Chapter 4: Shadows on the Move (Luca Moretti POV)

I’m standing on the sidewalk outside The Black Rose, my fingers fumbling with my jacket zipper. The cold night air bites my face, and the street’s quiet except for a low hum of traffic a few blocks away. Nico’s voice—sharp, yelling my name—snaps me out of my thoughts. I squint into the dark and see him sprinting toward me, his boots slamming the pavement. Across the street, a car’s headlights flare on, bright and blinding. My legs lock up, and I just stand there, gripping the zipper like it’ll save me.

Nico crashes into me, tackling me hard to the grass. We roll together, his arm pinning me down as we tumble behind a parked van. The car’s engine roars, tires screeching on wet asphalt, and it peels away, red taillights fading into the night. I’m breathing fast, my cheek pressed against the damp ground, Nico’s weight heavy on me. “You okay?” he asks, his voice rough.

I nod, pushing myself up as he grabs my arm and hauls me to my feet. “Come on,” he says, pulling me toward the bar. My sneakers slip on the grass, and I stumble, catching myself on his shoulder. My keys jangle in my pocket, and I dig them out, my fingers clumsy. I drop them once, then again, cursing under my breath. Nico waits, scanning the street, his hand hovering near his belt where I know he keeps his knife.

I finally get the key in the lock and shove the door open. We step inside, and I flip on the bar’s dim lights, the bulbs buzzing overhead. The place smells like stale beer and wood polish, same as always, but it feels different now—smaller, like the walls are closing in. I shut the door behind us, twisting the lock with a click.

Nico’s pacing now, his boots scuffing the floor. “What the hell was that?” he snaps, not at me, but at the air. I don’t answer right away. My heart’s still racing, and I’m thinking about that note I found earlier, the one I haven’t told him about yet. I pull it from my pocket, the paper crumpled, and smooth it out on the counter with both hands. The words stare up at me: Stay away from him, or you’ll both pay.

“Nico,” I say, my voice quieter than I mean it to be. He stops pacing and turns, his eyes narrowing. I slide the note toward him. “I found this. Under the door, when I was closing up.”

He grabs it, his fingers brushing mine, and reads it fast. His jaw tightens, a muscle twitching under his skin. “When were you gonna tell me?” he asks, his voice low, almost a growl.

“I was going to,” I say, grabbing a broom from the corner. I start sweeping up some broken glass from a bottle that tipped over earlier, a habit when I’m nervous. The bristles scrape the floor, and I focus on that instead of his stare. “I didn’t want to make it worse. You were already dealing with Antonio.”

“Worse?” He steps closer, tossing the note onto the counter. “Luca, someone’s after us. This ain’t a game.”

“I know that,” I snap, gripping the broom tighter. I stop sweeping and look at him, my chest tight. “I’m scared, okay? But I’m not running.”

His face softens a little, and he steps even closer, so we’re only a foot apart. “You don’t have to run,” he says, his hand reaching out to touch my arm. “I’m not letting anything happen to you.”

I nod, tucking a loose curl behind my ear. Our eyes lock, and for a second, it’s just us, like it was in the backroom before everything went crazy. I want to kiss him again, but the memory of Gia’s stare—her eyes on us when she caught us—stops me.

“Gia was here tonight,” I say, setting the broom against the wall. “Before you came back. She was… weird. Kept getting too close, saying I don’t belong here.”

Nico’s hand drops, and his eyes darken. “What do you mean, too close?”

I shrug, picking up a rag and wiping the counter, even though it’s already clean. “Just… touchy. Kept putting her hand on my arm, staring at me. It felt off.”

He kicks a chair leg, the wood creaking under his boot. “She’s my sister, but she’s got no business touching you,” he mutters. “If she’s behind this…” He trails off, his fingers curling into a fist.

I don’t know what to say, so I grab a stack of coasters and start straightening them, my hands needing something to do. The bar’s quiet now, just the hum of the fridge in the corner and a faint drip from the sink. I glance at Nico, who’s staring at the note again, his thumb rubbing over it like he’s trying to erase the words.

“Let’s figure this out,” I say, moving to the sink to rinse the rag. I turn on the faucet, the water cold against my fingers. “Maybe it’s not Gia. Maybe it’s someone else at the bar, someone who saw us.”

Nico shakes his head, stepping up beside me. “Nobody else was around when we… you know.” He lowers his voice, like even saying it’s risky. “But Gia was. And she’s been acting strange.”

I turn off the water and hang the rag on a hook. “What do we do then?” I ask, crossing my arms.

He doesn’t answer right away. He walks to the front door, checking the lock, then moves to the windows, pulling the blinds down one by one. Each slat clicks into place, shutting out the street. “We stay sharp,” he says finally. “And you don’t go anywhere alone.”

I nod, but my stomach twists. I’m not used to this—notes, cars, people watching me. I moved to Chicago for a fresh start, not to get tangled up in mafia stuff. But then I think of Nico—his eyes, his touch, the way he makes me feel like I’m more than just a small-town kid. I’m not giving that up, no matter how scared I am.

I grab a stool and sit, my fingers tapping the counter, a nervous tic I’ve had since I was a kid. Nico’s still by the window, peeking through a gap in the blinds. “Street’s clear,” he says, but his voice is tight, like he doesn’t believe it.

“Maybe we should call someone,” I say, pulling my phone from my pocket. I check the screen—no new messages, just the time: 12:32 a.m. “Like Raf. He’s your friend, right? Maybe he knows something.”

Nico snorts, turning to face me. “Raf’s got his own problems. I don’t trust him with this.”

I frown, setting my phone down. “Then who do we trust?”

He looks at me, his eyes softer now. “Each other,” he says, stepping closer. He puts a hand on my shoulder, his thumb brushing my collarbone. “That’s it.”

I smile a little, even though my nerves are still buzzing. “Okay,” I say, leaning into his touch. “Just us.”

He nods, his hand lingering, and I think he’s about to say something else when he stops. He walks back to the door, his hand on the bolt, ready to lock it tighter.

That’s when it happens. A loud crash cuts through the quiet, and a brick smashes through the front window, shattering glass across a table. I jump up, my stool tipping over, and gasp as the brick lands with a thud, a piece of paper tied to it with string. The note flaps in the draft, and I read the words scrawled on it: “You can’t hide.”