Outer Banks Rafe Novels & Stories

“Have fun explaining that to Rafa.” I ignored him, putting my gun back. By the time we reached the villa, Rafa was waiting in his office. He wasn't sitting on his desk; he was standing, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass of whiskey. Kane stopped at the door. “I’d leave you two to it,” he said quickly, then slipped out. Coward. I stood still; Rafa’s silence was worse than yelling. Finally, he spoke. “Care to explain why they are dead men at my dock?”

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

"I'm Beckett Group's best connection in Solana City. In fact, I've secured a document for a cultural city project set to begin bidding in three years. I promise it'll be yours. You have my word!" "Three years?" Justin's voice dripped with mock gratitude. "How kind of you. But before you decide, let me show you something." Justin tapped his phone, sending a video. Moments later, Rafe's sharp intake of breath was audible through the call. His voice quivered with both fear and rage. "You… You set me up? How could you?" The video showed Rafe, naked and debauched on a couch, flanked by two unclothed women. If this got out, he'd be ruined.

Orlando twists around. Just outside his window stands a big, muscled guy with a closely shaved head and a dark line of stubble along his jaw. At first glance, he's terrifying - but then I get a better look at his face. It's the only one of Orlando's brothers I haven't met yet - Raphael, or Rafe, as he's more commonly known. "Everything okay in there?" Rafe says through the window. His voice is so deep it's almost startling.

I was halfway through the plate when the diner door opened and Rafe walked in. He looked like he had been through a war. Blood on his shirt, dirt on his face, a cut above his eye that was fresh and had not healed yet which meant it had happened in the last hour. He scanned the diner with those steady dark eyes and found me in the back booth and relief crossed his face so clearly I could read it from across the room. He walked over and slid into the booth across from me and we looked at each other in silence for a long moment. "You are alive," I said.

The black oilcloth cover was cracked along the spine, showing the coarse white thread underneath, and it smelled faintly of machine oil, salt damp, and old pocket lint. Rafe sat heavily on the very edge of the rough sawhorses, his thick work boots tucked into the lower cross-braces of the yellow steel frames to keep his feet out of the widening puddle near the floor drain. His shoulders were hunched forward, his blunt, calloused fingers slowly tracing a thin line of faded red ink down the center of a hand-ruled grid. He had spent twenty years keeping books like this—informal records that didn't go through the regional servers, numbers that couldn't be requested by a federal subpoena because

“We found him.” The words barely registered at first. “Where?” “Southern docks. One of Rossi’s outposts. They were holding him.” “Alive?” He nodded. “Barely. Looks like they used him as bait.” For a moment, everything inside me went still. Then, slowly, the pulse returned—steady, lethal. “Bring him here.” --- Hours later, the heavy doors of my basement opened, and they dragged Rafe inside. He looked nothing like the man who’d once stood beside me in tailored suits and quiet confidence. His hair was longer, tangled. His face bruised, eyes sunken but still burning with something that wasn’t fear.

He said, “Whatever it is, you know I’m only loyal to you. I’m your man, Jamie. Ever since that day you rescued me from those bloody rogues.” Jamie knew he could hold Raffa to that. The first time Jamie met Rafa was through an unfortunate event where he had to rescue him from a bunch of rogue wolves that were trying to kill him. He didn’t know who Rafa was by then, but he rescued him anyway, knowing that he was falling prey to the rogue wolves. Ever since then Rafa had been a loyal friend to Jamie. After digging deeper, they realized that Rafa was indeed from their own pack, but due to the death of his parents, he had been on the streets. Rafa was 13 years old then, almost the same age as Jam

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.”

Nothing. We rolled into the main yard. People stopped and stared. Not shocked to see us alive. Shocked to see us at all. The front doors of the packhouse opened. Rafe strode out. He looked rough - stubble, dark circles, shirt half-buttoned wrong - but very much alive. He stopped dead when he saw us. Then his eyes narrowed. “Where the hell were you for so long?” We all frowned. Maddox killed the engine first. “So long?” he repeated.