Walking a Thin Line

|c.2|

Rafe leaned back in his chair, the dim office light casting shadows across his sharp features. The air was thick with the acrid scent of cigars and the burn of whiskey, a half-empty glass perched precariously on the edge of his desk. In the corner of the room, the muffled groans of his captive echoed, a symphony of betrayal and punishment.

Across from Rafe, his men stood like statues, Vinnie at the forefront, his knuckles bloodied from the last round of “persuasion.” The rat, Angelo Santoro—Rafe’s cousin—was tied to a chair in the center of the room. Blood streaked his face, his eyes swollen to slits, but even through the punishment, he managed to lift his head and glare at Rafe.

“You gonna keep staring, Angelo?” Rafe muttered, taking a slow drag from his cigar. His voice was cold, a glacier against the heat of the moment.

Angelo spat blood onto the floor, his smirk barely visible beneath the bruises. “You’re just like your old man, you know that? Cold. Calculating. You don’t care about family.”

Rafe’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he nodded at Vinnie, who immediately stepped forward, cracking his knuckles.

“Family doesn’t stab each other in the back,” Rafe said evenly, watching as Vinnie delivered another brutal punch to Angelo’s ribs. The sound of the impact was sharp, a visceral punctuation to his words. “Family doesn’t sell each other out to the feds.”

Angelo groaned, his breath hitching, but he still managed to chuckle weakly. “You think you’re invincible, Rafe. Untouchable. But everyone’s got a weakness.”

Rafe’s eyes narrowed. “And you thought mine was you?” He took another sip of whiskey, letting the burn settle before standing up. “What did you tell them, Angelo? What did you give them?”

Angelo stayed silent, his lips pressing into a thin line.

“Vinnie,” Rafe said casually, walking around his desk. “Make him talk.”

Vinnie didn’t hesitate. He grabbed a set of pliers from the nearby table, his grin dark and menacing. “Guess we’re gonna have to take this up a notch.”

Angelo’s resolve cracked as Vinnie went to work, each agonized scream pulling more truth from his lips. He confessed to tipping off the police about the shipment, giving them enough to put the docks under surveillance. He named names, detailed conversations, and outlined his betrayal with a clarity born from desperation.

By the time he was done, Angelo was slumped in the chair, his breaths shallow and labored.

Rafe stood over him, his face unreadable. “Why, Angelo?”

The traitor coughed weakly, blood staining his teeth. “You think this life means loyalty?” he rasped. “It’s every man for himself, Rafe. And you—you’re just the king of a crumbling kingdom.”

Rafe’s fist clenched at his side, but he forced himself to stay calm. He turned to Vinnie. “Clean this up. Quietly.”

Vinnie nodded, already reaching for his gun.

As he walked away, Rafe paused at the door, his mind swirling. Angelo’s words, though venomous, stuck with him. He needed a break, a moment to unwind and clear his head. The thought of Josephine crossed his mind, unbidden yet comforting.

Turning to Vinnie, he lit another cigar, his voice steady. “I’m heading to the diner.”

Vinnie raised an eyebrow but didn’t question him. “Got it, boss.”

Neither of them noticed the small recording device Angelo had hidden beneath his shirt, its blinking red light now extinguished, but not before capturing his final moments.

*

Jo sighed as she wiped down the counter, the damp rag catching on the cracked laminate. The diner was empty now, save for her and her manager, Pete, who was busy in the back. The buzz of the overhead lights mixed with the faint clatter of dishes being washed. She pocketed the last of her tips—a paltry sum—and shook her head.

“Another day, another dollar,” she muttered under her breath, counting her coins and small bills for the fifth time. Barely enough for gas, let alone her dream of getting out of her parents’ suffocating home.

Her morning had started like every other: her parents fighting over something trivial, the sound of breaking glass a not-so-gentle alarm clock. School had been dull and uneventful, and now she was stuck here, enduring leers from older men who left bad tips and greasy comments in equal measure.

She was ready to clock out when the bell over the door chimed.

“We’re closed!” Jo called without looking up, her voice sharper than she intended. “Come back tomorrow before closing.”

Pete poked his head out from the kitchen, a scowl on his face. “Jo, don’t bark at the customers. Especially that one.”

Jo turned, an apology on her lips, but the words caught in her throat. Standing in the doorway was him.

Her stomach flipped, her earlier exhaustion momentarily forgotten. He looked just as perfect as she remembered, his sharp features illuminated by the neon diner lights. He was dressed casually but still oozed the same power and confidence that had captivated her weeks ago.

Pete practically stumbled over himself to greet Rafe, his tone eager and ingratiating. “Mr. Santoro, welcome! Please, sit anywhere. Jo will be right over to serve you.”

Jo’s mouth opened to protest, but Pete shot her a warning look. “Jo, now.”

She huffed but grabbed a menu, smoothing her apron before walking over to Rafe, who had settled into a booth at the far corner of the diner. His eyes met hers, and for a moment, she forgot how to breathe.

“Can I get you something to drink?” she asked, her voice steadier than she felt.

“Do you serve alcohol here?” he asked, a smirk tugging at his lips.

Jo raised an eyebrow. “Not anything worth drinking.”

He chuckled, the sound deep and warm. “Fine. A Coke, then. And whatever you want, sweetheart, because you’ll be sitting with me for a while.”

Jo blinked, caught off guard by his casual command. She tilted her head, narrowing her eyes. “I don’t get off work for another twenty minutes.”

“Good thing I’m a patient man,” he replied smoothly.

“Right.” She turned on her heel, muttering under her breath as she walked back to the counter. “What the hell does he want now?”

When she returned with his drink, she set it down a little harder than necessary. “You ready to order, or is this just a social call?”

Rafe leaned back, his smirk never faltering. “I won’t be ready until you decide to join me for a meal.”

Jo stared at him, incredulous. “Why would I do that? I’ve been here all night, and I’d like to go home sometime this century.” She lowered her voice, her tone more cautious. “And just so we’re clear, I haven’t said a word about... anything.”

Rafe’s expression softened, though the intensity in his gaze remained. “I know. I wouldn’t be here if I thought you had.”

She hesitated, biting the inside of her cheek. “So, what do you want?”

“I had a rough day,” he said simply, swirling his drink. “And I figured I could use some company. A like-minded soul to vent to, maybe.”

Jo’s skepticism was written all over her face, but something in his tone made her pause. She nodded slowly. “Fine. But I’m not buying my own meal.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Rafe followed her to the register, practically standing over her as she entered the order. “Don’t forget yours,” he murmured.

She rolled her eyes but added a sandwich to the ticket. “Happy?”

“Ecstatic.”

They returned to the booth, and as they waited for their food, they talked. At first, it was awkward, with Jo unsure how much to share and Rafe dancing around his thoughts. But as the minutes passed, the walls began to crumble.

They spoke about everything and nothing—favorite foods, childhood memories, and shared dreams of escaping their current lives.

“You’re... not what I expected,” Jo said eventually, watching him with cautious curiosity.

Rafe arched an eyebrow. “Good or bad?”

“Not sure yet.”

He grinned, leaning forward slightly. “Stick around, sweetheart. You might just like what you find.”

Jo’s lips twitched into a reluctant smile, her earlier fatigue momentarily forgotten. For the first time that day, she felt a spark of something unexpected...