I scarcely dare to breathe as I wait for it, my skin tingling with anticipation.
Then he clears his throat and takes a step back, releasing me.
The space between us yawns open, sudden and cold, and my heart sinks sharply as the moment fractures, leaving me standing there with the devastating realization that pretending to be with Raf no longer hurts because I can’t stand to be around him.
It hurts because I want it to be real.
22
RAFAEL
The butcher shop smells like iron and old sawdust, a scent I’ve known since childhood. The Top Chop is one of the businesses my father floated years ago, back when Chicago still remembered who protected it.
It was a mutually beneficial agreement the two came to, since Luigi Bennati is one of those men who never could seem to stay away from the appeal of fast money and hot dice.
But since the cash flow on our end has taken a minor dip, Luigi’s services have become much more erratic—and his penchant for spending beyond his means is starting to cause problems.
Which is exactly what brings us here today.
The Murray brothers—always up for a bit of roughhousing—decided to tag along with us this time as Sandro, Miko, and I pound pavement, reclaiming territory, block by block, door by door, calling in long-overdue debts that didn’t stop existing just because Don Augusta’s heart quit.
Most of the shop owners have seemed relieved to see us.
That part might surprise people who don’t understand how this city actually works.
Honest businessmen like stability.
They like knowing whom they owe and what they get in return. From the Chiaroscuros, it’s respect and protection.
But in our absence, the Tanakas have squeezed too hard, doubling payments and threatening families when the local shopkeepers couldn’t pay up.
Protection starts to feel too much like extortion without the courtesy of keeping the people safe—and that’s what our benefactors have been facing since the Yakuza invaded our territory.
Now that we’re back in power, my men are more than willing to make up for lost time, bringing to rights all the violence and intimidation the residents of our territory have faced in our absence—especially if it means they get to bleed some Yakuza scum.
So, when we walk into a local business, most men straighten their backs and exhale like they’ve been holding their breath for months.
But not Luigi Bennati.
As soon as we step through the door, the ruddy-faced butcher stiffens behind the counter, eyes darting, hands already damp with sweat, and immediately, I know this conversation is going to be an unpleasant one.
Despite the near constant distraction I’ve been wrestling with since Sunday, I can clock the silent signals of his nerves.
Luigi’s always been more trouble than he’s worth, in my opinion.
My father used to say he gambled the way some men prayed—desperately and without sense.
And based on the stricken look on his face, I’d say that’s exactly what he did with the sum of money he borrowed from my father shortly before the old man kicked the bucket.
“Afternoon, Luigi,” I say, keeping my tone casual. “I hope you’ve been enjoying your interest-free loan these past few months because today, the bill’s come due.”
“L-Loan?” Luigi stammers, wiping his sweaty hands on his gore-stained apron.
Sandro steps forward, all sharp angles and quiet menace. “You borrowed forty thousand from Don Augusta. You’re six months overdue.”
The butcher licks his lips. “I thought… I thought, with what happened to your father… God rest his soul…”
“What, you thought that the Chiaroscuros were finished?” Miko prompts.