Chapter 19: No Way Out (Nico Valenti POV)

The car’s headlights cut through the motel’s flimsy curtains, painting jagged shadows across the room. I’m pressed against the wall, knife in hand, the blade’s weight steadying my pulse. My other hand’s in my pocket, thumb grinding against the metal cross, worn smooth from years of worry. Luca’s still by the table, rag clutched tight, his eyes flicking between me and the window. The engine’s rumble dies, and the silence is worse, thick, like it’s waiting to choke us.

I ease the curtain back an inch, squinting into the lot. The sedan’s black, sleek, parked right outside our door, but no one’s inside. The driver’s seat’s empty, the passenger side too. My gut twists, sharp and cold. “Get down,” I hiss at Luca, pointing to the couch.

He drops to a crouch, his sneakers squeaking on the carpet, but his jaw’s set, like he’s ready to argue. “Nico, what, ”

“Quiet,” I cut him off, my voice low, barely a growl. I inch toward the door, testing the chain with my fingers, still secure. The gravel outside crunches, faint, like someone’s circling the truck. I grab my gun from the duffel on the dresser, tucking it into my waistband, and motion for Luca to stay put. He nods, tucking a curl behind his ear, but his hand’s shaking, gripping that knife I gave him like it’s a lifeline.

I crack the door open, just enough to slip out, and ease onto the motel’s walkway, the cold biting through my jacket. The neon sign buzzes overhead, casting a red glow that flickers over the lot. I scan the sedan, then my truck, parked a few spaces down. Something’s off, a white square flaps against the windshield, taped down, fluttering in the breeze. I glance back at the room, Luca’s shadow still low behind the couch, and move fast, boots silent on the asphalt.

The note’s stuck with duct tape, the kind that peels paint. I rip it off, the paper crinkling, and unfold it under the streetlight’s weak glow. Scrawled in black ink: Time’s running out. My blood goes hot, then ice-cold, and I crumple the note, shoving it into my pocket. No signature, no name, but it’s them, O’Connors, maybe Gia, maybe even Antonio’s men. Someone’s closing in, and we’re sitting ducks here.

I sprint back to the room, shoving the door open. Luca’s on his feet now, knife still out, his eyes wide. “What is it?” he asks, stepping toward me.

“We’re moving,” I say, grabbing the duffel and tossing it to him. “Pack up. Now.”

He catches the bag, slinging it over his shoulder, and starts stuffing our groceries, cans, bread, a half-empty salsa jar, into a plastic sack. “What’d you find?” he says, his voice steady but tight, like he’s bracing for the worst.

I yank my jacket from the chair, checking the gun’s clip. “Note on the truck. They know we’re here.”

His hands freeze on a can of soup, and he looks up, swallowing hard. “Tommy?”

“Could be,” I say, grabbing the deck of cards from the table and shoving it into my pocket. “Could be anyone. We’re not waiting to find out.”

He nods, zipping the grocery bag shut, and grabs his jacket, pulling it on fast. I check the room, nothing left but a crumpled napkin with Luca’s doodles, swirls and a half-drawn cat. I leave it, locking the door behind us as we head to the truck. The sedan’s still there, empty, its headlights dark now, but I feel eyes on us, prickling the back of my neck. I toss the bags in the truck bed, climb into the driver’s seat, and start the engine, the rumble loud in the quiet lot.

Luca slides in beside me, slamming his door. “Where to?” he asks, buckling his seatbelt, his fingers fidgeting with the zipper on his jacket.

“Another safehouse,” I say, pulling onto the street, tires crunching gravel. “Marco’s got a place near the river. Nobody knows about it.”

He nods, leaning back, but his eyes are heavy, half-closed, the adrenaline fading. I glance at him, his curls falling loose, his face soft in the dashboard’s glow. He’s fighting to stay awake, and it hits me hard, how much he’s carrying, how much I’ve dragged him into. I rub the cross in my pocket, the metal grounding me, and keep driving, the city’s lights blurring past.

The streets are dead, just a stray dog darting across an intersection, its shadow stretching under a streetlight. I turn onto a side road, the pavement cracked, lined with shuttered warehouses. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I fish it out, keeping one hand on the wheel. A text from Marco: Heard about the motel. Stay low. Call when you’re clear. I pocket it, deciding to wait until we’re settled.

“You talk to Gia yet?” Luca mumbles, his voice sleepy, breaking the silence.

