Chapter 8: Rivalry & Attraction

The neon dive bar sign stuttered and cast a sickly yellow glow over the rain-soaked pavement, rendered the air a lurid, uneasy light. Leo was beneath it, boots scuttling over wet soil, the salt and decay blending in wet air. He lit his Zippo, the flame a fierce, angry flash into the night, and a cigarette, taking a long drag, the smoke a fleeting balm to the burning tension that twisted within him.

His phone buzzed, the screen a harsh white against the night, 11:43 p.m., March 04, 2025. Vito's text message, a stern warning, "Gia's lieutenant—Rico—sighting east—move quickly," stayed in his mind. The brutal attack on his warehouse had left his men bruised, forcing him into an uncomfortable alliance with Marco, an alliance as bitter as it was inevitable. He smoothed his jacket, the parchment beneath the leather crisply rustling, a faint red glow radiating from the interior, a reminder of the bond that he could not cut. A lone gull shrieked across the Sound, its mournful call lost in the thudding bass from the bar, and he kicked over a crumpled beer bottle, the glass scraping across wet pavement, releasing a heavy cloud of smoke into the wet air.

Marco leaned against a lamppost, his silk shirt open at the collar, darkened by the relentless drizzle. A fire-smoldering red cigar had dwindled down to a sliver between his fingers, and he snapped the silver lighter closed in a well-honed flash of wrist. Dark eyes crossed Leo's, penetrating and unfazed, rain-spangled lashes flashing strobe-reddened on his eyelashes, lighting neon-stabbing in riot colors. "Ready, Russo?

" He breathed, smooth and deep, as though he had some measure of darkness encompassing them both.

Leo spat on the ground, the saliva vanishing into a puddle, and spun his knife once, the metal glinting in the weak light of the streetlamp. "Let's have this done," he snarled, his boots crunching on the wet gravel, a wave of heat burning in his chest. Marco's smell, a mixture of cigar smoke and leather, clung to him, too close, too intimate. Damn him, why did it cling like that? They moved down the back alley of the bar, boots squelching through shallow puddles, the high brick walls wet and streaked with dirt looming on either side. A scrawny cat darted through their path, spitting loudly, then melted into the shadows. Marco moved with a hunter's stealth, checking corners, his gun slightly glinting in his waistband, his silk shirt rustling softly over his body. Leo stayed alongside him, hard-held knife and pounding heart. Shit, their movements were choreographed too smoothly, like they were reciting a smooth dance routine. The oath resonated within him, hot and alive, reminder of their coupled fates. Hate warred with an uncontrollable, indefatigable attraction, more than a treaty between them.

Shit, why was it so pleasing? A silhouette bulked in the foreground, broad and swift, the glint of metal on the pavement heralding Rico's presence. He was crouched in the shadows, no more than a dark shape. "Left," Marco breathed, his head jerking, his silk blouse rustling as he shifted. Leo crept after him, his boots shuffling on the pavement, his knife whirling in his hand. The rear door of the bar creaked, the rusty hinges complaining, and they glided inside. The air reeked of stale beer and sweat, the thudding bass from the front, the neon flashing over the sticky floors, casting long, jagged shadows. Rico sat in a booth at the back, his scarred face illuminated by the harsh light, his yellow eyes flashing wildly, his chain curled on the table like a striking snake.

Two Serpents stood at his side, their blades at their hips, laughing stupidly at the clinking of glasses.

Leo waved his fingers, and Marco nodded, moving swiftly and silently. Shit, their beat was in sync, the oath burning within him, the red pulse thudding hot. Why did it feel so right? Marco struck first, grabbing one of the Serpents by the collar and slamming his head against the table, the wood splintering. The man fell to the floor, blood oozing from his nose. Rico lunged, chain clanking, and Leo kicked a chair over, sending the second Serpent stumbling. His knife flashed, slicing across the man's throat, blood jetting hot and red. The man gagged and fell, his boots crashing to the floor. Rico sprinted down the alley, the back door slamming open. Marco laughed over his shoulder, "Yours, Russo," his dark eyes twinkling with amusement.

For God's sake, why did it feel so strong? Leo sprinted after him, his boots splashing in the puddles, rain lashing at his face. The alley was narrow and winding, Rico's chain clattering against the pavement, his yellow eyes flashing with terror. Leo attacked him, their bodies slamming against the gravel, the hard stones digging into his knees. His knife to Rico's throat, his heart pounding, hot and raw. Damn it, the shift tempted his control, his claws hungry to rip. "Gia—where?" Leo snarled, his voice harsh, his blade biting into Rico's skin, a slow trickle of red appearing.

Rico laughed, gagging, spitting blood onto Leo's sleeve. "Screaming—soon—Russo," he spat, his yellow eyes dwindling, stubborn to the end. Marco stepped up behind him, his red-stained cigar, taking his time sucking on it, sending slow threads of smoke through the air. His silk blouse shone moist in the paltry light of the alleyway. He reached in close, his voice menacing and low, "Finish it." Leo plunged his knife into Rico's chest, the blood erupting hot and fast. The man wheezed, the chain clattering on the ground, his body falling against a pothole. Leo stood up, his boots slipping on the gravel, wiping the blade on his jeans, his jacket stained with blood. Heat ran through him, the oath blazing, the red pulse thudding. Damn it, Marco's kill, his knife, why did it feel so naturally in his hands?

Marco smiled, inclining his head, exhaling smoke, "You made something handsome with my knife in your hands," his voice smooth and bantering. Shit, why did that burn like that? Leo flexed his cuff, lit a cigarette, the Zippo ripping loud, blowing smoke forcefully. The rain came down solid, wind howled low, alley empty out. Rico's blood puddled on the gravel, dark red. His heart skipped, not hate, damn it, something else.

Marco stepped in, too close, his boots crunching softly in the gravel, his fingertips on Leo's jaw, warm and hard, his silk shirt against Leo's leather jacket.undefinedHis dark eyes locked with Leo's, deep and heavy, his voice low and taunting, "Tell me you don't feel it." Whose beat, whose blood, whose draw, tore him, next?