Not Yours, Yet

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Chapter One
- Smoke Before Fire

Rafa Grimaldi

The first time Rafa Grimaldi tasted blood, it wasn't from a bullet. It was from his father's ring-backhanded across his cheek at the age of twelve because he smiled in the middle of a funeral.

The body had been barely cold.

"Control your face," his father had growled.

"Grimaldis don't grin around grief. We cause it."

But Rafa had always known he didn't fit the mold of the perfect heir.

He laughed when things got tense.

He flirted when he should've threatened.

He smiled at men he was ordered to kill, sometimes right before pulling the trigger.

The world expected monsters to snarl. Rafa smiled.

That was always the problem.

Or the secret weapon.

Depending on how close you were when the grin slipped.

__

The Grimaldi estate was quieter than usual. Which, in his world, was never a good sign.

The silence wrapped around him like wet silk as he leaned over the balcony of the west wing, shirt half-buttoned, Glock hanging loose from his hand.

Below, the halls stretched long and cold, polished marble catching the morning light like it didn't know what blood looked like.

He hadn't slept. Couldn't.

There was a whisper of movement behind him.

"Rafa."

He didn't turn. He didn't need to. He'd know that voice in a graveyard.

Enzo Grimaldi. Don. Father. The architect of his emotional ruin.

Rafa turned anyway, slow and bored, the corner of his mouth tilting into something like a smirk.

"Morning, Pops," he said, voice thick with amusement. "You look like you lost another heir."

Enzo's expression didn't shift. "Get dressed. You're being sent out."

"Do I get to know where?"

"No."

Rafa clicked his tongue, amused. -"You sending me to die, or is this one of those secret peace deals where I have to play nice with snakes?"

Enzo's eyes narrowed. "You'll know when you get there. Suit up."

That meant two things:

1. This wasn't about killing someone.

2. It was worse.