Chapter 3: Glass and Gunpowder

The burner phone Elena left me dug into my thigh through the waistband of the borrowed sweatpants. I hadn't checked the new contact yet. Her warning still rang in my ears from the closed office door, mixed with Raphael's low murmur like he was sharpening that damn blade of his.

I paced the living room instead, bare feet quiet on the marble. The city sprawled beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass, neon bleeding across the dark. My reflection glared back—small, messy-haired, wrapped in his jacket again because the penthouse chill had teeth.

My hands wouldn't stop fidgeting. I kept seeing the kitchen island from earlier, the way I'd come apart under him while hating every second of how good it felt. The USB drive she'd slipped me during that too-tight hug sat heavy in my pocket. No note. Just cold plastic and the kind of answers that usually came with more blood.

I plugged it into the sleek console, volume low enough the cameras might miss it. Grainy footage flickered on. My father's compound, the night everything went to hell. The east wing where I'd hidden with that steak knife like an idiot.

The camera caught what the smoke and panic had hidden from me. My father in the background, arguing with one of Victor Kane's guys before Raphael's team even breached. An envelope changed hands. Laughter that sounded too loud even through the tinny speakers.

Then Raphael's voice off-screen, clipped and sharp. "Secure the girl. No one touches her." Not the slaughter I'd remembered. Not quite. My stomach knotted tighter than the jacket sleeves around my fists.

The office door clicked open down the hall. I yanked the drive free and killed the screen, heart hammering. Two sets of footsteps headed my way.

Elena came out first, her bun a little mussed, color high on her cheeks. She wouldn't meet my eyes. Just gave Raphael a tight nod and headed for the elevator like this had been any other business chat.

"Cariña," she called over her shoulder, all honey for the cameras. "Don't forget to eat. You look pale."

The doors shut. Raphael stayed in the hallway mouth, sleeves rolled up, that fresh bite mark on his palm still raw. His eyes locked on me instantly. They always did.

"What did she give you?" His voice stayed even but that rasp had gone deeper. He crossed to the kitchen, poured black coffee even though midnight was creeping up. The bitter smell cut through the air between us.

I shrugged, arms wrapping tighter around my middle. "A hug. Some cousin bullshit about staying strong. You were watching."

He sipped slow, gaze never leaving my face. Those almond-shaped eyes missed nothing. "I was. And I saw your shoulders lock up when she whispered in your ear."

Heat crawled up my neck. I turned to the glass, pretending to study the skyline I'd sketched earlier and hidden between book pages. My pulse wouldn't settle. The footage played behind my eyes—my father making deals with the devil while Raphael gave orders to pull me out alive.

Part of me wanted to shove the USB at him and demand the truth. The smarter part remembered Elena's burner message: kill him. Remembered how I'd sobbed his name on that island anyway, legs shaking around him.

"She's playing us both," he said quietly, setting the mug down with a soft click. "Your family's legacy isn't worth the bodies they're willing to burn for it."

I laughed, short and bitter. "And yours is? The underboss who collects cartel princesses like trophies?"

His reflection appeared beside mine in the glass. Tall, broad, that slight mess in his black hair from running frustrated fingers through it. He stopped a careful distance back, but I still felt the heat coming off him.

"I collect survivors," he corrected. The words landed softer than they should have. "The ones too stubborn to die from their own stupid choices."

His phone buzzed. Once. Twice. The change hit him like a switch—shoulders squared, jaw tight enough to cut steel. He answered without a word, listened ten seconds, then swore low in Japanese. The sound slid down my spine.

"Safehouse on Seventh got hit. Kane's crew. I'm going."

My mouth went dry. The idea of him walking out—of me alone in this glass cage with nothing but cameras and my own fracturing head—sent panic skittering through my veins. I hated that it did.

"You'll stay on this floor," he said, already moving toward the bedroom he used as an armory. I followed despite myself, watching him strap on a shoulder holster with quick, practiced moves. The gun looked wrong against his crisp shirt. "Security's tripled downstairs. No one comes up without my direct say-so. Touch nothing that isn't yours."

He paused by the dresser, fingers hovering over the empty sheath where his antique tanto usually sat. The blade itself was still in my room from last night. His ritual piece. He grabbed a different knife instead.

"Raphael."

The name slipped out. He froze, back still turned. The quiet stretched until my lungs burned.

