Walking a Thin Line

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The office was quiet except for the faint hum of the city below, the skyline glowing against the ink-black night. Rafe leaned back in his leather chair, a glass of whiskey balanced in one hand, the other tapping absentmindedly against the sleek wooden desk. His laptop screen glowed softly, displaying yet another local news article.

No police reports. No press leaks. No slip-ups.

Jo had done exactly as she was told.

He smirked faintly, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “Smart girl,” he muttered under his breath, his voice laced with approval. Most people in her position would’ve cracked, let the fear or confusion drive them to talk to the wrong person. But not her. Josephine.

That spark of defiance he’d seen in her at the club intrigued him, even then. But now… now it was a full-blown curiosity he couldn’t ignore.

He took another sip of his drink and set it down, clicking through the folder on his screen. His informant at the precinct had done a thorough job. The background check on Josephine Bennett wasn’t anything special—at least, not on the surface. She wasn’t tied to anyone of importance, no serious criminal record, no real connections. Just a teenager from Queens.

But the deeper he dug, the more interesting the story became.

Rafe leaned forward, reading the report again. Jo had grown up in a hellhole. Her parents were drunks—violent ones at that—and according to the sparse CPS records, their arguments often turned physical. There were a few police visits to the house, but no arrests. Typical.

He shook his head, running a hand down his face. It wasn’t surprising, not really. He’d seen that story play out a hundred times. Hell, he’d lived it. The difference was that Rafe had his uncle, his escape. Jo? She was stuck.

And yet, she’d somehow come out looking like that.

The memory of her at the club flashed through his mind—dark hair cascading over her shoulders, those sharp green eyes flashing with fire even as fear trembled on her lips. She didn’t look like someone who’d been through hell. She looked like someone who’d walked through the flames and dared them to touch her.

He smirked, but it didn’t last long.

The file listed other, less-than-flattering details. Petty school fights. Suspensions. A couple of theft charges—shoplifting at the bodega down the street, stealing a pack of smokes here, a bottle of vodka there. Nothing major, just stupid kid stuff. But what stood out was how many times she’d been caught.

“Sloppy,” he murmured, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. The girl wasn’t subtle, that was for damn sure. She had guts but no finesse, no strategy. He shook his head, amused despite himself.

But as quickly as the smile came, it faded.

Why am I doing this?

He leaned back again, the chair creaking softly beneath him, and stared at the screen. What was it about this girl that had him digging through her life like this? Was it the way she’d stood out that night, even in the chaos? The way she’d clung to her injured friend but didn’t break down herself? Or was it just that spark, that fire in her eyes that reminded him too much of himself?

He didn’t like it.

No, that wasn’t true. He didn’t like what it meant.

Rafe wasn’t the kind of man to indulge in distractions. His life didn’t leave room for sentimentality or curiosity, and yet here he was, poring over the details of some teenager’s troubled life like it mattered.

His jaw clenched, and he closed the file with a sharp click of the mouse.

“This is a mistake,” he muttered, grabbing his glass and downing the rest of the whiskey in one gulp. But even as the burn settled in his chest, the thought nagged at him.

Josephine Bennett.

She’d be turning eighteen in a few months. She was reckless, raw, and completely out of his world. And yet, he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

Rafe set the glass down with a thud, the sound echoing in the quiet office.

“This isn’t about her,” he told himself, his voice firm. “It’s about making sure there’s no loose ends.”

But the words rang hollow, even to him.

Rafe’s eyes flicked back to the glowing screen, the edges of Josephine’s photo blurring as his thoughts tangled. What was he supposed to do with this information?

Forget it? Walk away?

That wasn’t his style. He didn’t just stumble across something interesting and let it go. And Jo wasn’t just interesting—she was a problem. Problems needed solutions.

Before he could answer himself, a loud, insistent knock rattled the heavy office door.

Not a friendly knock.

Rafe’s jaw tightened. His fingers hovered over a discreet button beneath the edge of his desk, pressing it once. The silent alert would mobilize the men scattered throughout the building. Workers to the untrained eye, but lethal guards in disguise.

Slowly, Rafe rose from his chair, the leather creaking under his movement. He glanced at the door, then around the room, his motions smooth and deliberate. A quick tug of his jacket confirmed the reassuring weight of the hidden gun strapped beneath his arm. Another flick of his wrists tested the switchblades concealed in spring-loaded sleeves, their mechanisms silent as a whisper.

Satisfied, Rafe moved toward the door.

His hand wrapped around the handle, and he pulled it open with practiced calm, revealing a man who matched the knock—aggressive, brimming with barely restrained anger.

But that aggression wavered the second the man noticed the room behind Rafe. Three of Rafe’s men had materialized silently, flanking the door, their stances casual but their eyes sharp as razors.

The visitor faltered, his bluster shrinking under their collective gaze. His fists, once clenched, relaxed slightly as sweat beaded along his temple.

Rafe didn’t say a word. He simply raised an eyebrow, a silent question that cut deeper than any shouted demand.

“Your girl let me in,” the man grumbled, nodding toward Rafe’s assistant, who stood a few feet behind him, trembling. Her face was pale, her hands clasped tightly together.

Rafe’s expression darkened.

“Lila,” he said quietly, his voice calm but commanding. “Go home for the day. Clear my schedule while you’re at it.”

Her eyes darted nervously between him and the man, but she nodded quickly. “Yes, Mr. Santoro.”

As she hurried past, Rafe’s gaze didn’t leave the visitor. He let the silence stretch, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife.

“Take him inside,” Rafe finally said, his tone clipped.

The men at the door didn’t hesitate. In an instant, they were flanking the intruder, steering him firmly but not roughly into the office. The man didn’t resist, but his eyes flicked nervously around the room, taking in every detail like he was calculating his odds.

Once the door clicked shut behind them, Rafe walked back to his desk, moving with a predator’s ease. He didn’t sit, instead leaning casually against the edge, his arms crossed.

“You’ve got my attention,” Rafe said coolly. “Now, tell me why I shouldn’t throw you out of here the same way you came in.”

The man shifted uneasily, his earlier bravado nowhere to be found. “It’s… it’s about a shipment,” he started, his voice wavering. “One of your guys, they—”

Rafe held up a hand, silencing him instantly.

“You don’t come to my office uninvited. You sure as hell don’t come in scaring my staff,” he said, his voice low and deadly. “So, let’s try this again. What. Do. You. Want?”

The man swallowed hard, his eyes darting to the guards at the edges of the room, their postures relaxed but their presence looming.

“There’s been a problem with the last shipment,” he stammered. “I thought it was better to tell you in person, boss. It’s big. Couldn’t risk anyone overhearing.”

Rafe tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “You thought barging in here was the smart move?”

“I—I didn’t mean—”

“Enough.”

The single word cut through the man’s rambling like a knife. Rafe pushed off the desk, his movements slow but deliberate as he circled the man.

“You’ve got five seconds to make me care about whatever this problem is,” he said, his voice soft but carrying the weight of an iron threat. “Start talking, or I’ll make you the problem.”