That night, the city glittered beneath rooftop lights and expensive music.
Isabella didn't remember agreeing to the party only that champagne kept appearing in her hand, that the air felt too warm, and that her thoughts kept circling one name she refused to acknowledge.
Rafe Moretti.
She found him at the bar, his usual black leather jacket off white shirt clinging to muscle and ink, sea-green eyes darker in the low light.
As if sensing her presence he spoke without turning to look at her.
"You look miserable, princess," he said mildly.
She scoffed. "You wish." she hated his arrogance.
He smirked. "You've been staring all night."
"I have not."
"Liar."
The party was in full blown, having to much drinks already the alcohol made her bold, Reckless.
"Why are you even here?" she snapped.
"Don't you belong on some street corner?"
His smile faded. "Careful."
"Or what?" she challenged, stepping closer than she should have. "You'll kiss me too?"
The words hung there charged.
Rafe's jaw tightened. "You're drunk."
"So are you."
Music thumped Laughter blurred.
The world narrowed to the space between them.
"This is a bad idea," she whispered, breath unsteady.
"Yeah," he said, voice rough. "It is."
She kissed him first.
It wasn't gentle, it was clumsy and heated and wrong teeth knocking, tongues clashing, seeking dominas, breath tangled, her fingers gripping his shirt like she needed something solid to hold onto.
His hand came up to steady her, then froze, as if he realized too late what was happening.
Then he kissed her back slow passionate, deep, dangerous.
The kind of kiss that erased lines and consequences.
Until she pulled away, heart pounding, horror crashing in.
"Oh my God," she breathed. "Lena—"
Rafe stepped back instantly, guilt flashing across his face. "This never happened."
She nodded too fast. "Never."
They stood there, shaken, pretending the ground beneath them wasn't cracking.
Across the room, Lena laughed unaware.
And Isabella knew, with terrifying certainty, that nothing would ever be the same again.
The kiss shouldn't have happened,that was the first thing Rafael Moretti told himself as the city lights blurred beneath his bike and the wind tore through his jacket like punishment.
It was a mistake.
A stupid, reckless, rich-girl mistake.
Yet her taste still lingered champagne and heat and no matter how fast he rode, he couldn't outrun the way her breath had hitched when his mouth touched hers.
The way her hands had clenched his shirt like she didn't know whether to push him away or pull him closer.
Rafe slammed the brakes near Kingsbridge Street, the Ducati skidding slightly before he steadied it. Neon signs buzzed overhead. Sirens wailed somewhere far enough to ignore. Home.
The streets welcomed him back with open arms and sharpened teeth.
"Boss."
Rafe turned.
Nico "Knuckles" Alvarez stood outside the bodega, arms crossed, knuckles scarred and permanently swollen. One of Rafe's lieutenants Loyal Brutal.
Raised on the same cracked sidewalks.
"You're late," Nico said.
Rafe's jaw tightened. "Say what you need to say."
Nico stepped closer, voice low. "The Red Vipers crossed into our block again tagged the alley behind Saint Mary's that's a message."
Rafe's eyes darkened.
The Red Vipers weren't kids playing gang games.
They were organized armed, hungry and they wanted Kingsbridge.
"Who gave the order?" Rafe asked.
"Word is it came from Victor Kane himself."
That name settled heavy in the air.
Victor Kane didn't move unless blood was guaranteed.
Rafe exhaled slowly. "Call a meet. I want Jax and Theo there Malik too."
Nico hesitated. "The rich boys?"
"They're not just rich," Rafe snapped. "They're connected, and this is bigger than street pride."
Kingsbridge wasn't just territory it was survival.
Protection money fed families, control kept drugs out of certain blocks.
Rafe ruled because he kept balance,
And balance was breaking.