"What?" When he faced me, the underboss mask was back. Not the man who'd draped his jacket over my bare shoulders after wrecking me on the counter.

I bit my lower lip hard enough to taste copper. "Don't get killed. I still need answers."

Something crossed his face—half smile, half pain. He closed the distance in two strides and caught my jaw with that marked hand. His thumb brushed the blood on my lip, smearing it.

"Careful, princesa. That almost sounded like you care."

Then he was gone. The elevator took him and the tension dropped like a weight. The penthouse lights dimmed to night mode, leaving me in the city's sickly neon glow.

The panic hit twenty minutes later.

It started as that old tightness in my chest from the raid night. Hands shaking. I tried organizing the kitchen drawers—forks by size, then by color—but the noise only made the shadows worse. Every hum sounded like boots on marble.

I slid down the glass wall, knees up tight, jacket suddenly too heavy. "Fuck," I wheezed, forehead pressed to my legs. Tears burned but I held them back. The cameras didn't get to see this. He didn't get to watch me break on replay.

The elevator chimed at 2:17 a.m.

I scrambled up, swiping at my face. Raphael stepped out looking like he'd been dragged through hell. Jacket missing. Shirt torn at the shoulder, dark blood soaking through. Hair wrecked, fresh bruise blooming on one cheekbone. He moved with that same predatory grace but slower now, each step costing him.

Our eyes met. His mask had cracked clean open. Exhaustion carved lines around his mouth. His shoulders curved in just a fraction, like the weight had finally landed.

"You're hurt," I said. My voice cracked.

He grunted and headed for the kitchen. I followed before I could talk myself out of it. He stripped the ruined shirt one-handed. The wound was a ugly graze along his collarbone, still leaking. Older scars marked his dark skin—one near his ribs that looked like a bullet had gone straight through.

"Kane's getting bolder," he muttered, grabbing the whiskey bottle. He drank straight from it, throat working. "Lost two men. Third is in surgery."

I should have felt good about that. Weakness in the man who'd burned my world. Instead my chest squeezed with something too close to worry. The leftover panic mixed with this new urge to put my hands on him.

"Let me clean it." The words surprised me more than him.

His gaze snapped up. "You know how?"

"My father wasn't always careful with his temper. Or his associates." I fetched the kit from the bathroom before he could argue. My hands had steadied. Small win.

He sat on the stool at the island where he'd made me come twice hours ago. The memory heated my face as I stepped between his knees. Up close he smelled like gunpowder, sweat, and that cedar that used to star in my nightmares. His breath hitched when I dabbed antiseptic on the raw edge.

"This needs stitches," I said. The gash showed pink underneath. My stomach didn't roll. I'd seen worse lately.

"Do it." His voice had gone rough. Not from pain. When I glanced up, his eyes had gone dark, locked on my bitten lip.

I threaded the needle, pulse loud in my ears. Each stitch tugged his skin closed. He didn't flinch. Just watched me like I was a puzzle he couldn't solve. The air between us felt thinner than it should. His bare chest rose inches from my breasts. The bite mark I'd left on his palm earlier stood out vivid against his skin.

"Why did you stop them from killing me?" The question fell out between careful pulls of thread. "Really. Not the asset line."

His free hand brushed my waist where the jacket hung open. The touch stayed light. It unnerved me more than his usual bruising grip.

"Because your father sold you out to buy himself time with Kane. And because three years ago at that gala you looked at me like I was every nightmare you'd ever had, then lifted your chin anyway." His thumb traced my hipbone through the fabric. "I don't kill women with that kind of spine."

The needle slipped. He hissed but held still. I finished the last stitch, pulse roaring. The words hung there, heavier than the whiskey on his breath. This wasn't the cold underboss. This was someone cracking open just enough to scare me.

I taped gauze over it, fingers lingering on the warm skin. His heart beat steady and strong under my palm. Too close. Too real.

"Tatiana." My name came out rough, like both prayer and warning.

I looked up. His face filled my vision, eyes searching mine until I felt stripped naked. The panic from earlier had burned off, leaving only this raw, terrifying want. I still hated him. I just wasn't sure that mattered anymore.

He kissed me first.

