Page 122 of Beat of Love
“They sent you to Italy …” he said quietly.
Rafferty gave a slow nod. “Florence, to be exact. Luca Salvatore — the head of the Barbieri family — had escaped prison and gone to ground there. My mission was to eliminate him.”
Jonathan stiffened, barely containing his shock. “And did you?”
That faraway look crept back into Rafferty’s eyes. “Yes,” he said, flatly. Coldly. “And then I tracked down the men who came here — and I took care of them. I reached out to contacts from my time in prison. Sean didn’t last long after that. Fatal injury.”
He paused, then looked up, eyes blazing with something Jonathan couldn’t name — something fierce and final.
“And Pa,” Rafferty said, voice steady, “I don’t regret a single one of those lives I ended.”
Jonathan didn’t speak right away. He held his son’s gaze, seeing the steel beneath the sorrow, the edge beneath the exhaustion.
Finally, he leaned forward. “I can’t say I’m proud of what you had to do,” he said, voice low, steady. “But I’m proud you came back. Proud you’re still standing. You protected your family, son. Paid a hard price I wouldn’t wish on anyone.”
He reached across the small space and placed a weathered hand on Rafferty’s arm. “I won’t pretend it sits easy with me. But I know the world ain’t always black and white. And I also know this — your heart’s still beating. So, there’s still time to make peace with what you’ve done. Time to choose who you want to be now.”
He let that hang there, unsentimental but not unkind. Then his eyes narrowed slightly as he took in Rafferty’s damp shirt, clinging to his shivering frame. “Go shower,” he said gruffly. “You’re freezing, and you smell like roadkill.” He pushed his wheelchair back, but his gaze remained steady. “If you want, we can talk more later.”
Rafferty let out a breath, and with some effort, pushed himself up off the kitchen floor. He paused, glancing down. “Thank you,” he said roughly. “For still loving me.”
Jonathan didn’t look away. “Always have. Always will.”
Rafferty gave a short, wordless nod before turning away.
Jonathan said nothing, just watched the bowed line of his boy’s back, the way his shoulders slumped beneath the weight he carried. He felt it deep in his chest. That mixture of sorrow, pride, and helplessness a father knew too well. He didn’t call him back. Some burdens had to be walked off alone.
Besides, he had his wife to deal with.
“You can come out now, darlin’.”
There was a beat of silence. Then the pantry door eased open with a soft creak, and Branna stepped out, clutching the bag of flour she’d gone to fetch earlier tight to her waist like a shield.
Her eyes were red-rimmed, her face pale beneath its usual calm. She crossed the kitchen slowly, saying nothing, as if the weight of what she’d heard had added years to her stride.
She set the flour gently on the counter, then turned to face him fully.
“Oh, Jonny. Our poor boy,” she whispered, voice thick.
Jonathan reached out and took her hand, warm and trembling in his. He drew her onto his lap and let her curl into him. Holding her close, he pressed his cheek to her temple.
“I know,” he murmured. “But he’s here. And he’s talking. That means something. All we can do is love him, Branna. Just love him. No matter what he’s done.”
*
Brandy-Lyn stumbled out of the mudroom into the pale hush of early morning, walking fast with no destination. Just giving in to the need to move, to breathe. To get away.
She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. But when Rafferty tore past her veranda like the devil himself was on his heels — which, as it turned out, wasn’t far from the truth — she’d followed, heart in her throat.
Something in his demeanor had shaken her.
Not rage. Not fear. Something worse. Utter hopelessness.
So, she had trailed him to the Main House and slipped into the mudroom after him, meaning only to make sure he was all right. Instead, she’d overheard him unburdening his soul to his father.
Now she carried that knowledge. Aimless, she found herself at Elsa’s paddock, where the mare paced the fence line, restless and edgy as herself. Brandy stopped and leaned on the gate, watching.
The same man who had coldly admitted to “taking out” the monsters threatening his family had also coaxed trust from a broken horse.
