Chapter 2 – Caged Loyalty

Rafe

The last thing I remember from that night is the taste of metal and betrayal.

Rain on my tongue, gunfire somewhere far away, the blur of headlights cutting through smoke. Then a voice I’d memorized years ago shouting my name—not with worry, but with fury.

“Bring him to me.”

Six months ago, everything went wrong.

Six months of running, hiding, blaming myself for something I didn’t do.

And now, here I am—dragged back into the lion’s den, wrists bound, face bruised, every breath measured against the sound of Nicholas Rhodes pacing across marble floors.

He stands in front of me, dressed in black like the accusation itself.

No one else speaks. His men fade into the walls, shadows waiting for a verdict. The air smells of gun oil and rain-soaked leather.

“You should have died that night,” he says quietly.

“I almost did.” My voice cracks around the words.

He steps closer, studying me with the precision of a surgeon about to cut. “Almost isn’t enough.”

I want to look away, but I don’t. I’ve faced death before; I’ve never faced him like this—furious, betrayed, alive.

He moves suddenly, faster than memory. A single punch lands against my jaw—not brutal, but sharp enough to make me stumble. The sound echoes. I taste blood.

“That’s for the men we lost,” he says, low. “And for making me believe in you.”

I breathe through the sting, forcing out a laugh that isn’t really a laugh. “Feel better?”

“No,” he replies, voice flat. “Not yet.”

He turns away, and for a moment the anger in the room drops to something colder, quieter. When he finally looks back, his expression has changed—controlled again, the mask sliding neatly into place.

“Lock him downstairs,” Nicholas tells his guards. “He stays alive until I decide otherwise.”

They drag me down corridors that smell of cedar and silence, through a steel door that hums when it shuts. The basement is nothing like a cell, but it isn’t mercy either.

Concrete floor, a narrow bed, dim light. A single camera blinks red from the corner.

For hours—maybe days—I hear nothing but my own thoughts.

---

Time passes differently underground.

Minutes stretch like scars.

Sometimes I think I hear his footsteps above me. Sometimes I dream them.

He hasn’t come down since that first night, and I can’t decide if that’s a relief or a punishment.

The first tray of food arrives without a word.

The second comes cold.

The third I don’t touch.

By the fourth day, I’m talking to the walls just to prove I still exist.

That’s when I hear the door click open.

He steps inside alone this time. No guards, no weapon—just Nicholas Rhodes in tailored black, sleeves rolled, jaw tight. The red light from the camera paints a faint line across his cheekbone.

“Still alive,” he says, as if he’s surprised.

“Disappointed?”

“Not yet.” He studies the untouched plate on the floor. “Eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

He tilts his head. “Then you’re either stubborn or guilty.”

“Maybe both.”

Something flickers in his eyes. “You always were.”

He sits across from me, close enough for the air to change, not close enough to touch. “Tell me what happened that night.”

“I already told you. I didn’t betray you.”

“Then who did?”

“If I knew, you’d have their body by now.”

The silence that follows is sharp enough to bleed on.

He doesn’t believe me, but he doesn’t walk away either.

Instead, he stands, straightens his cuffs, and leaves with a single sentence trailing behind him like smoke.

“You’ll tell me eventually, Rafe. Everyone breaks.”

The door shuts.

The red light keeps blinking.

---

Nicholas

He looks smaller through the camera lens.

Four days of silence have done what interrogation never could—stripped away his armor. Still, he refuses to beg. I watch him pace the narrow room like a caged animal, equal parts fury and defiance. Every hour I tell myself to finish it. Every hour I don’t.

My men think I’m keeping him alive for answers. Maybe I am. Maybe I’m just crueler than they know.

When I hit him, I expected satisfaction.

Instead, I felt nothing but the echo of my own failure.

He was right there during the operation—the only one close enough to see the trap before it closed. The leak came from inside. All evidence pointed to him. Yet the moment he looked up, bleeding, saying “I didn’t,” something in me hesitated.

That hesitation cost three lives.

Now he sits below my feet, reminding me of every choice I can’t undo.

I pour a glass of whiskey I won’t drink and turn back to the monitors. On-screen, Rafe sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it’s the only thing that still believes him.

I remember the night he joined the family—barely twenty, reckless, sharp-eyed. I taught him to shoot, to negotiate, to survive. He learned too well.

And somewhere between orders and loyalty, something else took root—something we never named.

A knock at the door. One of my lieutenants, Matteo. “Sir, the accountant you asked for is here.”

“Later.”

Matteo hesitates. “There’s talk, boss. Some of the men think keeping Vega alive looks weak.”

I turn to him. “Tell them weakness would be letting someone else decide when he dies.”

That ends the discussion.

When the door closes, I look back at the screen. Rafe hasn’t moved.

I don’t know what I expect from him anymore—confession, apology, rage. Maybe all of it. Maybe none.

---

Later that night, I go down again.

He doesn’t look surprised to see me.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks.

“I don’t,” I say simply.

He smirks, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Guilt will do that.”

“Careful.”

“Or what? You’ll hit me again?” He leans back against the wall. “Go ahead. At least it means you’re feeling something.”

For a moment, I almost do. Then I stop myself, because that’s what he wants.

“Why didn’t you run farther?” I ask instead. “Six months, and you stayed close enough to be found.”

“Maybe I wanted you to find me.”

I study him. “Don’t joke.”

“Who said I’m joking?”

The air between us tightens. The camera’s red light catches his face, makes his eyes look darker.

“You think I did it,” he says finally. “Fine. But look at me and tell me you’re sure.”

I can’t.

He sees it—of course he does—and the ghost of a smile touches his lips. “That’s what I thought.”

I turn to leave. His voice follows me.

“Nick.”

I stop.

“You can keep me here,” he says softly, “but sooner or later you’ll have to ask yourself which part of you needs me more—the boss who wants revenge or the man who can’t let go.”

The door closes between us before I answer.

---

Shared Ending

Hours later, I’m still awake in my office. The rain hasn’t stopped since the night they brought him in. It feels like the city itself is waiting for something to break.

A message arrives on my encrypted line—anonymous sender, no traceable route.

> “You’re looking in the wrong direction.”

“He isn’t your traitor.”

Attached is a single photograph: the blueprint of our last operation, marked with an access code that only three people should have known. One of them was Rafe. Another was me. The third… is someone I buried years ago.

I stare at the image until the whiskey glass trembles in my hand.

Downstairs, Rafe’s camera feed flickers once, then steadies. He looks up, as if sensing the shift, as if he can feel me watching.

Maybe he can.

For the first time in months, something that feels almost like hope cuts through the anger—and that terrifies me more than anything else.

Because if he’s innocent…

then I’ve already destroyed the only person who ever truly belonged to me.