Rafe's Return

By Michael Driver

For three years, Rafe Simmons has enjoyed domestic life. Being a good husband to his wife, and a good father to his son, are all that matter to him. He's even in therapy trying to work through his issues and better himself as a man.

But, when Rafe receives a visit from his estranged sister Styles, he suddenly finds himself haunted by ghosts from his past, and his life upended in turmoil. Once again, Rafe must tap into the street survival skills given to him by his father and rely on old business associates in order to hopefully make it out the other side and regain his peaceful life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Driver
• Release date: Jul 16, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215452646

Michael Driver

Michael Driver is a young African American author who currently resides in Colorado. Inspired by the likes of Donald Goines and James Patterson, he enjoys writing gritty, thrilling stories that captivate his readers, and hopes to be considered among the greatest of fiction writers. In his spare time when he's not writing he enjoys playing video games or reading a book from some of his favorite authors.

Book preview

RAFE’S RETURN

The King of the Block Trilogy – Book 2

MICHAEL DRIVER

Smashwords Edition

Rafe’s Return: The King of the Block Trilogy – Book 2

Copyright 2023 by Michael Driver

Cover Design & Interior Layout: Laura Shinn Designs

http://laurashinn.yolasite.com

Smashwords License Notes:

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, reproduction or use of this work in whole or in part in any form via electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the author.

Rafe’s Return: The King of the Block Trilogy – Book 2 is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously; any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, locations, or events are entirely coincidental. Thank you for respecting U.S. and international copyright laws and this author’s work.

This book is dedicated to my grandmother,

who encouraged me to read anything

and everything I possibly could.

—M.D.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

TABLE of CONTENTS

Chapter One: Out of the Dark

Chapter Two: Old Wounds

Chapter Three: Helpless

Chapter Four: The Calm Before the Storm

Chapter Five: The End Begins

Chapter Six: The Decision

Chapter Seven: Consequences & Repercussions

Chapter Eight: Aftermath

Chapter Nine: Disturbing the Peace

Chapter Ten: It’s All in Your Head

Chapter Eleven: Out of the Frying Pan

Chapter Twelve: Welcome Home, Rafael Simmons

Chapter Thirteen: The Resurrection

Chapter Fourteen: Buried Feelings

Chapter Fifteen: Enemy of My Enemy

Chapter Sixteen: A Long Way from Home

Chapter Seventeen: Law of the Jungle

Chapter Eighteen: Sacrifices

Chapter Nineteen: War Room

Chapter Twenty: The Smaller Enemy

Chapter Twenty-One: War

Chapter Twenty-Two: No Going Back

Chapter Twenty-Three: Guilty Conscience

Chapter Twenty-Four: Another Angle

Chapter Twenty-Five: Into the Light

Chapter Twenty-Six: You Can’t Have It All

Chapter Twenty-Seven: A New Legacy

Author’s Note

Connect With Me!

Chapter One: Out of the Dark

The fog that had descended over the city wasn’t bothering Styles. The cold, however, had thoroughly soaked into her bones, setting her teeth rattling in her mouth. She drew her trench coat about her tighter, though it didn’t do anything. She stopped in the middle of the sidewalk to blow into her hands and rub them together before shoving them deep into the pockets of her coat. The wind whistled through the fog around her, ruffling her hair. Styles cursed under her breath.

Why in the hell didn’t I think to bring a warmer coat? It didn’t matter now. She was almost at the meeting. Briefly, she checked her watch, tilting her left hand up to her eyes, grateful the hands and the markings around the watch face glowed in the dark. 7:15. She was running late, but it didn’t matter. The meeting couldn’t start without her anyway.

Materializing just ahead of her, a ghastly shadow in the fog, her warehouse came into view. Three years ago, she had tried to kill her brother inside its very walls. Miraculously, even though he had had the upper hand, he chose to let her live, chose to walk away from the fight, and disappear from the street life. That night, Styles had lain on the floor of the warehouse crying and sobbing, begging her brother to end her life. Tonight, she would have to decide whether or not it was worth it to ruin his.

For the past year, the warehouse had been abandoned, closed down with giant strips of caution tape across its double doors. The city had gone into an uproar. By closing the warehouse, Styles had effectively put half the neighborhood, the half that was not gangbangers, drug dealers, and pimps, out of a job. Since then everything around the warehouse had fallen into disrepair. The only ones thriving were Styles and her business partners.

She approached the front door. On cue, the double doors opened up, sliding apart smoothly as if they had never stopped being used. Truthfully, they hadn’t. Styles was running her operation out of the warehouse these days. Cocaine, guns, weed, heroin, any kind of contraband you could think of, was distributed through this building. In the time since her late father’s demise, Styles had adopted his ruthlessness, along with a small amount of his business savvy. Her reign as queen of Summerville was iron-fisted, but it seemed the end was on the horizon.

As she passed through the doors, Styles couldn’t help but feel that same shiver she always felt when she stepped inside. The shiver was usually accompanied by that nagging voice that told her she was just like her father. That she was going to die just like him as well. She shook her head, clenching her jaw as she did. There was no time to get stuck inside her own head. There was business to attend to.

