Flame (Dragon Triad Duet Book 2)

draw a scoff from my audience.
“I don’t run a nunnery, either,” Rafe says, reaching around me to snatch the sweater away. His breath heats the back of my throat, his voice vibrating through my skin, “Trust me. You look better in my shit.”
Referring to his shirt, I presume. The possession in his words requires further inspection—but later. For the time being, I squeeze past him and enter the bathroom, closing the door behind me.
He retreats, his steps storming toward the living room with a determination that alarms me. At least until I hear his voice, low, strained, presumably speaking into a phone.
“…If I hear you motherfuckers were involved, I swear to God,” he growls. “You’ll answer to me. I told you to keep out of this—I don’t give a fuck what anyone might think. Just be ready when those assholes come calling, because they will.”
Judging from the next few seconds of silence, he must have hung up.
“Hurry up, bunny,” he calls, raising his voice for my benefit. “I don’t got all fucking day.”
“I’m coming,” I snap back.
Approaching the mirror is a grueling ordeal, but in the end, I don’t even look at my reflection. I grab a washcloth from a nearby shelf and wash up blind. Once finished, I tug on my skirt and fresh underwear. I finally exit the bathroom to find Rafe standing near one of the windows in the living room with his back to me.
“What’s the rush?” I ask, crossing my arms. “Are you—”
“Fuck.” His posture alone conveys another alarming shift in his mood. Gone is the mocking, playful aura. “Shit’s about to get real, bunny,” he says coldly, his gaze riveted on something taking place below.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
As I inch closer to the window, I spot the problem for myself—a parade of three, flashy cars parking alongside the curb across the street. As if in some rehearsed motion, the driver’s side doors open in sync, and the occupants stream out. They’re dressed in suits—and I instantly recognize their leader.
Gino.
The other men with him are unfamiliar, but they approach the shop with a clear intent made obvious by their posture—clenched fists and rigid spines. Nothing good.
“Fuck.” Rafe barrels into the kitchen, speaking to me from over his shoulder. “Can you shoot?”
“What?” I gape as he wrenches open a cupboard drawer and rummages through the various random items inside it. Shoot could apply to a milieu of different things—or so I try to convince myself.
At least until he slams an object onto the counter, leaving nothing to the imagination. A part of me knows what is inside the slim black case before he lifts the lid.
“Rafe…” I back away, but my alarm doesn’t prevent him from curling his fingers around the hilt of the weapon and raising it—a gun.
I’ve seen one before—my brother’s service weapon. This one looks to be a similar model, black and no less intimidating.
“What’s going on—”
“You hear shit going down, you take this, and you run,” he says as if I’ve never spoken. “Get the fuck away—but if you can’t, get on the roof. Do you hear me? Listen!” He smacks the counter with his free hand. “Do you remember that place you brought Zhang’s payment? Do you?”
I nod, picturing a musty warehouse on the outskirts of town, by the docks.
“Good. You get there, and you wait for me. If I don’t show, you look for a red case. I already changed the combination to something you’ll be able to guess, and you—”
“You’re scaring me,” I croak.
“You’re damn right, I am.” He returns the gun to the case, closes it, and sets it on the counter. “Remember this shit—”
A sound erupts from down below. One, ironically, we’re both familiar with—smashing glass.
“Damn it.” He pushes past me and wrenches open the door to the stairs. “Keep an ear pressed to the goddamn floor if you have to. You hear me say ‘motherfucker’ in any context, you run. You don’t hesitate. There’s a fire escape below the window in the hallway. Got it?”
“Rafe—”
“You fucking listen.” He holds my gaze until I finally nod.
“Okay,” I rasp.
Satisfied, he pivots and descends the steps, slamming the door behind him.
My pulse hammers against my eardrums, filling the silence left in his absence—but the quiet doesn’t last long. A series of footsteps resonate through the building’s very foundation, heading toward the shop's front.
“What the fuck do you want?” I hear Rafe demand.
“You son of a bitch!” I recognize the speaker as Gino, his voice constricted with rage. “Do you have any idea of what you’ve done? Who you’ve fucked with? Do you?” More glass shatters in a musical cacophony. The frames holding his drawings? Something bigger? Panic chokes me, and this sense of blindness only enhances my dread. I’m shaking, my knees knocking together, my gaze fixated on the floor as if I can see through it by sheer willpower. What did he tell me?
You hear me say ‘motherfucker’ in any context, you run.
I drop to my knees, bracing my hands against the floorboards. Too suddenly—I might be heard from down below. I hold my breath, fearing just that, and I strain my ears, listening for any hint of what’s happening.
“…think you can fuck around with us?” another man demands. “You stupid cunt. You have no idea what you’ve started.”
“I don’t, do I?” Rafe sounds more distant as if he’s speaking from the very front of the store now. “Tell the bitch holding your leash that he doesn’t know what he’s done. Faith Wen? That name ring a bell? The next time you whore out your girls for a dime, don’t get so goddamn sloppy. I went easy on your ass once. No more.”
“You think you know everything, huh?” Gino replies with a harsh bark of laughter. “Oh, this is well beyond Faith, you dumb son of a bitch. You have no idea who you’ve really fucked with, do you?”
“Do you?” Rafe snarls amid the sound of more smashing glass. Each tingling chime brings to mind a series of