Page 27 of Rafi

“You don’t understand the kind of mayhem that will create,” I say, breaking the silence. My voice is sharper than I intend, but the thought of leaving with him makes my chest tighten. “They’ll be knocking on your door and dragging me out before you know it.”

He smirks, the corner of his mouth lifting like this is some kind of joke. “I think I can handle a couple of muscle heads,” he says, reaching up to twirl a strand of my hair around his finger.

My breath catches. It’s such a small thing, the way he does it, but it feels intimate, disarming. I take a step back, needing space to gather my thoughts. “Or my father will be on the next plane, ready to make an example out of you before I can blink.”

That makes him pause. His eyes narrow slightly, his amusement fading into something more serious. “Now, your father,” he says, his voice dropping lower, “he’s a different story.”His gaze flickers from the lock of hair in his hand to my face, lingering. “Your father…he’s the one who owns your hand.”

The words land heavily between us, the air between us thick with unspoken words. My pulse quickens as I search his face, trying to read the thoughts hidden behind his dark eyes. We’ve barely spent any time together, not enough to warrant this kind of conversation. And yet, there’s a gravity in his tone that tells me he’s not joking. He’s serious about us.

Before I can respond, he straightens in the seat, the playful glint in his eyes replaced by something sterner. “You’ll call me,” he says, his tone brooking no argument.

I cross my arms, more for comfort than defiance. “I will. And then you’ll leave.”

“And…?” he prompts, his head tilting slightly, waiting for me to finish the thought.

“And then you’ll have my number because you clearly planned this whole thing when you programmed your number into my phone,” I say, arching a brow at him.

He laughs, the sound low and rich, sending a shiver down my spine. He doesn’t deny it, which only makes me more flustered.

I glance toward the house, nerves twisting in my stomach. The lights are still on, and I can almost picture the men inside—watchful, suspicious, ready to pounce the moment I step through the door. They’ll have questions, sharp and probing, and the last thing I want is for Rafi to get caught up in their scrutiny.

“I mean it, Rafi. Don’t hang around,” I say, my voice softer now.

He tilts his head, the smirk fading into something gentler. “I’ll leave when you’re safe inside.”

There’s no point arguing with him. I can see it in his eyes, the quiet resolve, the unspoken dare. He’d win, and we both know it.

Slinging my bag across my chest, I step back, but something keeps me rooted for just a moment longer. “Thanks,” I say quietly, my voice barely more than a whisper.

“For what?” he asks.

“For…this.” I gesture vaguely, not sure how to explain what I mean. For the ride. For the escape. For making me feel like just a girl, not Tayana Kamarov.

He nods, his gaze holding mine. “Anytime, Tayana.”

I turn and walk toward the house, my steps slower than they need to be. The closer I get, the heavier the air feels, the weight of the world pressing back down on my shoulders. At the corner, I glance back, unable to help myself.

He’s still there, leaning against the bike, one hand on the seat, the other resting casually in his lap. The way he watches me makes my heart stutter, a part of me aching to run back to him, to climb on the bike and let him take me anywhere but here.

But I can’t.

I force myself to keep moving, my head held high even as my heart pulls in the opposite direction. His gaze follows me until I disappear into the shadows, and I hate how much I feel the loss of it, even though he’s just a block away.

Inside, the questions will come, sharp and insistent. But for now, I let myself hold on to the memory of the wind on my face, the solid warmth of Rafi in front of me, and the feeling of freedom I’ve almost forgotten.

17

RAFI

The lead is all we’ve got—a thread so thin it feels like a taunt rather than a lifeline. Dock 42. A shipment that could possibly be tied to a Russian. It circles my mind like a storm cloud as my boots crunch over the gravel, Jayson Caluna flanking me, his unease practically radiating in the cool night air.

“You sure about this?” Jayson murmurs, his eyes darting toward every shadow.

“No,” I admit, gripping my weapon tighter. “But if Igor Aslanov’s here, we can’t afford to miss him. He’s our only link to Maxine.”

Jayson mutters something under his breath, but I cut him off with a sharp look. The truth is, this doesn’t feel right. The air is thick with something more than the salty tang of the docks—something darker. But I can’t shake the thought of Tayana, of her voice when she gave me this tip. She sounded sure. And I can’t help but feel that this might be the break we’ve been waiting for.

We move deeper into the maze of shipping containers, their towering forms throwing jagged shadows under the dimfloodlights. The quiet is oppressive, too perfect, the kind that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.

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