Page 244 of The Devil's Thorn
He didn’t answer right away. We turned down another quiet street, the hotel rising in the distance, just visible beyond the old iron lamp posts and trailing ivy.
Then— “I care about exactly one thing,” he said. “And I already have it.”
My stomach tightened. I hated the way that answer settled in me. Hated it because itfelt good. Because part of me—maybe the part I’d buried deepest—wanted to believe him. To believe that being wanted like this wasn’t a curse, but a crown.
I exhaled through my nose and said nothing. The hotel was getting closer now. I could see the entrance lit up ahead, the marble steps and heavy glass doors waiting like the end of a chapter neither of us would admit we were writing.
“You really think this is going to end the way you want it to?” I asked, not bothering to hide the challenge in my voice.
He looked at me. Unbothered. “No,” he said. “I think it’s already too late for either of us to walk away.”
The closer we got to the hotel entrance, the more the world started creeping back in. Streetlights humming. Traffic rumbling faintly a block over. The soft buzz of a city that never truly slept.
But none of it reached me. Not after what had just happened. Not with the way Rafael walked beside me—calm, unreadable, as if desecrating a church and cutting through me like sin wrapped in silk was just another night for him. Maybe it was.
The marble steps of the hotel glowed under the entrance lights, casting long shadows over the pavement. And there—leaning against one of the thick pillars just outside, phone pressed to his ear, was Yuri.
He was saying something low, fast, his free hand gesturing like he was in the middle of a negotiation. Black shirt rolled at the sleeves, tattoos peeking beneath, the usual glint of mischief nowhere in sight tonight.
But he looked up when he saw us. His gaze flicked from me… to Rafael. And whatever words had been on his tongue? Vanished.
Because Rafael didn’t say a word. He just looked at him. A single, flat glare.
Yuri’s mouth twitched—but he didn’t speak. Just lowered his eyes slightly, gave a tiny nod, and turned his back on us, pacing a few steps further into the shadows to finish his call.
I didn’t say anything until we passed through the doors. The lobby was quiet. Muted gold lighting spilled across marble tile. Staff behind the front desk glanced up, recognizing him instantly. I ignored them.
“Does he know?” I asked under my breath.
Rafael didn’t glance at me. “He doesn’t need to.”
“Would he care?”
“He’d know better than to show it.”
The elevator doors slid open with a quiet chime. We stepped inside, the space still and gleaming, the soft instrumental music buzzing like static in the background.
I pressed the button for our floor, then crossed my arms, leaning back against the mirror-lined wall. His reflection stood beside mine, composed. Always watching.
“What time is the Naples shipment coming in?” I asked.
His eyes slid to mine, assessing. “Why do you want to know?”
“Because it involves Bratva routes through Sicilian ports,” I said. “Which means potential bottlenecks if that new customs head isn’t handled.”
He paused. Then, a single nod. “It’s scheduled for two nights from now. Early morning. Port of Pozzuoli. And he’s already handled.”
“The customs guy?”
“Gone. His replacement will wave it through.”
“And the product?”
“Split container,” he said. “Half legal. Half not. Paperwork’s clean.”
I raised a brow. “That’s risky.”
“Only if it gets flagged.”
