Definitelyhim.
The door clicks shut behind Leonardo like a coffin lid, and I’m left alone with the gorilla in black tape—Rafe,apparently. Enforcer, lapdog, whatever the hell he is. The second the Don’s gone, he doesn’t move to drag me out or bark orders. No. He just leans back against the table in front of me, crossing his arms like we’re about to have a nice little chat and not whatever the fuck this is.
I shift in the chair, tape still plastered across my mouth, fury simmering under my skin like acid. I curse at him immediately—loud, guttural, unintelligible. Probably sounded like a raccoon being strangled, but it was theeffortthat mattered.
“Mmm, yes,” Rafe murmurs, watching me with that smug, detached amusement that makes my blood boil. “You sound much better like this.”
I make another sound, more focused this time, pushing the words through gritted teeth. “Fffhhk you.” It’s garbled, yeah. But the message?Clear.
His smirk widens. Fuckingpredictable. Then he leans forward, lifts one hand, andpats my cheek.
Pats my cheek.Not a slap. Not a punch. A condescending, patronizing,insufferablelittle tap like I’m a misbehaving pet.
I groan furiously against the tape, thrashing in the chair, but he’s already straightening, already walking away like I’m not even worth the effort. Like heexpectedthis exact reaction.
He starts to turn—cool, casual, like this whole performance was just a minor inconvenience in his busy murdery schedule—and something in mesnaps. Maybe it’s the tape still glued to my mouth, or the ache in my arms, or the fact that I’ve been handled, dragged,threatened, and sat on like an obedient dog for over a day now.
So I do the only thing I can. I rear back and kick the fucking table. It screeches across the floor, metal legs shrieking against concrete, slamming into his thigh with a jolt thatshouldget a reaction. Should earn mesomething.A curse. A hit. A look.
But no. Rafe just stops. One step from the door. Then, in that same flat, heavy voice that feels like concrete being poured straight into my lungs, he says, “Let’s meet the rest of the family, golden boy.”
Like Ididn’tjust flip a fucking table at him. Like it’s brunch. Like we’re late. Like my little tantrum was nothing but wind in the room.
He unlocks the door and holds it open. And I sit there, tape over my mouth, whole body vibrating, heart hammering, absolutely seething—because the bastarddidn’t even look back.
I don’t move at first. Just sit there, fists clenched, glaring bloody murder at the back of his head. I don’t know what pisses me off more—how he said it, like I’m just another stray being paraded out for show, or how Iactuallywant to follow him just to figure out what the hell I’ve gotten myself into.
But eventually, I rise. My body aches, muscles trembling from the crash still gnawing at my spine, but I force myself to walk. Step by step. Right toward him.
He watches me.
I stop in the doorway, right in front of him. And Iripthe tape off my mouth with one rough, angry pull. It stings like hell, and I wince—fuck—but I don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing weakness.
Then I lift my chin and hiss, right in his face, “I hope the next dick you suck gets caught in your teeth, you stone-faced, overgrown fuckpile of daddy issues and repressed murder boners.”
His expression doesn’t change. Not even a twitch. But he takes a single step forward, and I suddenly forget how tobreathe. His chest hits mine, firm and deliberate, pressing me back into the cold metal frame of the door. I suck in a sharp breath, shoulders locking up, blood screaming in my ears.
He lifts a hand and with careful,calculatedease—he presses the tape back over my mouth. His fingers smooth the edges, and his thumb drags slow across it, right over my lips, warm and steady and controlling in a way that makes somethingdangeroushappen in my bloodstream.
My heart stutters and my dick—Yeah, okay,cool.Whole-body betrayal. Fantastic.
I stare up at him, stunned and all I can think is:Shit.
The air between us is razor-thin. He’s still so close, chest pressed to mine, breath steady while mine’s doing its best impression of a panic attack in slow motion. I’m pinned between him and the doorframe like something decorative—fragile and breakable andnot going anywhere.
The tape clings to my lips again, fresh and hot where his thumb smoothed it down, sealing me in silence like it’s the only language he speaks. My body’s lit up like I touched a fucking wire. I can feel his heartbeat in the space between us. Hell, I cancountit.
He leans in. “You sound better when you’re gagged,” he murmurs, barely more than a breath. “And I like watching you twitch.”
My pulse spikes. My whole body jerks—like I’ve been shocked, like Ishouldflinch away, but instead Ifreeze, eyes wide, lips burning under the tape.
He pulls back. Not all the way. Just enough to look me in the eyes—storm gray into blue, silent command into stunned defiance. Then he turns and walks off like he didn’t just whisper filth in my ear and tape my mouth shut like a fuckin’ punishment kink come to life.
And I just stand there. Hard. Glaring. Mortified.
I follow him silently, fuming. The tape’s still on my mouth and I refuse to touch it. Not because I’m afraid to rip it off again—Icould—but because I know he wants me to try. Wants me to fight it, mouth off again, give him another excuse to manhandle me like I’m a disobedient toy he gets to break in.
So I don’t.
