We arrive at the grand ballroom, crystal chandeliers casting warm light over the crowd of the city's elite. Rafael works the room like he was born to it, moving from group to group with practiced ease. I trail behind him, watching as he greets what feels like half of the business world - faces and names blur together until they become a sea of expensive suits and forced smiles. I didn't realize the man was this popular, though I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. Power attracts attention like moths to flame.

The night settles into a strange kind of quiet as we sit alone at our table, waiting while the other guests mingle elsewhere in the room. We haven't exchanged a single word, the silence heavy with unspoken things. I won't dare break it, not after what happened last time I tried to comfort him when he opened up to me. The memory of his cruel withdrawal still stings.

I reach for my glass of champagne, the bubbles catching the light like tiny stars. As I take a sip, his voice cuts through the ambient chatter of the party.

"What's your favorite color?"

The question is so unexpected that I choke on my drink, the champagne burning my throat. "What's my what?" I manage between coughs, my eyes watering.

"Your favorite color," he repeats, examining his own glass with an air of studied casualness that doesn't fool me for a second. He's wearing that maddeningly neutral expression that makes it impossible to read his thoughts.

"White," I reply carefully, deciding it's safer not to point out how bizarre this sudden interest in my preferences is.

"How was your own childhood like?" The question hits me like a physical blow, making my chest tight. But before I can gather my scattered thoughts, he quickly adds, "Don't answer that." His voice carries an edge of something I can't quite name.

My heart swells traitorously even as anger simmers beneath my skin. I clear my throat, determined to answer anyway, but before I can get two words out, his hand closes around my wrist. The warmth of his grip sends sparks up my arm as he turns me to face him. "I said don't answer it," he repeats, a dark blaze in his eyes that makes my breath catch.

"It wasn't all bad until my mom left," I tell him anyway, something in me desperate to share this piece of myself with him - not just anyone, but him specifically. The words taste like courage and fear mixed together.

"That's enough. It was a stupid question. Drop it." His fingers tighten slightly on my wrist.

The tears are already gathering, turning the chandelier lights into starbursts. Years of buried pain push against my carefully constructed walls. "Then the beatings began, and the night visits," I whisper, feeling a tear escape down my cheek, leaving a warm trail in its wake.

"You don't have to tell me," he says softly, his thumb catching the tear with unexpected gentleness.

"I know, Rafael. I want to." My voice wavers as I give him a small, wobbly smile. What he does next breaks the last of my control - he pulls me into his chest, strong arms wrapping around me like a shield against the world, and I shatter. Sobs wrack my body as years of stored pain finally find release.

When he pulls back, his next gesture steals my breath. His lips brush my closed eyelids, feather-light. "These are only supposed to shed tears of pleasure and not pain. Please stop crying, little rebel." His hands cradle my face, and when I open my eyes, I find him looking at me with a softness I've never seen before. His lips hover just inches from mine, still carrying the ghost of his earlier kiss. The urge to close that distance is nearly overwhelming, but the memory of this morning's cruelty wars with this moment of tenderness. How can he be such an asshole one minute and then touch me like I'm something precious the next?

I pull away from his touch, pushing my chair back with trembling hands. My legs feel unsteady as I stand. "I need to go to the restroom," I manage, turning to flee toward what I hope is the right direction. In my haste, I collide with someone, the impact nearly knocking me off my heels.

"I'm so sorry," I start to apologize, but strong hands grip my arms, spinning me around and shoving me against the nearest wall. The marble is cold against my back through the silk of my dress.

"Melina, so nice to see you," Mr. Xiao Zhan's voice slurs, his alcohol-heavy breath hot against my face as he leans in far too close. His expensive suit can't mask the predatory intent in his stance.

"Sorry, it's not Mel. I'm her sister." My voice comes out steadier than I feel, even as my heart pounds against my ribs.

"Same thing," Mr. Xiao growls, slamming his palm against the wall beside my head with enough force to make the nearby artwork rattle. I jump, my heart threatening to burst from my chest. His expensive cologne can't mask the sharp scent of alcohol rolling off him in waves. "You would probably taste as good as her."

My brows furrow at his words, but my eyes fly wide open the next instant as I feel his saliva on my neck – hot, wet, and violating. Revulsion floods through me, my stomach turning as disgust fills my chest like ice water. I channel every ounce of strength I have into my arms and shove him away from me.

The alcohol making him unsteady works in my favor – he stumbles back without much resistance. I don't wait to see if he'll recover his balance, bolting down the hallway, my heels clicking frantically against the marble floor. My pulse pounds in my ears as I finally spot the bathroom door; salvation just steps away.

But just as my fingers brush the handle, another hand clamps around my wrist. Terror surges through me like electricity. My body reacts on pure instinct – twisting, pulling, fighting against the grip with desperate energy until a familiar voice cuts through my panic.