Styles passed through the security checkpoint. Although she had repurposed the building, she hadn’t done anything cosmetically to it. Everything still looked as it had when her father was running it. She took a minute to compose herself, before stepping onto the main floor of the building.

Without any of its previous equipment, the space seemed huge. Where before forklifts, pallets, pallet wrapping machines, pallet jacks, and crates of computer parts had taken up space, there was nothing. Just the barren warehouse floor. Industrial shelves, the kind you would find in Home Depot, lined the walls, stocked to overflowing with crates of guns, and bricks of heroin and cocaine. Normally the place would be buzzing with Styles’ men as they prepared to ship out guns and packages of drugs, but now it was quiet, empty, save for six people, three men, and three women respectively, sitting at a table directly in the middle of the room.

Styles’ footsteps thundered in her ears as she approached the table. She paused, surveying each of the faces before her. She registered the thinly veiled disgust on each one of them, but behind the disgust, the fear. Styles did her best to suppress a smile. At least they still know who’s in charge.

Slowly, she pulled her seat out, not bothering to lift the folding chair off the floor, allowing the unpleasant sound of metal screeching across concrete to fill the air. Just as slowly, she sat down.

Finally, one of the women spoke.

You are late, Styles. Her Puerto Rican accent was thick. With the flick of a perfectly manicured hand, she moved her jet-black hair out of her eyes, her face coming full into view. She was beautiful, so beautiful in fact, you would not have guessed she was the leader of a ruthless crime family.

I am aware of that, Valeria. Styles sat back in her chair, pulling her hands out of her pockets as she did so, one hand clutching a pack of Newport one hundreds. Still maintaining eye contact with Valeria, she pulled out a single cigarette, then tucked the carton back in her pocket. Does anybody have a lighter? she asked the table casually.

There was some murmuring, rustling, and sideways looks around the table as its other six occupants scrambled to find a lighter. Finally, an elderly gentleman, wearing an immaculately tailored three-piece pinstripe, his hair black with whitish silver streaks, tossed a gold Zippo lighter in Styles’ direction. It clattered onto the table, sliding, then stopping just short of Styles’ outstretched hand.

Thank you, Capo Giordano. Styles inclined her head towards the elder man, as she picked up the lighter off the table.

Capo Giordano spoke with an unmistakable Italian accent. You’re welcome, Miss Simmons.

Styles flinched. Everybody around the table noticeably stiffened. Capo Giordano began to sweat.

What...what....what I meant was.., Capo Giordano stammered, his words fumbling out of his mouth, his eyes roaming over the other faces at the table, looking for help. All he got were bowed heads and eyes shifting away from his.

Styles’ face darkened. Without realizing it, she had bit the filter clean off her cigarette, the other piece falling onto the table, where it rolled, stopping just short of the center.

I don’t care what you meant, Giordano. Quickly, Styles turned her head away from the table, spitting out the filter. When she turned her head back, she resumed speaking through tightly clenched teeth. You know how I feel about that name. I am not a Simmons. I want no parts of Lucian Simmons’ legacy or his name.

And yet, you had no problem assuming control of his properties, and his entire operation. Valeria’s voice started shaky but grew more confident as she spoke. Your entire empire was built on the remains of Don Cinco’s empire, no? And you might not want to claim the last name, but aren’t we here because we need the other member of the Simmons family to help us?

Valeria stared Styles down, defiance raging in her eyes. Her words had sparked whispers between the other heads of their respective families, all eyes shifting to Styles.

I know why we are here, Valeria. Styles couldn’t keep the steel out of her voice. I recognize that we need my- Styles lowered her head, her tongue suddenly heavy, the word brother feeling foreign, uncomfortable in her mouth. As true as it was, she still couldn’t come to terms with the way things had ended between her and Rafe.

Styles looked up, the faces of the other crime bosses expectant, waiting for her to continue. She didn’t know if she could. She didn’t know that if she called on Rafe, that he would be willing to answer. He had agreed to let her live and leave her in peace, but coming to her rescue? That was an entirely different situation.

I recognize that we need Rafe. Styles took a deep breath. But I’m not sure that he will be willing to help. He left all of this behind. And for good reason.

While I respect your brother’s decision to step away from the streets, it has left things in complete chaos. This voice came from a young, black man, dressed casually in all-black sweats, and all-white Nike high-tops. He spoke with the common, rugged New York accent. None of us here were made aware of your ascension to the top of both the Castiglioni and Simmons families until you tried to make significant advances in each of our respective territories.

Again murmurs commenced flying around the table. Styles looked from face to face, the realization dawning on her that she was losing whatever control she had previously had over the situation.

Marcus has a point, Valeria spoke up again. You’ve certainly adopted your father’s ruthlessness and used it to your full advantage. Attempting extremely hostile takeovers. Valeria made no effort to conceal her contempt.

There is also the matter of the other problem. A middle-aged Asian man, who up until now had sat quietly smoking a cigarette, cleared his throat. "Our friend- his mouth formed a grimace on the word friend - is making his presence felt, most aggressively. Do you have any ideas on how we rectify that, Ms. Castiglioni?"

