's not a promise of forever. It's not even a promise of tomorrow. But as I curl against his chest, his heartbeat lulling me toward sleep, it feels like enough for now.
Whatever comes next, I know one thing with absolute certainty: I don't regret a single moment of what we've shared tonight. And from the way Raphael's arms tighten around me as we drift off to sleep, I think—I hope—he feels the same.
Chapter 9 - Raphael
I wake to sunlight filtering through the blinds, casting stripes of gold across the bed where Annie sleeps. She's curled on her side, the sheet barely covering her curves, her short hair mussed from sleep and sex. Dried sweat and other evidence of our night together cling to her skin, to the sheets, to me.
What the fuck have I done?
The question haunts me as I slip out of bed, careful not to disturb her. I find my briefs on the floor and pull them on, then move to the window, staring out at the morning. The neighborhood looks so normal, so peaceful. My neighbors heading to work, walking dogs, living ordinary lives untouched by the violence that defines mine.
Last night, I killed a man. Then came home and took the virginity of the twenty-one-year-old watching my son.
Two extremes of my existence, colliding in a way I never anticipated.
I hear the soft rustle of sheets behind me, the change in breathing that tells me Annie is awake. I don't turn immediately, needing a moment to compose myself, to decide what comes next.
"Morning," her voice is husky from sleep and screaming my name.
Now I turn, taking in the sight of her sitting up in my bed, the sheet pulled to her chest in a gesture of modesty that makes me want to smile despite everything. Her amber eyes are alert, watching me, looking for signs that I regret what we've done.
Do I? The answer should be simple. Yes, of course I regret crossing that line, putting her at risk, complicating ourprofessional relationship. But looking at her now, with morning light catching the gold flecks in her eyes, all I feel is a dangerous possessiveness. Mine, something primitive in me insists. She's mine now.
"Morning," I finally respond. "How are you feeling?"
She stretches, a slight wince crossing her features. "A little sore," she admits with a small smile. "But good. Really good."
I move to sit on the edge of the bed, still maintaining some distance. "Annie, we need to talk."
Her expression immediately becomes guarded. "You're going to tell me this was a mistake, aren't you?"
"No," I say, surprising myself with how quickly and firmly I reject that idea. "But I do need to make sure you understand what you're getting involved with. Who I really am."
She stares at me, then nods. "I'm listening."
I take a deep breath, organizing my thoughts. There's no easy way to have this conversation, so I decide to be as direct as possible.
"Dante’s import business is legitimate, but it's not his primary source of income." I meet her eyes directly. "We're part of what you'd call organized crime. The mafia, to be specific."
To her credit, Annie doesn't look shocked. "I figured it was something like that," she says quietly. "Last night, I remembered my dad used to talk about the Veneziano family. He said they controlled most of the city's north side."
