Page 10 of Rafi

But as I push off the wall and make my way back to Cassie, I can’t shake the feeling that Rafi Gatti is going to be harder to ignore than I’d like.

7

RAFI

Ilean against the bar, my drink barely touched, the glass cool against my fingers. It’s the third time this week I’ve come to Obsidian, and already I hate the place. Around me, the club hums with life. Women drift toward me, like moths to a flame, their laughter high and practiced, their movements deliberate. Each one gets a faint smile before I inform her that I’m waiting for my girl to arrive. The ones that are brazen enough to suggest they keep me company until she does are the ones that fall flat on their asses when I tell them tonight’s the night I’m asking my girl to marry me.

The ones that touch me…well, let’s just say I slip on my mask and don my best behavior; if there’s one thing I can’t tolerate, it’s people who think it’s okay to get touchy without invitation. It’s all I can do to keep from reaching out and snapping their fingers. I am, after all, a fighter. I just have to remind myself constantly that I’m not in the ring.

I take a sip of my drink, my eyes scanning the room, even as the latest girl keeps rambling on, refusing to take no for an answer.

“Maybe you just haven’t realized who you’re waiting for yet.” She leans closer, her hand resting on my thigh. It’s a move meant to provoke, but I swallow back the revulsion I feel building inside me. I gently lift her hand, placing it back on the bar top.

“Sorry,” I tell her, my voice firm but not unkind. “Not interested.”

Her lips press into a thin line, and she mutters something under her breath before she slips away. I don’t watch her go. My attention is elsewhere, my focus sharp as I scan the crowd for a particular face.

And then I see her.

She’s on the far side of the room, leaning casually over a table full of people who look like they’re hanging on her every word. The light catches her dark hair, her profile sharp and striking against the chaos around her. She’s talking to someone—a pretty blonde—but her posture is tense, her gaze distant. For a moment, I wonder if she’s noticed me at all. It’s not often that I come across a woman that’s not interested in me; that may be my arrogance talking, but it’s true.

As if in answer, the pretty blonde chucks her chin in my direction, and Tayana Kamarov stands to her full height, her eyes shifting before they lock onto mine. It’s brief, a flicker of connection across the crowded club. Her expression doesn’t change, but there’s a flash of recognition in her eyes before she turns away, disappearing into the throng of bodies surrounding her. Almost like she can’t believe I’m here again; almost like she’s running away.

I exhale slowly, setting my drink down on the bar. She’s watching me just as much as I’m watching her. Although it would seem she’s watching me for an entirely different reason to mine. She’s hiding. She’s hiding herself. She’s hiding something. But the question is why. She doesn’t know me, and yet she’s keeping her distance as if she knows exactly who I am. It’sfrustrating. Intriguing. And exactly why I need to talk to her. I’m sure she’s the key to finding Maxine Andrade.

I push off the bar, weaving through the crowd. The air is thick with heat and the scent of sweat and alcohol, bodies pressing close as I make my way toward where I last saw her disappearing into the crowd. The strobe lights flicker, making it harder to track her in the shifting sea of faces. Still, I search, my jaw tightening with determination.

I’m not here to play games. I want answers. I’ll stop at nothing to get what I came here for, and Tayana Kamarov is my best lead, my only real connection to Igor Aslanov. If she knows something about Maxine, about the man she was with that night at the fight, then I can’t afford to let her slip away.

A hand grabs my arm, pulling me to a halt. Another woman, this one petite with bright red hair, smiles up at me. “Dance with me, gorgeous,” she says, her tone teasing and insistent as she hops from one leg to the other, and I can’t help but groan in irritation.

“I’m looking for my girl,” I say, and it’s not a total lie.I am looking for a girl.

“Honey, I can be your girl. I can be your Little Bo Peep. Just say the word, handsome.”

I shake my head, annoyance flaring, then gently extricate myself from her grip. She pouts but doesn’t follow, and I continue my search.

Finally, I spot Tayana again. She’s moved closer to the edge of the dance floor, her movements putting more of a distance between us. As I approach, her gaze locks onto mine for the briefest second before shifting sideways. Her attention lands on a group of men—musclebound and intimidating. Bodyguards. They step in without hesitation, forming a wall around her, daring anyone to come closer. Including me.

For a moment, our eyes meet again. This time, there’s something else in her expression—a challenge, maybe, or a warning. And then she turns, slipping into the crowd once more, her figure swallowed by the mass of dancers.

I exhale slowly, frustration coiling beneath my skin like a taut spring. She’s guarded, calculated, and maddeningly out of reach—all of which only confirms one thing: she’s hiding something. Whatever it is, it’s important enough to warrant the kind of fortress she’s built around herself.

Her entourage, a wall of muscle and loyalty, makes it clear that getting close to Tayana Kamarov won’t be as simple as I’d hoped. No, if she doesn’t want to talk, she won’t. She’s slippery, intentional in maintaining her distance, and it only cements my suspicion—she’s the key. Secrets that well-protected are rarely insignificant, and I’m determined to uncover every last one of hers.

I step back, retreating to the edge of the room where the shadows are deeper. From there, I watch, my sharp gaze scanning the crowd, waiting for her to reappear. I’m patient. Determined. Tayana might think she’s the one in control, but control only lasts so long in our world.

She’s hiding something. And I’m going to find out what.

I takeanother sip of my drink, the burn of whiskey barely registering. Tayana is here, and for some reason, so am I. Again.

“Hi,” a voice lilts, sweet and almost hesitant, like it’s not used to being ignored.

I blink, turning to the woman who’s just slid into the seat next to me. She’s striking, all curves and confidence, her platinum hair styled like something out of a vintage movie reel.Marilyn Monroe, I think absently, and the resemblance pulls at a corner of my memory, but not hard enough.

“I’m Cassie.” She laughs softly, and it’s the kind of sound that expects an answer, so I nod, letting the ghost of a smile cross my face. But only because it’s the blonde who I’ve seen with Tayana every time I come to Obsidian.

Cassie doesn’t let the silence linger. “You don’t remember me, do you?” she presses, leaning in just enough for her perfume to cloud the space between us. “We went to college together. I was two years behind you.”

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