Rafael's Table Novels & Stories

Rafe held out his right hand to Enzo seated behind him on his right and said, “No. From my beginning.” Enzo placed a folder full of questions and notes of discrepancies Rafe had finished compiling just that morning in his hand. Rafe placed it down on the table in front of him and opened it, his eyes fixed on the man who stood before him. What was his name again? Rafe was sure he’d introduced himself during the presentation, but thanks to the vixen next to him, he couldn’t remember.

“ I-I thought you left!” Rafael smirked faintly. “Forgot to say goodnight properly.” He stepped in, and his eyes flicked over the disaster zone that was Harlow’s living room. His smirk vanished instantly. Harlow could see his jaw tighten. 'Damn it! He might think less of me now.' He thought inwardly with dread. “Doll,” Rafael said slowly, in that low, warning tone that made Harlow’s knees weak. “What… is this?” Harlow swallowed hard. “It’s… um… organized chaos?” He tried to play it off.

It was very unlike his father's small, but growing country. Quickly stooping down before the crowned King, Rafael placed one of his knees to the parquet tiled ground, his eyes fixed downwards. He stretched both arms out with palms open and then placed both hands to his head before bowing his head to the floor in greeting. It was the customary greeting of his people to rulers. A sudden realization came to Rafael as he became aware that one of the most powerful rulers in the world was about to address him.

As the morning sunlight spilled into the kitchen, I hummed an old Northern tune, frying bacon and a sunny side up egg at my own pace. This was a farewell feast I'd gotten myself. I pulled out a chair and sat down. Just as my fork touched the soft yolk, the door opened with a soft click. Rafael walked in, reeking of Natalia's perfume and holding a huge bouquet of flamboyant strelitzia. It was a kaleidoscopic mix of bright orange and gold with stiff stems sticking out from the sides.

The village below the villa is waking up slowly—shutters creaking, old men sweeping steps, the smell of baking bread and exhaust tangling in the warm morning air. The coffee shop with the blue awning looks like every other Italian postcard café—wicker chairs, tiny tables, and a chalkboard menu with bad English translations. Rafael sits at a corner table, back to the wall, cap pulled down, sunglasses on despite the shade. He stands when I approach. Even with half his face covered, I can see the new lines at the corners of his mouth. He looks exactly the same and completely different. “Hey,” he says. “Hey,” I answer.

I highly doubted that she could ‘control’ her rabid dog of a brother; however, I followed her anyway, because the alternative was staying locked in this room, drowning in my own thoughts. The dining hall was massive—high ceilings, grand windows that let in the morning sun, and a table so long it could probably seat twenty people. A few seats were already occupied. At the head of the table sat Rafael, his presence commanding even in silence. His dark eyes flicked toward me as I entered, and for a second, something unreadable passed through them. Then it was gone.

she advised, offering me a sympathetic smile. I smiled back politely, trying to mask the storm of emotions brewing inside me. “Thank you, but I really can’t digest anything right now. I’ll just stick to my wine,” I said, trying to deflect the attention away from myself. Rafael’s smile faltered slightly, but he quickly put on a charming expression as the conversation around us picked up again. Once the noise of the table returned, Rafael’s hand gripped my thigh under the table. His touch was firm, sending an unsettling shiver through my body, though I knew it wasn’t from affection. No, this was control. His voice dropped low, just for my ears.

“I will keep that in mind. Later, when we get home, you can.” She laughed softly, and he added, “We should leave right after lunch, then.” “Yeah, I have already assured you we won’t spend long here,” Just then, the chef returned and placed their meals in front of them. Celia thanked her warmly, and they began to eat. Rafael barely touched his food, taking only a few bites before setting his fork down and sipping his water, clearly done. “You barely ate,” Celia said, raising a brow. “I get full easily,” he said simply.

This was Lorenzo’s opening move. “Rafael,” Moretti boomed with forced joviality, rising. “An honor, as always. And you’ve brought… company.” His smile was a nervous twitch. “This is Jay,” Rafe said, his tone leaving no room for further inquiry. He took his seat at the head of the table, gesturing for Jay to sit to his immediate right. The place of a trusted lieutenant. Or a favored consort. The meal began. Talk was of dry things: shipping tariffs, currency fluctuations, the frustrating delays in a new municipal construction project. Rossi the banker spoke in parables of finance. Moretti laughed too loudly at Rafe’s rare, dry remarks.