Page 83 of Rafi

His words hit harder than any punch Milo threw tonight. I nod, even though I’m not sure what thatsomethingis yet. But I know I can’t stay here, lying on the mat, waiting for the pain to fix me.

Because ultimately, it won’t.

With Kanyan’s arm steadying me, we leave the cage. The fight isn’t over—not by a long shot. But for the first time in a long time, I feel like I might have the strength to face my demons head on.

“She left me.”

The words tumble out before I can stop them, yet they don’t feel like a release. Instead, they wrap around me like an ill-fitting coat, scratchy and suffocating. I glance at Kanyan, searching for some semblance of understanding, but his expression is neutral, his hands steady on the wheel. He’s so emotionless, I wonder if he’s ever had his heart pulled out of his chest.

For the past hour, he’s driven us through the city in a silence so thick it seemed to echo with all the things I couldn’t say. Now we’re parked outside the Gatti estate, shadows swallowing the car as if we’ve been forgotten by the world.

Kanyan breaks the silence. “You know her better than anyone, Rafi. Is she really the kind of person to walk away from her life’s work without a damn good reason?”

The question hits me like a slap, stirring a mix of emotions I can barely name. Anger? Guilt? Longing? Did I even really know her in the first place? If I knew her, I should have beenable to see this coming right? I run a hand through my hair, my frustration escaping in a sharp exhale. “It’s been three weeks, Kanyan. Three weeks without a word.”

He shrugs, his calm infuriating. “Time doesn’t change who she is. She’ll be back.”

“Maybe she’s not running from her work.” My voice drops, bitterness seeping into my words. “Maybe she’s running from me.”

The possibility has haunted me since the day Tayana disappeared. It tears at me, sharp and relentless, like a blade against raw flesh. I’ve replayed every moment, dissected every conversation, searching for the moment I might have driven her away. But the truth is elusive, slipping through my fingers no matter how tightly I try to hold on.

Kanyan lets out a low chuckle, but there’s no malice in it. “There you go again, feeling sorry for yourself. Let’s get one thing straight, kid: self-pity won’t get you anywhere. Now, I’ve got a proposition for you.”

His words pull me out of my spiral, curiosity sparking faintly in the fog of my despair. Kanyan has a way of commanding attention, his voice steady and deliberate, like a man who always knows where he’s headed. I sit up a little straighter.

“Scar wants me to go to Ukraine,” he says, his gaze fixed on the empty street beyond the windshield. His fingers tap a slow rhythm on the steering wheel. “To bring Jack Vicci back.”

“Why you?” I ask, genuinely curious. “That’s grunt work. Family heads don’t do grunt work.”

Kanyan’s lips twitch into a small smile, but his focus doesn’t waver. “Jack Vicci isn’t just anyone. He’s important to Jacklyn, and by extension, to the family. Scar wants to make sure he gets back safely, and I’m honored he thinks I’m capable of handling it.”

I lean back, studying him. Kanyan exudes a quiet confidence, the kind that comes from years of proving himself in a world that demands nothing less than perfection. It’s not jealousy I feel—at least, I don’t think it is. It’s more like a gnawing hunger, a need to show my worth, to prove that I’m more than just a shadow trailing after my brothers.

“Good for you,” I mutter, the words tasting sour even though I mean them.

Kanyan turns to face me fully, his dark eyes sharp but not unkind. “Kid.” Kanyan’s voice is smooth, consoling. “I see you. I do. And I see so much of me in you. You’ve got a lot of potential, Rafi.” He pauses, letting the words sink in. “I wasn’t always where I am right now. “I started at the bottom, just like you. The difference is, you’ve got something I never had.”

“What’s that?” I ask, my voice quieter than I intend.

“Brothers.” The word hangs in the air, heavy with meaning. “Good men who have your back. Let that be your guide. Lean on them, learn from them, and you’ll find your way. You’ve got time, kid. Don’t squander it.”

His words settle over me, a strange mix of comfort and challenge. I want to believe him, to trust that my time will come. But the question lingers, gnawing at the edges of my mind: How long will it take? How long before I can stand beside my brothers as an equal, not just the kid brother trying to prove himself in a world that knows no mercy?

The darkness outside seems to press closer, but for the first time all night, it doesn’t feel quite so suffocating. I push open the car door, the chill of the night air biting against my skin as I step out. The weight of Kanyan’s words clings to me, heavy but grounding. I inhale deeply, the sharpness of the cold burning my lungs, and for a moment, I feel alive—raw, exposed, but alive.

“See you tomorrow,” I whisper into the night, before I make my way into the emptiness of my house.

47

RAFI

The narrow, winding road seems endless as it climbs higher into the mountains, the dense canopy above casting dappled shadows over the rugged path. A home—if it could be called that—emerges suddenly, perched precariously at the edge of a rocky outcrop. It is a stark structure of stone and glass, blending into the harsh yet breathtaking landscape. The silence of the mountains is profound, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves in the wind.

Inside, the air is cool and crisp, scented faintly with pine and leather. The large windows flood the space with natural light, casting long shadows over the polished wooden floors. And there he sits, Jack Vicci, in a sleek black wheelchair that seems more throne than necessity. His presence fills the room, a quiet command that speaks louder than any words might have.

His dark eyes lock on us as we enter, and though his features are sharp, his expression is unreadable. He looks... untouched by the devastation his body has endured. The slight tilt of his head, the way his hand rests deliberately on the armrest, all speak of a man who has not surrendered an inch of his authority.

Around him is a small, efficient army—a nurse standing behind him, handling the chair, a physical therapist quietly preparing equipment in the corner, and a personal aide standing at attention. Despite their bustling presence, the room revolves around Jack. They may be here to aid him, but it’s clear he directs their every move, even without the benefit of speech.

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