Mr. Hwang…. Styles opened her mouth, then closed it, faltering, unable to find the words she wanted to say. The truth was she didn’t know how she was going to stop their friend. She had no idea how she was going to convince Rafe to return to Summerville. The pressure was beginning to weigh on her shoulders.

Styles cleared her throat. Here’s what’s going to happen, she began.

No one would ever know what Styles intended to say. As she opened her mouth, the windows of the warehouse exploded inward, sending glass raining down on the heads of everyone gathered at the table.

Instinctively, all six of them covered their heads and rolled under the table. The warehouse was filled with the sounds of weapons being drawn and cocked. Their friend had arrived.

"Hijo de puta! Valeria shouted. Nunca debí haber venido sin mi guardaespaldas!"

Styles shook her head. Please, please shut the fuck up, Valeria. This is not the time.

The sounds of glass shattering finally ceased. Styles peered around the table, catching a glimpse of the windows furthest from her. Her eyes widened in horror as grenades came sailing through them.

Oh shit! He’s here! Marcus’s voice broke the silence, then there was a series of loud bangs.

Each grenade exploded, emitting a sharp hissing noise accompanied by a cloud of thick gray smoke. Styles inhaled deeply, holding her breath. From the other side of the table, she heard coughing and hacking as some of her colleagues struggled to breathe.

This is about to get messy. Styles fought not to rub her eyes; the smoke made it hard to see, and she blinked away tears. Through her tears, she ejected the magazine on her Glock .17. The clip was full. Good.

"Che cazzo sta succed - Uhf!" The unmistakable sound of a bullet piercing flesh ensured that Capo Giordano would never ask another question again.

Styles tried not to panic. That shot was too precise, too clean. There was no hailstorm of bullets being fired wildly into the smoke. They probably have gas masks and infrared goggles. Shit. There would be no easy way out of this.

More shots. More cries of pain, more sounds of bodies smacking hard concrete. Styles sprang up from under the table, spinning around as she did so. Not bothering to aim, or even look where the gun barrel was pointed, she fired, moving the gun from side to side, sending a smattering of bullets into the dense cloud. A few muffled grunts let her know that her plan had been successful. No time to reload. Damn.

Styles tossed her Glock, hoping the sound of it skittering across the concrete would throw the attackers off her trail. She turned on her heel, throwing up an arm to shield her face; she could no longer hold her breath. Coughing, she lurched forward, willing her legs to move, to carry her. Gotta make it to the door. Just gotta make it to the door.

The smoke started to dissipate. Just in front of her, the double doors loomed. A few more steps would guarantee that she was-

A strong hand wrapped around the back of her neck, squeezing as it pulled her backward. Styles reached up, attempting to pry the fingers off of her, only to feel them clamp tighter against her throat. Before she realized it, she was on her knees, spluttering, trying to suck in what little air she could. Just as spots started to materialize in front of her vision, the grip on her neck loosened. Styles dropped to all fours, heaving, drool leaking from her mouth, her vision slowly clearing up.

You’re going to bring me your brother. The deep baritone came from directly over her right shoulder. And you’re going to do it immediately.

Styles cursed herself under her breath. Shouldn’t have tossed the Glock. She rubbed her neck, standing up slowly as she did so. She was rewarded with cold steel pressed against the base of her skull.

What do you want from me? Styles spat through clenched teeth.

I told you. I want your brother. I want Rafe. Her attacker said Rafe’s name with such hatred that Styles couldn’t help but flinch.

And what if I can’t give him to you? Styles didn’t recognize the shakiness - the fear - in her own voice. What if I can’t deliver him?

Then you end up like some of your friends here. The same strong hand spun Styles around, forcing her to look at the mess in front of her.

Carnage was a much better word. The streets had given Styles a glimpse into many horrible things but still her stomach turned in revulsion.

Capo Giordano lay at the bottom of the far wall, his brains spread across the wall behind his head, his jaw swinging like some sort of demented pendulum. On top of the table, Mr. Hwang lay in its center, the entire right side of his face a bloody muck, his eye socket empty, the right half of his skull visible through pieces of ripped and blood-soaked flesh. Next to one of the storage shelves, a petite Indian woman, who couldn’t have been any more than about fifty, lay, her eyes rolling back into her head, her organs spilling through a massive hole in the center of her abdomen. Madam Aghari, Styles remembered. What happened to Ms. Hughes?

"Oh, Dios mío! Ten piedad de mi alma, Señor Jesús!"Valeria was on her knees, bound with her hands behind her back, tears streaming down her face. Her makeup, which had been so picture-perfect moments before, was now a mess of dark splotches.

Next to her, Marcus was bound similarly, his head bowed, muttering what Styles could only assume was a prayer. Positioned behind each of them was a man wearing all black, holding an AK-47, and wearing a black mask with an all-white skull painted on it.

Styles realized she had been holding her breath. She breathed out in a lengthy exhale, her eyes moving back and forth across the two people in front of her. She had brought this on them, and now four of them had paid the ultimate price for it. She turned her head, only to find herself inches away from a