"The fuck, Frankie?" Rafael's confused voice makes me freeze. I look up to find his dark eyes studying my face, concern bleeding through his usual stern expression. Relief floods through me so fast it makes me dizzy – thank God it's him. For a heart-stopping moment, I'd thought Mr. Xiao had found me again.

"Sorry, thought you were someone else," I manage to say, trying to pull my hand from his grasp, but his fingers remain firmly wrapped around my wrist. The heat of his touch is nothing like Mr. Xiao's, but right now even that feels like too much.

His eyes narrow dangerously. "Why the fuck would you have reacted like that to someone else?"

"No reason," I lie, but my free hand betrays me, instinctively moving to cover the spot where Mr. Xiao's mouth had been. I realize my mistake instantly as Rafael's expression transforms – that same murderous rage I saw the day Diego hit me darkens his features like an approaching storm.

He doesn't ask permission, doesn't say a word as he reaches up and moves my hand away. The tender skin of my neck feels exposed, vulnerable under his scrutiny. I watch as the rage in his eyes transforms into something terrifying – a controlled fury that promises violence, like a volcano moments before eruption. His jaw clenches with each word, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper: "Who. The. Fuck. Did. That?"

I part my lips, but no words come out. My mind races to find a way to defuse Rafael's anger, but before I can piece together a coherent thought, the idiot whose life I was trying to save appears at the end of the hallway.

"Melina, why would you leave before we've begun?" Mr. Xiao's drunken voice echoes off the marble walls as he staggers toward us. Rafael's gaze shifts between my face and Mr. Xiao, and in that moment of recognition, time seems to freeze. I blink, and suddenly, there's a flash of silver – a knife sailing through the air, slicing across Mr. Xiao's lips with surgical precision, sending him crashing to the ground.

A gasp tears from my throat, my trembling hand flying to cover my mouth. The metallic scent of blood fills the air, making my stomach turn.

"Next time, you will think first before you put your fucking mouth on what's mine," Rafael's voice is terrifyingly calm as he grabs Mr. Xiao's tongue and severs it in one clean motion. Blood sprays in an arc across the cream wallpaper. I squeeze my eyes shut as crimson gushes from Mr. Xiao's face, his muffled screams of agony bouncing off the walls. The wet sounds of suffering turn my knees to water.

Rafael turns back to me, his pristine suit now splattered with red droplets. "Which hand did he use on you?" he asks, already reaching for Mr. Xiao's right hand. The brutality of what I'm witnessing makes everything feel surreal like I'm watching a nightmare unfold in slow motion. The marble floor seems to tilt beneath my feet as my mind struggles to process what's happening.

A distant part of me recognizes the danger we're in as Mr. Xiao's screams echo through the hallway. The sound jolts me back to reality. "Rafael, stop – someone will hear!" My voice comes out strangled as I move toward him, my designer heels slipping slightly on the marble floor, but he dismisses my panic with chilling indifference.

"I guess both it is," he says with deadly certainty, driving the blade through first the right hand, then the left. The sound of metal piercing flesh makes bile rise in my throat.

"Rafael!" My scream echoes off the walls as I stand frozen, horror and something else – something I don't want to name – coursing through me. "Please stop!" Mr. Xiao's anguished screams intensify, blood pooling around him like spilled wine on the white marble.

Finding strength in desperation, I lunge forward, grabbing Rafael's arm and pulling him into the women's bathroom. The lock clicks just as a woman's scream pierces the air outside. Thank God I moved fast enough. I lean against the door, panting, my heart thundering against my ribs as I pray no one saw him. The bathroom's bright lights feel surreal after the darkness of what just happened.

"So you weren't lying this morning," Rafael says softly, reaching out to brush away a strand of hair that's sticking to my face, his bloodstained fingers a stark contrast to his gentle touch. Sweat beads at my hairline, the events of the last few seconds making me feel feverish.

"What are you talking about?" I ask, confusion furrowing my brow as I try to process how he can be so calm.

"You actually care about me," he says, and I close my eyes, rolling them to the back of my head in disbelief.

"You just brutalized a man in public, and you're worried about if I truly care about you?" The words come out breathless, incredulous.

"So if it was in private, then it's okay," he says, and I freeze, his words hitting me like a physical blow. A knowing smirk curves his lips as he watches realization dawn on my face. "My little rebel is becoming more and more interesting every day." His fingers trace my jawline as I struggle to process the implications of my own reaction.

"Come, it's best we leave in the chaos," he says, reaching around me to unlock the door. I follow without resistance, my mind still reeling as I confront the truth I've been avoiding: I just accepted Rafael's violent nature – his whole dark world – without hesitation. What the hell does that say about me?

The sound of running footsteps and panicked voices filters through the door, but all I can focus on is the warmth of Rafael's hand on my lower back, guiding me toward our escape. The man who just mutilated someone is now treating me with impossible tenderness, and what terrifies me isn't the violence I just witnessed but how easily I've accepted it - accepted him - all of him.

