Outer Banks Rafe Cameron Novels & Stories

She always had. Rafe sat on the edge of the bed, phone in one hand, cigarette in the other, tapping ash into a Styrofoam cup like he was bored of breathing. He hadn’t said much since his last guy checked in. I could tell he was losing patience. Good. Let him squirm. He wasn’t in this for Kat—he was in it for the payout. But me? I was in it for the reckoning. “She’s still holed up in the clubhouse,” Rafe muttered, not looking at me. “Same routine. Kids, women, guards. No movement.”

“Care? No. She’s… she’s under my protection. That’s all. But what’s happening to her isn’t right. None of this is.” “And you blame yourself,” Cally said gently. Rafe didn’t answer, which was answer enough. “She’s terrified of me, Mom. I can see it in her eyes. And why wouldn’t she be? I bought her at an auction, paraded her out of that place like she was merchandise,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. “I’ve become everything I despise.” Cally stood, crossing the room to stand before him. “You’re not like him, Rafe,” she said firmly. “You’ve done what you had to do, but you’ve always had a heart, no matter how much you try to bury it.”

He just didn’t think he had to care. Rafe and Adam were mafia royalty. And men like them? They didn’t chase. They expected you to break first. Whoever blinked first lost. And I’d done enough losing for one lifetime. So I stayed silent. … Two days later, my phone rang—and Rafe’s name lit up my screen. Finally. “What the hell do you want, Serena?” Rafe’s voice snapped through the line like a whip. “Haven’t I given you enough? A house? Fucking bank account? A yacht? What more do you want?”

Ryker asked, his mouth practically hanging open. "Experience," I said shortly. "Penn? What the fuck are you doing in here?" Rafe said as he passed through my bedroom doorway. He shook his head. "Never mind. Don't care." He nudged his older brother out of the way. Squatted down next to me. "Let's see those gams, Will." I chuckled. My Rafe was a sucker for film noir. I lifted the sheet away from my legs. He sucked in a noisy breath through his nose. "Shit sticks and cuttlefish, Will."

I was looking at Reign Rafe, the Don of Rafe Cartel. Rio’s Father.

Rafe stood in front of my desk, silently scrolling through his iPad, updating files and coordinating my other businesses. The silence was comfortable. Until Rafe’s phone rang. He answered immediately. “Yes?” His expression changed in an instant. His body tensed, eyes sharpening with alarm. He listened for a few seconds, then said curtly, “Okay,” and ended the call. He looked up at me. “She left the airport,” Rafe said. “Took a cab into the city, bought a road map, rented a car, and is now on the move. Our men just caught up with her at a gas station. She’s heading out of Asheville.”

] Then, after a short pause: Athena: [But tomorrow morning, you might have to deal with him alone.] I read the message. Once. Twice. In the next room, Max made a sound through the baby monitor, then went quiet again. My house stayed still. The ocean beyond the windows was dark, the city lights scattered far below the hill. I looked at the agenda again. Sasha Rivera. Rafael Moretti. Athena Cole—maybe. Suddenly, the third name looked like a promise written in pencil.

SAVANNAH “Or you can tell him yourself…” Carter spun to the side. His sinfully delicious brother had appeared on the shaded side of the front porch. Even in the shadows, he was still beautiful that it hurt. “Where the hell were you?” he raged, marching toward me. “Hey, man,” Carter announced, but Rafe ignored him. “Alright. That’s my signal.” My boss raised his hands and made an exit. Rafe waited until his brother was out of the picture so he could grab my shoulders. “Why would you do that?”

Orders barked into comms. Rafe doesn’t flinch. He moves. God help me, he moves like he never left. It happens between shots. Between commands. Between the life I wanted and the one I can’t escape. A man stumbles out from behind a crate—mid-forties, scarred cheek, Volkov markings burned into his neck. He freezes when he sees Rafe. Eyes widen. “You,” he breathes. “You’re dead.” Rafe stops. Just for a second.

Fog and smoke blurred the world; through the lens, Kael was a sharp, lethal figure moving through it, dragging other men back behind cover, firing, shouting orders. “Still got it,” Rafe muttered around the cigarette clamped between his teeth. He tracked Kael’s path with the barrel, following the line of his shoulders, the way he adjusted to each new threat without breaking stride. “Don’t get cute,” a voice crackled in Rafe’s earpiece—one of his own crew. “We’re not here to take the shot.” “I know why we’re here,” Rafe said. “Just checking the merchandise.” He flicked the safety on and off once, a pointless, dangerous little habit, before settling it firmly back to safe.