I grip the wheel tighter, my thumb tapping the leather. “Not since the diner,” I say. “She’s in deep with Sean O’Connor. Won’t admit it, but she’s scared.”

He shifts, turning to me, his eyes sharper now. “You think she sent that note?”

“Maybe,” I say, turning into an alley behind a brick building, its windows boarded up. “Or Raf. He’s been selling us out to the O’Connors too.”

Luca’s jaw tightens, and he pulls his knife from his pocket, flipping it open and closed, a nervous tic. “We can’t keep running,” he says, his voice low. “We need to hit back.”

I park the truck, cutting the engine, and look at him. “We will,” I say, reaching over to squeeze his hand. “But first, we stay alive. Come on.”

We climb out, grabbing the bags, and head to a rusted door at the building’s rear. I unlock it with a key Marco gave me months ago, the hinges groaning as we step inside. The air’s damp, smelling of mildew and old paint, and I flip on a single bulb, its light weak but enough to show a small room, bare concrete floor, a cot in the corner, a table with two chairs. Luca drops the duffel on the cot, unzipping it to unpack, while I check the windows, their panes cracked but secure.

“Home sweet home,” I mutter, tossing my jacket onto a chair. I pull the crumpled note from my pocket, smoothing it out on the table. Luca steps over, reading it over my shoulder, his breath warm against my neck.

“Time’s running out,” he says, tracing the words with his finger. “What’s that mean? They gonna hit us tonight?”

I shake my head, folding the note and shoving it back in my pocket. “It’s a warning,” I say. “They want us scared, off-balance.”

“Well, it’s working,” he says, grabbing a water bottle from the grocery bag and twisting the cap off. He takes a sip, then hands it to me. “You got a plan?”

I drink, the cold stinging my throat, and set the bottle down. “Yeah,” I say, pulling my phone out to text Marco: At the river spot. Need eyes on Raf and Gia. Call me. “We lay low here, let Marco track Raf’s next move. If he’s meeting the O’Connors, we’ll know.”

Luca nods, grabbing a loaf of bread from the bag and slicing it with his knife, the blade steady now. “And Gia?” he asks, setting the slices on the table.

“I’m confronting her tomorrow,” I say, grabbing a jar of peanut butter and spreading it on a slice. “No more games. She talks, or she’s out.”

He sits across from me, taking a bite of bread, crumbs falling on the table. “You think she’ll turn on Sean?”

I snort, tossing him a napkin. “She better. Or Antonio’ll handle her himself.”

We eat in silence for a bit, the bread dry but filling, the room quiet except for a drip from a leaky pipe somewhere. Luca hums softly, that same ballad he’s been stuck on, and starts unpacking the duffel, pulling out shirts and stacking them on the cot. I help, grabbing a pair of jeans, but my mind’s on the note, on Gia’s voice at the diner, on Raf’s smirk in the office. It’s all closing in, and I’m running out of moves.

“Let’s check the back door,” I say, standing and wiping my hands on my jeans. Luca follows, grabbing a flashlight from the bag, its beam cutting through the dim hall. We find a heavy steel door, bolted shut, and I test it, the metal cold under my palm. “This’ll hold,” I say, sliding another bolt for good measure.

Back in the room, Luca’s unpacking again, pulling out his notebook, the one with his grocery lists and doodles. He flips it open, jotting something, probably more supplies, and I grab a chair, sitting backward to watch him. “You holding up?” I ask, my voice softer now.

He glances up, tucking a curl behind his ear. “Trying,” he says, setting the pen down. “You?”

I rub the cross, leaning forward. “Same,” I say. “But you’re here. That’s enough.”

He smiles, small but real, and reaches over, brushing my hand with his. “Read that poem yet?” he asks, nodding to my jacket on the chair.

“Not yet,” I say, smirking. “Saving it for when I need a kick in the ass.”

He laughs, tossing a sock at me, and I catch it, tossing it back. For a second, it’s just us, no notes, no O’Connors, no betrayal. But then Luca unzips the duffel again, digging deeper, his hands slowing. He pulls out my jacket, the one I was wearing at the motel, and checks the pocket, his fingers pausing.

“Nico,” he says, his voice sharp, holding up the empty jacket. “The poem’s gone.”

I stand, my boots scuffing the concrete, and grab the jacket, checking the pocket myself. Nothing, just lint and a gum wrapper. My stomach drops, the note’s words echoing in my head: Time’s running out. Someone’s been in our stuff, and they’re closer than I thought.