Chapter 3: A Crack in the Armor (Nico Valenti POV)

I'm sitting on this hard-ass wooden chair in the Valenti compound, my back stiff, my hands planted on my knees like I'm waiting for a damn execution. The room stinks, old cigars, sweat, a whiff of gun oil hanging thick. Don Antonio's across from me, his gray hair glinting under the weak lamp on the table, his eyes slicing through me, cold and mean, like he's peeling my skin back layer by layer. "Fifty grand's missing," he growls, his voice low, gravelly, cutting deep. "And you've been distracted."

I shift in the seat, I cross my arms tight over my chest, my leather creaking. His words hit like a boot to the ribs, loyalty's my blood, I've spilled it for this family, I broke bones for it, I killed for it, but he's staring at me like I'm some street punk who's crossed him. I open my mouth, I'm gonna fire back, but he leans in, he slams a hand on the table, bang, the lamp shakes, the ashtray rattles, ash spilling. "Find who took the money," he says, slow, each word a blade, "or we'll mail you Luca's head."

I freeze, my fingers dig into my sleeves, gripping hard. Luca's name outta his mouth turns my blood to ice, sharp, cold, sinking fast. Does he know? About us? That kiss in the backroom, Gia's shadow in the door, fucking snitch, it has to be her. I swallow hard, my throat's tight, I keep my face stone, blank. "I'll find it," I say, my voice steady, even though my guts are twisting, flipping like a fish on a hook. He stares, long, hard, then he flicks his hand, dismissing me like I'm nothing.

I stand fast, I snatch my cap off the table, I yank it low over my eyes, my boots thud loud as I shove the door open with my shoulder. Night air hits, cool, damp, it smells like wet pavement and city rot. I walk to my truck, parked under a streetlight that's flickering, buzzing, I climb in, I slam the door. My hands clamp the wheel, my knuckles white, I breathe deep, slow, letting it hiss out. That dumb dream, me and Luca, free, whispering about it in the dark, laughable now, crumbling like ash.

I start the engine, it growls to life, I drive back to The Black Rose, streets dead quiet except for a dog barking sharp down some alley. I park out front, my tires crunch, I sit there, rubbing my thumb over the keychain, little metal cross I've carried since I was a kid. I do it when my head's too loud, it's worn smooth now, edges soft. Luca's inside, I gotta see him, make sure he's still breathing after Antonio's threat, slicing through me.

I get out, the door bangs, I walk to the bar, my boots heavy. The neon sign buzzes overhead, red glow spills on the sidewalk, flickering like it's dying. I push the door open, it creaks loud, I step in. Luca's there, sweeping, his broom scratches the floor, peanut shells skittering. He looks up, his usual bright smile's gone, his eyes tired, shadowed, worried. He sets the broom against the wall, slow, he walks over, wiping his hands on his jeans, smudging dirt.

"They know about us, don't they?" he asks, his voice small, trembling, cutting me open.

I don't answer, I just grab him, I yank him into me hard, my arms wrapping tight like I can shield him, hold him together. His head presses into my chest, warmth through my shirt, and his breath shakes against me. "No one's taking you from me," I say, my voice low, fierce, growling it out. It's a vow, but it's flimsy, flapping in the wind like torn paper. He nods against me, his fingers curl into my jacket, clinging.

We stay like that, a minute, maybe more, the bar quiet, just us breathing. I run my hand through his curls, soft, messy, something I do to settle myself, ground me. He smells like soap, a hint of the bar, beer, wood polish, clean and rough all at once. I wanna stay, lock the world out, but my head's racing, Antonio's threat, that missing cash, crushing down, heavy as hell.

I let go, I step back, I shove my hands in my pockets, my leather pulling tight. "Need air," I mutter, I turn for the door, my boots scuffing. He nods, he picks up the broom again, the bristles scraping, and I push outside. Cold bites my face, sharp, I lean against the wall, I kick a loose stone, it clatters off. A spider skitters across the sidewalk, its tiny legs darting, I watch it, then I tilt my head up, the sky's dark, no stars, just clouds sliding slow, thick.

I pull my phone out, I check the time, 12:15 a.m., the screen glows harsh, lighting my face. It buzzes in my hand, a photo loads, slow, grainy. I squint, my stomach drops, hard and fast. It's Luca, laughing at the bar, his head back, all light and alive. Gia's there, her hand on his arm, her smile sharp, predatory. The caption cuts: "He's not yours to keep."

I stare, my knuckles bleach around the phone, gripping 'til it hurts. Rage flares, hot, fast, burning through me. Someone's watching, watching him, and Gia? My own damn sister? I kick the wall, my boot scrapes brick, loud, pain shoots up my leg, I don't care. She's always been a snake, twisting, plotting, but this? I spin around, I scan the street, it's empty, just a cat slipping under a car, its tail flicking.

I turn back, Luca steps out right then, pulling his jacket on, he zips it slow, his hands fumbling. He doesn't see me, he looks up at the sky, soft, oblivious. Across the street, a car is parked, dark, still, its headlights snap on, bright, blinding, pinning him as he starts walking, his sneakers scuffing quiet.

My heart jams in my throat, it's wrong, I feel it deep, my bones screaming. I drop my phone in my pocket, I sprint toward him, my boots pounding pavement, loud, frantic. "Luca!" my shout rips out, tears through the night, raw. He turns, his eyes wide, surprised, but the car's engine snarls awake, low, mean, and I'm not close enough, not yet, my legs burning, too damn slow.