Page 54 of Married to the Enemy

He turned toward the one-way glass, knowing senior brass were watching from behind it. “Evidence needs to be gathered as Calvino is picked up. No leaks. No chatter outside these rooms. If he gets wind of what’s going down, he’ll tie up every loose end with a knot around the person’s throat.”

The officers nodded solemnly. The gravity of the moment settled over them, stripping away the earlier amusement.

It took hours to get everything wrapped up. Hours of scrambling to get agents in place, quiet phone calls, warrants signed under fluorescent lights. Barry’s files were exactly where he said they’d be, bottom drawer, neat as a bookkeeper’s ledger. Every detail written out by hand, like a proud tally of his crimes. Every deposit, every falsified invoice was perfectly logged and filed. The sedatives were in a locked cabinet and the crime scene crew discovered Vito’s fingerprints on the outside of the container, further implicating him in the conspiracy. Barry’s record-keeping was so meticulous, it was like he wanted someone to see how clever he was.

When Vito Calvino was picked up, it was done silently. His guards didn’t move to help him. His capos stayed away. That told Raffe everything he needed to know—Vito’s power wasn’t solid. Fear wasn’t loyalty, and fear alone never lasted long.

Even so, no one celebrated. Not the detectives, not the uniforms, not even the FBI team. A mafia boss was still a mafia boss. Vito had connections. He had reach. If word got out, jurors could be bought, witnesses threatened, families destroyed.

Raffe knew it too well. That was why, as Calvino was arraigned under the tired eye of a judge who’d stayed late just to see it through, he didn’t feel relief. Only wariness.

Because this wasn’t an ending. This was a beginning.

Chapter 40

Raffe drove home, nodding to the officer standing sentry as he turned up the driveway. The quiet of the night felt oddly deceptive, a sharp contrast to the storm still racing through his head.

Vito Calvino, Barry Trello, and Jim Fuller were locked away, but that didn’t mean the fight was over. Not by a long shot. The forensic accountants had already unearthed enough damning evidence to bury Calvino ten times over, but men like Vito had money to burn and lawyers who could spin fairy tales for juries. Raffe had seen it happen—killers painted as misunderstood pillars of their community, liars recast as saints while the prosecuting attorneys and witnesses were described as vendetta seekers.

Even more concerning, there was going to be a scramble for power. Every capo in Calvino’s organization would be sharpening his teeth, vying for the empty throne. That meant more violence, more chaos, more innocents caught in the crossfire.

But the moment Raffe pushed open the door and stepped into the cavernous foyer of Evangeline’s house, all that fell away. He paused, his hand still on the knob, allowing the warmth to wash over him.

There was something about this house—something he’d never once felt walking into his own tiny apartment. It wasn’t just bricks and plaster. It was alive with hope. With stubbornness. With laughter and grit. With family.

Freddy. That kid was tougher than half the men Raffe had worked cases on. Freddy wasn’t just fighting for his legs; he was fighting for his future, clawing his way toward a normal life that most kids took for granted.

And Evangeline—he truly adored that woman. She was chaos draped in pearls, an adorable menace. But the way she looked after Freddy, the way she teased and cajoled him into trying harder—Raffe’s chest clenched every time he caught the two of them encouraging each other. She wasn’t frail at all. She was steel wrapped in lace, and he finally understood why Mia guarded her so fiercely.

And Mia…

Damn, he loved her. Every time he thought of her honesty, her stubborn courage, those dark, soulful eyes—something deep and strange shifted in his chest. She was his compass, his anchor, his everything. Her plan had been insane, reckless, but she’d done it for love. She’d risked everything for her grandmother, and somehow, it had worked. That kind of fire, that kind of loyalty—he couldn’t look at her without feeling something he’d never thought he’d deserve.

Her life hadn’t been easy either. She’d spent years dodging her father’s reach across Europe, surviving on grit and ingenuity, living like a fugitive. Until she’d found out her nonna needed her—and she’d come back to face down the monster who’d raised her. Raffe respected her. Admired her. Wanted her in ways that made his blood simmer and his soul ache.

“Raffe?”

Her voice came softly from the shadows, a balm against the storm raging in his head.

He turned toward it and found himself stepping into the formal living room. They almost never used this room. It was too stiff, too polished, to be comfortable. But tonight, it was transformed. Mia was on the sofa, Freddy’s head pillowed on her lap. On the right, Evangeline was tucked into the wingback chair, her chin tipped forward on her chest, lips parted in sleep.

The sight stopped him cold.

“What are you guys doing in here? You should all be in bed,” he asked, and his voice came out rough, gravelly. He told himself it was the late hour, the fatigue of the day. But he knew the truth. His throat was tight because his family had waited up for him. Because they’d worried about him. Because this was what family did.

His family.

And in that moment, standing there with exhaustion seeped into his bones, Raffe realized something—he didn’t want to walk into empty apartments anymore. He didn’t want to live out of duffel bags and stakeout vans. He wanted this. This chaos. This stubborn old woman, this broken but brave boy, this fierce woman with eyes that stripped him bare.

He wanted them. Forever

“We wanted to be here when you came back to us,” Mia whispered, her hand stroking Freddy’s hair in slow, soothing sweeps.

Raffe came closer, then dropped down to one knee in front of her. She looked exhausted—her hair was pulled back into a messy bun that had half-drooped to the side, strands escaping to frame her face. Her makeup was gone, her lips dry, but somehow, she looked more beautiful than ever. Beautiful in a way that stole his breath away.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Her dark eyes blinked at him. “For what?”