“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?”
“Gino and his pathetic excuse for a wanna-be-mafia have been muscling in on our territory for years,” he says. “His old man worked with Shen back in the day. They were partners, but lately, the bastard’s gotten too cocky. He has a deal extending from his shitty club all the way to the top. Cops. Politicians. They come to his club for pussy and pay through the nose for it—but that’s just the start of it. You see these cops, in return for the shit they get away with, overlook whatever happens in Gino’s part of town. Murders. Disappearances. Everything. The fish rots from its fucking head—they’re all in on it.”
Anger leeches into his voice that was absent when he spoke of his uncle. Whatever his issue with Gino is, it’s personal.
And he seems to feel that same animosity toward the police.
“You doubt that?” he prods, sensing my discomfort. “Your precious Bran is one of them. You ever hear him talk about hanging around Stella’s?”
His tone is cutting—he wants a fight. Rather than give him one, I turn my attention to a pile of toppled frames in the corner and stoop to salvage what I can. Which isn’t much. Only one casing is wholly unbroken, containing the snarling image of a wolf with mistrustful eyes.
It reminds me of Branden. For all I know, he could be in the cruiser still parked outside. I’m torn between alerting Rafe to its presence or just letting the inevitable take place.
The more I run, the harder he’ll give chase.
“This is beautiful,” I murmur, spotting another drawing, clinging to the distraction it provides.
“That bother you?” Rafe calls, like a shark catching a whiff of a drop of blood. “That your perfect boyfriend—that Bran could be a part of that shit? Trust me, chances are more likely than not that he is, bunny—” a fact he seems to gloat over. “Maybe you don’t know him like you think you do.”
“I know Bran better than anyone.” And that’s why I’m shaking. Why the back of my throat feels tight with the threat of vomit. I know Bran.
Could he be involved in something so heinous? Ironically, Rafe hit on the answer himself—the chances are more likely than not.
“Come here,” he commands.
As I advance toward him, he withdraws the gun, presenting it to me on the flat of his palm. I jump, but the look in his eye banishes any alarm I might feel.
“You think the bastard cares about you,” he says, once again reading me like an open book. “But he didn’t even teach you to fucking shoot? A cop should be good for that much.” He jerks his chin, daring me to inch closer.
The second I’m close enough, he snatches my waist with his free hand, spinning me so that my back hits his chest as he lowers the gun before me.
“Grab it.”
I do with both hands, hating the weight of it. The power conveyed in the trigger.
Disgust inspires another confession from me, “I never wanted to learn.”
Rafe laughs. “Fuck that. You need to. Hold it like this—” he guides my fingers into the right positions. “The gun isn’t bad, bunny. Just make sure that you never point it at something you aren’t willing to destroy. Kill. It’s the intent that matters. Like when you write those pretty little words of yours—but in this case, there is only one conclusion to take away.”
“And what’s that?” I whisper.
“That you decide what happens next,” he says, coaxing me to aim at the wall near one of his still hanging sketches—a snarling dragon. “You are in control of good or bad. It’s all on you. So, learn how to take the safety off at least.”
He demonstrates how with a few flicks of his thumb. Then he pulls away entirely, and I turn to find him stowing the weapon behind the counter.
“You seem comfortable with that,” I deduce as my brain taunts me with why that might be. “Have you shot someone before?”
He grunts, palming the counter. “Don’t ask me questions you don’t really want to know the answer to.”
Fair enough.
“Do you teach all of your women how to operate a weapon?” I ask.
Let alone in, as he put it, “broad daylight,” in the middle of his vandalized shop. The fact that the police aren’t swarming this place stuns me. A glance through the shattered door reveals no one in sight. The city itself might as well be deserted.
And the idling cruiser never does anything more than that. Wait.
“Teach the others? No. Only the sexy little bunnies who play out the innocent shtick,” he counters. But his tone is too hard to be mocking. He’s still on edge. Worried.
“What’s wrong?”
He meets my gaze from over his shoulder. “What happened just now? That was just a