RAFAEL

The familiar comfort of my home office wraps around me as I lean against the mahogany desk, the bourbon burning a welcome path down my throat. Julio stands by the window overlooking the manicured garden, moonlight casting shadows across his face as we discuss the night's events. Frankie's footsteps had barely faded down the carpeted hallway after I sent her to her room before Julio appeared, wanting details about the bloodshed at the party.

"Do you regret it?" Julio asks, his eyes studying my reaction. Though he wasn't there tonight, the way his jaw tightens tells me he's already forming contingency plans.

I swirl the amber liquid in my crystal tumbler, watching it catch the light. "No," I reply, the truth of it settling in my chest like a weight.

Julio nods, his shoulders relaxing slightly. "Fine with me. Don't worry about it. I will handle it. His brother and I go way back, so I'm sure we could work something that won't include more bloodshed." The mention of Xiao's older brother – the iron-fisted head of their crime syndicate – hangs heavy in the air between us.

"Thank you," I say, taking another long pull from my drink.

"You're welcome, Capo." Julio pauses, shifting his weight. "And before I leave, I want to ask – did she forgive you?" The question about Frankie and yesterday's incidents makes my fingers tighten around the glass. Julio's never held back his disapproval of how I handled that situation, even pushing for something as absurd as an apology – a word that's never crossed my lips in my entire fucking life.

"No," The word comes out barely above a whisper, scraping against my throat.

"You better." Julio's voice hardens. "Frankie didn't deserve that shit from you yesterday. I'm sure the only reason she is still putting up with you is because she doesn't have a choice. Under different circumstances, she would have left your ass, so apologize." His loyalty to her well-being, while admirable, starts to grate on my nerves.

I turn to face him fully, arching an eyebrow at his boldness. "I hope you know she's not my fucking girlfriend but my pet." The words taste bitter even as I say them.

"Yes, but she's also human, and what you did was horrible even for you." His unflinching stare challenges me to deny it.

"So what, you expect me to go to her and say sorry? Like fuck that's happening." I drain my glass, the alcohol doing nothing to dull my frustration.

"Of course not. I didn't even think you knew how to say those words." A hint of dark humor crosses his face. "Apologize in another way, but make your intentions known."

"My earlier words still stand. She's my pet." The declaration sounds hollow even to my own ears.

"And so does mine. She's a human being; wasn't supposed to be treated like a dog." Julio's voice carries an edge of steel now, reminding me why he's my second in command.

I run a hand through my hair, frustration building. "Fine, fine. What did I do then? Because, for the love of God, I have no single clue as I have never apologized to someone before."

"Do something nice for her." He makes it sound so simple.

"Like what?" The question comes out more desperate than I intended.

"I don't know, but think, and if you still can't come up with something, then just fucking talk to her." His practical advice somehow makes this feel more impossible.

"Fine, I will," I concede, exhaustion from the night's events finally catching up with me.

"Good, see you later." Julio claps my shoulder as he passes, his footsteps echoing down the hallway as he leaves me alone with my thoughts and an empty glass.

I remain in my home office, nursing my fourth glass of bourbon, Julio's words echoing in my mind. The clock on the wall ticks past midnight as I finally admit defeat – I have no idea how to do this any other way than just saying the words I've never spoken before.

Rising from my leather chair, I make my way up the curved staircase to Frankie's room. The house is quiet except for my footsteps on the marble floor. Her door is slightly ajar, moonlight spilling through her window and across her sleeping form. Even knowing she's a light sleeper, I decide to proceed – maybe her half-asleep state will make this easier for both of us.

The mattress dips slightly as I take my seat on the edge of her bed. My fingers find her hair, stroking the soft strands with a gentleness that surprises even me. Her eyes flutter open, confusion melting into something softer when she recognizes me.

"Sleep," I murmur, continuing the soothing motion. She complies without resistance, her eyes drifting closed again, but the slight tension in her shoulders tells me she's still awake.

I clear my throat and turn toward her window, finding it easier to speak to the darkness outside than to her. "I thought you wouldn't do it. It wasn't my intention to humiliate you that way. I never meant for it." The words stumble over themselves as I circle what I really need to say. Frankie maintains her pretense of sleep, giving me the privacy to struggle through this. Thank fuck.

"I'm sorry." The words finally escape my lips, feeling foreign and heavy in the quiet room. They seem to hang in the air, and for a moment, I wonder if I've made a mistake. But then I feel her warm hand slip into mine, giving it a gentle squeeze that speaks volumes more than words could.

I lift her hand to my lips, pressing a kiss against her knuckles. "Good night, little rebel," I whisper, rising to my feet. As I walk out, I can't help the small smile that tugs at my lips – my little firecracker has forgiven me, and somehow, the world feels a bit more right.