Slower than the kitchen. Careful, like he thought I'd break. His lips moved soft against mine, tasting of whiskey and exhaustion. I made a small sound and pushed up on my toes, one hand fisting his hair, the other careful on his good shoulder.

The stool scraped back as he stood, lifting me. My legs wrapped around his waist. The jacket slipped off one shoulder. He carried me to his bedroom without breaking the kiss. The door shut behind us.

We didn't reach the bed.

He pressed me to the wall instead, cool surface shocking my heated skin. His mouth moved down my throat, teeth grazing just enough. I arched into him, feeling how hard he was through his slacks. The fresh stitches didn't slow him. If anything, the pain seemed to feed the desperation in his hands.

"Tell me to stop," he growled against my collarbone. He shoved the sweatpants and underwear down my hips in one move. Cool air hit my soaked center and I whimpered. "Tell me this is still hate."

I couldn't. The words stuck. Instead I reached between us, stroking him through the fabric until he cursed in Japanese, low and filthy. The vibration went straight through me.

He freed himself, thick and hot. No games this time. He notched at my entrance and thrust up, burying himself in one smooth stroke.

We both groaned. The stretch burned—my body still sore from the kitchen—but the fullness felt necessary. He held still a moment, forehead to mine, breath ragged.

Then he moved.

Each thrust pulled broken sounds from my throat. Deeper than before. More dangerous. His injured shoulder flexed with every roll of his hips, stitches pulling tight. I held onto his neck, careful of the wound, and let him fuck me against the wall like we were both running from the same ghost.

"Look at me," he demanded, voice wrecked.

I did. Those intense eyes held mine as he drove into me again and again. No masks. Just raw need and something that looked too much like worship. My orgasm built slow and merciless, tightening with every perfect drag against that spot inside.

When it hit, I sobbed his name—Raphael, not Yamamoto. The word tore free as I clenched around him, dragging him over with me. He buried his face in my neck, hips stuttering as he came deep, curses sounding like surrender.

We stayed locked together, breathing hard. His legs shook a little from the strain. The wound had reopened; a thin line of blood seeped through the gauze and streaked my skin. He carried me to the bed anyway, collapsing beside me without pulling out.

His fingers traced lazy circles on my thigh, almost tender. The touch made my chest ache in ways I couldn't afford. Part of me still wanted to shove him away. The rest wanted to crawl inside his skin and stay there.

"Your father—" he started, voice rough with exhaustion. Then stopped. His body went rigid against mine.

I waited, heart in my throat. This was it. The truth that would blow everything open.

But he rolled away, slipping free with a wet sound that made me flush. The sudden emptiness left me aching. He sat on the edge of the bed, back to me, dragging a hand through his hair until it stuck up in spikes.

"Never mind," he muttered. The mask slid back into place. "Get some sleep."

The dismissal stung more than it should. I pulled the sheet over me, suddenly cold. My body still buzzed but my mind was already spinning. What had he almost said? Why pull back now?

He stood, wincing as the stitches pulled. The sight of his naked back—scars, fresh wound, clean lines of muscle—twisted something low in my gut. Hate and obsession. I couldn't tell them apart anymore.

I grabbed his discarded jacket from the floor and pulled it over me like armor. His scent wrapped around me immediately. Safety and threat in one cedar-laced breath.

The security panel chimed. Red lights flashed across the ceiling. Raphael's head snapped up, all softness gone. He grabbed his gun from the nightstand.

"Stay here," he ordered.

But the alarms kept screaming. I wrapped the sheet around myself and followed anyway. The living room strobed red, turning everything into a nightmare.

The elevator opened.

Not an army. Just a small drone hovering in the doorway. It dropped something metallic onto the marble with a clatter, then zipped back into the shaft before security could react.

Raphael reached it first. His shoulders went deadly still. When he turned, his face had gone ashen under the bruise.

In his hand was the leather sheath to his antique tanto. The one he'd left behind as a twisted gift last night. The blade itself was gone.

His eyes met mine across the flashing red chaos. Real fear lived there for the first time.

"Kane has the blade," he said, voice flat. "And he wants you. Personally."

The alarms kept wailing. My bitten lip throbbed in time with my heart. The USB, the almost-confession, the way I'd come apart for him—all of it suddenly felt like kindling for whatever came next.

Whatever fragile thing had cracked open between us tonight had just been thrown straight into the fire.

And I still didn't know which side I was on.