Page 10 of Flame
By the time I regain my senses, I’m already inching down the short hallway on the first floor, tensing in expectation of what I might find beyond it. The smell reaches my nostrils first—coppery, fresh…
“R-Rafe?” From my vantage point, I can only make out the shattered front door at first—the source of much of the glass scattered across the floor. Anxiety builds with every step I take.
Near the counter, I spot a sight that almost makes me drop the item in my grasp. Rafe—upright, clutching at his chin. Overwhelming relief blinds me to anything else. Like self-preservation. I pick through a sea of broken glass to reach him on bare feet, heedless of the risk.
“Are you okay?” The words have barely left my mouth when I realize that he isn’t. Blood is gushing from his lower lip. A lot. He may need stitches, though I’m already setting the gun aside and winding up the hem of his shirt to use as a makeshift cloth.
“I’m fine,” he grunts, shrugging off my attempts to dab away the blood—until suddenly he isn’t. We’re face to face, toe to toe, and I suck in a breath, my hands frozen with his shirt lifted high enough to expose my stomach. For once, he drops the bravado. His face reveals everything—every emotion he’s hidden so well until now.
Fear.
“They were here about the fire,” I deduce, dabbing at his jaw as I remember how to move again. “And Faith.”
He dodges my touch, his eyes narrowing. “I guess I told you to eavesdrop this time, so the joke’s on me.”
“Yes,” I say thickly. “So, stay still.”
He grudgingly submits to the ministrations but snatches the gun and slips it into his pocket. Thankfully, a split lip seems to be the extent of his injuries. Not that knowing as much stops my fingers from running over his forearm without my brain telling them to, searching for any hint of damage there.
When I reach his shoulder, he gently bats my hand away, swiping at the remnants of blood with his bare hand. “It’s broad fucking daylight, and those assholes camehere,” he hisses, sounding more incredulous than infuriated. “Even you were smart enough to grab a weapon, though I don’t know how you’d shoot it with the safety on. Shit. You know it as well as I do—this is about more than a fucking fire, bunny.”
“Tell me, then,” I demand. The back of my neck prickles with an awareness of just how dangerous a request this is.
Some monsters and their secrets are best left in the dark.
Regardless, watching his dark eyes scan the carnage of glass scattered at his feet triggers the same instinctive pull that I felt the night when I stole his lighter. In a childish sense, I’d believed I’d been protecting it from him. What had my rationale been? Some monstersdeserveprotecting…
“I want to know,” I insist. The hitch in my voice contradicts that confidence. To steel myself, I tiptoe back into the hall in search of the one task I can do as I await his response. I find the broom where I’d left it. Grasping it in both hands, I return to the front and get to work sorting out the pieces of glass too small to pick up.
It’s monotonous work—nearly distracting enough to shield me from his presence. He’s watching me, his gaze like a laser, piercing through flesh and bone.
“What do you want to know?” he asks, though I get the sense that he’s mocking me.
I look back to find his gaze far more serious than I expect, though.
Sighing, I lift my shoulders. “Everything.”
He leans against the counter, letting his lip bleed freely. Confidence enhances him, until he’s a giant, invincible amongst a sea of destruction.
“My uncle calls his outfit ‘red dragon’ though he’s not stupid enough to broadcast it. Most of the people around here know he’s dirty. They just don’t know how.” His gruff inflection conceals a dare.
One I warily take him up on. “So how?”
“Extortion, money laundering. Worse,” he says with a coarse laugh. Shaking his head, he runs his fingers through his hair. “I can’t believe I’m fucking spilling the dark family secrets to a nosy little bunny. You still could be a fucking reporter.”
But he’s talking to me. Deep down. I suspect that he needs to do just that. Talk. To someone. Anyone.
“He has a protection racket going, but it’s just pocket change,” he says. “His real money comes from real estate these days. Cleaning up his image so he can make a jump into politics. To hear him tell it, he’s too ‘reformed’ to get his hands dirty anymore.”
“Do you?” It chills me to the bone that I don’t truly know what I’m asking. Dirty hands could refer to so many things.
Judging from the distant, cold gleam in his eyes, I suspect that none of the answers he could give I’d find reassuring.
“I work for him,” he says softly. “Take that however you fucking want. Does that make me his errand boy? Probably. But he promised me he’s getting out of the business soon. Besides, he’s family.”
But there’s more to it, apparent in what he doesn’t say.
“So what happened with Gino?”
