The night air clung to your skin like smoke as you stepped back into the estate. The cool marble floor whispered beneath your shoes, and the familiar scent of leather and wood polish met you at the door. The guards at the entrance stiffened at your arrival, but they didn’t speak. They never did. Not to you.

Being the wife of the most feared mafia kingpin in the country came with unspoken rules. One of them: never ask her questions she doesn’t want to answer.

You expected the house to be quiet. Empty.

You hadn’t expected him to be home yet.

But when you stepped into the living room, your breath hitched.

There he was—Rafe—leaning against the fireplace, one hand resting on the mantel, the other holding a half-empty glass. His blazer had been tossed over the arm of the couch, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows. The fabric clung to him, stained with something far too dark to be wine. Blood, likely. Old or new, you weren’t sure. You didn’t want to know.

He looked up.

Eyes cold. Unreadable. That glint of control—of quiet, simmering violence—hovered just beneath the surface.

“Where were you?”

His voice wasn’t raised. He didn’t shout. But it sliced through the silence with brutal precision.

You met his gaze, expression unreadable, and exhaled. “I needed air,”

“A message would’ve been enough.” He set the glass down slowly, deliberately, like a man trying not to break something fragile. “Do you have any idea what could’ve happened to you?”

You rolled your eyes and moved past him. “I’m not a child, Rafe. I can handle myself.”

“Not when someone’s watching you.”

Your feet stopped. Mid-step. A chill crept up your spine.

Rafe stepped closer, each movement precise, calculated, like approaching a wild thing that might bolt. “I got a call while I was out,” he said, voice lower now. “One of my men saw you get grabbed. Near the alley by the café.”

You hesitated. His eyes bore into you.

“He didn’t do anything,” you said after a beat. “Just… pushed me. Grabbed my arm.”

He looked down at you slowly, as if processing the weight of your words, then reached to brush your hair back—just a soft, familiar motion.

But you flinched.

It wasn’t on purpose. It wasn’t dramatic.

It was instinct. A reaction you couldn’t stop.

He didn’t speak right away. His throat moved, like he was swallowing something sharp and bitter. His gaze lowered—not in shame, but in silent fury.

“Did he hurt you?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. The silence answered for you.

He didn’t ask again.

Rafe turned away, calm on the outside—but you saw it in the tightness of his jaw, the way his fists clenched at his sides. His silence wasn’t stillness—it was a gathering storm.

He crossed the room, pulled open the drawer in the side cabinet. From within, he retrieved a sleek handgun. Checked the clip. Clicked it back in. Loaded. Ready.

“Where are you going?” you asked quietly, already knowing the answer.

He didn’t look at you as he replied. “To fix what he broke.”

“Rafe—he’s just some random guy—”

“He touched you. That’s enough.”

You reached out, grabbing his wrist, forcing him to pause.

“And if killing him brings war?” you asked, eyes narrowing. “Brings heat to your name? To this house? You’ll risk it all for this?”

That made him look at you. Really look.

“I’ve killed for less,” he said, voice flat. “But for you? I’ll risk everything.”

As the door slammed shut behind him, your shoulders sagged. You sank slowly onto the edge of the couch, the room still vibrating with the echo of his footsteps.

You whispered a prayer for the stranger in the alley.

But deep down, you knew—

No prayer in the world could save him now.