Chapter 6: Whispers in the Alley (Luca Moretti POV)

I’m sprawled on my creaky couch, the springs digging into my back, flipping Nico’s pocketknife between my fingers. The blade catches the dim light from a lamp on the floor, and I’m trying to get the grip right, like he showed me last night. My thumb slips, and I nearly drop it, so I set it on the coffee table, rubbing my hands together. I hum a soft tune—some old pop song stuck in my head—a nervous tic that kicks in when I’m on edge. Nico’s voice from last night keeps looping in my brain: Stay sharp, Luca. After that brick through the bar’s window and Raf’s weird call, I’m trying, but it’s hard to know what to watch for.

My apartment’s stuffy, the air thick with the smell of burnt toast from breakfast. I stand, stretch my arms, and grab a glass of water from the kitchen counter, gulping it down. The knife lesson was supposed to make me feel ready, but I’m just jumpy. I need air. I push open the window by the fire escape, the hinges squeaking, and step outside. The city’s damp breeze hits me, carrying the faint smell of rain and motor oil. I lean on the rusted railing, my sneakers scuffing the metal platform, and look down at the alley below.

That’s when I see Raf. He’s standing by a dumpster, talking to a guy in a black leather jacket. Their voices are low, but the alley’s quiet enough that I catch bits of it. I crouch, keeping my head low, and strain to hear. “The cash is handled,” Raf says, his hands stuffed in his pockets. The other guy nods, muttering something about “Nico’s boy.” My stomach twists—they’re talking about me. I duck back, my heart racing, and grab my phone from my pocket. My fingers fumble as I text Nico: Raf’s in the alley by my place. Talking about cash and me. Get here.

I wait, peering over the railing again. Raf hands the guy a small envelope, then glances up. I pull back fast, pressing myself against the wall, my breath shallow. The fire escape creaks under me, and I freeze, hoping they didn’t hear. A car horn blares a block away, covering the sound. I check my phone—Nico’s replied: On my way. Stay put. I shove the phone back in my pocket and climb inside, locking the window with a quick twist.

I pace the living room, my sneakers squeaking on the worn floorboards. A spider crawls across the wall, and I grab a cup from the counter, trapping it and sliding a piece of mail underneath to carry it outside later. It’s something to do while I wait, but my mind’s on Raf. What’s he doing with that guy? Is it tied to the missing money Nico’s supposed to find? I hum again, louder now, and grab the knife off the table, slipping it into my pocket just in case.

Headlights flash through the window, and I peek out—Nico’s truck pulls up, the engine rumbling. I grab my jacket, lock the door behind me, and jog down the stairs, taking them two at a time. Outside, Nico’s leaning against the truck, his cap pulled low. “Where is he?” he asks, his voice tight.

“Alley,” I say, pointing toward the corner. “He was with some guy in a leather jacket.”

Nico nods and starts walking, his boots heavy on the sidewalk. I follow, zipping my jacket up as a light drizzle starts, the drops cold on my face. We round the corner, and Raf’s still there, alone now, lighting a cigarette. The match flares, casting shadows on his face. Nico doesn’t hesitate—he grabs Raf’s collar, shoving him against the dumpster. “What’re you playing at?” Nico snaps, his grip tight.

Raf drops the cigarette, stomping it out with his heel. “Easy, man,” he says, raising his hands. “Just settling a debt. Some guy I owe from the track.”

“Bullshit,” Nico says, not letting go. “Luca heard you. Talking about cash. About him.”

Raf’s eyes flick to me, and I shift my weight, my hand brushing the knife in my pocket. “You spying on me, kid?” Raf asks, his tone sharp.

“I wasn’t spying,” I say, stepping closer. “I heard you. You said ‘Nico’s boy.’ What’s that about?”

Raf laughs, but it’s forced. “You got it wrong. I was just mouthing off, talking about Nico’s crew. Nothing about you.”

Nico shoves him one more time, then lets go, stepping back. “You better not be lying,” he says, pointing a finger at Raf’s chest. “I’m watching you.”

Raf straightens his jacket, brushing off the sleeves. “Whatever, man. You’re paranoid.” He walks off, his footsteps echoing down the alley.

Nico turns to me, his jaw still tight. “You okay?” he asks, his hand grazing my arm.

“Yeah,” I say, but I’m not sure. I tuck a curl behind my ear, a habit when I’m rattled, and glance down the alley where Raf disappeared. “You think he’s telling the truth?”

“No,” Nico says flat-out, kicking a loose can that clatters against the dumpster. “But I need proof.”

We head back to the bar, the drizzle turning to a steady rain. I pull my hood up, my sneakers splashing in shallow puddles. Inside The Black Rose, the air’s warm, smelling of wood and stale beer. I grab a cloth from behind the counter and start polishing glasses, my hands moving fast to keep busy. Nico sits on a stool, watching me, his fingers tapping the counter.

“Raf’s been off lately,” he says, almost to himself. “Too many late nights, too many excuses.”

I set a glass down and pick up another, wiping it slow. “Maybe it’s not just him,” I say, glancing at him. “Gia was acting weird too. Could they be… I don’t know, working together?”

Nico’s fingers stop tapping, and he leans forward. “You think my sister’s in on this?”

I shrug, stacking the glasses on a shelf. “I’m just saying, she’s been pushy with me. And she was here when that first note showed up.”

He rubs his chin, his eyes narrowing. “I’ll talk to her. But you stay out of her way, got it?”

“Got it,” I say, but I’m not sure I mean it. I’m tired of sitting back while Nico handles everything. I grab a tray of dirty mugs and carry it to the sink, turning on the faucet. The water’s hot, steaming up the air, and I scrub harder than I need to.

Nico gets up, walking to the boarded-up window from last night. He checks the plywood, tapping it with his knuckles. “This’ll hold for now,” he says, then grabs a broom and sweeps some stray glass we missed. We work in quiet for a bit, just the sound of bristles on the floor and water splashing in the sink.

I finish the mugs and dry my hands on a towel, hanging it on a hook. “You heading out?” I ask, nodding to the clock—it’s almost 2 a.m.

“Yeah,” Nico says, setting the broom aside. “You lock up tight. I’ll be back in the morning.”

I nod, walking him to the door. He pauses, his hand on the knob, and pulls me into a quick hug, his lips brushing my forehead. “Stay safe,” he whispers, then steps outside, his truck’s engine rumbling as he drives off.

I lock the door behind him, sliding the bolt shut, and start closing up. I stack the last chairs, wipe down the counter one more time, and grab my jacket from a hook by the bar. As I pull it on, something slips from the pocket—a folded piece of paper, fluttering to the floor. I bend down, picking it up, and unfold it slow. The words are scratched in jagged ink: “He’s lying to you.” My fingers pause, hovering over the note, my breath catching in my throat.