Chapter 23: Bullet’s Wake (Nico Valenti POV)
Chapter 23: Bullet’s Wake (Nico Valenti POV)
The gunshot’s still ringing in my ears as I yank Luca down behind the warehouse window, my hand clamped on his shoulder. He’s trembling, his knife out, his eyes wide under his hood. “Stay low,” I hiss, peering through the crack in the boards. The alley’s dark, just the streetlight’s flicker and that damn cat bolting for cover, but something’s wrong, too quiet now, like the air’s holding its breath.
I pull my gun, checking the clip, and glance at Luca, who’s humming that ballad, soft and shaky, his fingers twitching on his knife. “Cover me,” I say, easing the crate from the door and cracking it open. The hinges creak, and I slip out, staying low, my boots silent on the asphalt. Luca’s right behind me, his breath hitching, but he’s steady, knife ready.
The alley smells of damp brick and copper, and I spot him before Luca does, Sal, sprawled by a dumpster, his jacket soaked red, blood pooling under his head. A bullet hole’s clean through his temple, his phone still clutched in his hand, screen cracked but glowing with Luca’s last text. My gut twists, and I kneel, checking his pulse, but he’s gone, eyes blank.
“Shit,” Luca whispers, crouching beside me, his hand grabbing my sleeve. “Sal… he was helping us.”
I stand, wiping my hand on my jeans, my thumb already on my cross keychain, rubbing it hard. “Raf,” I say, my voice low, a growl. “He knew Sal was onto him. This is a setup.”
Luca’s eyes dart to the alley’s mouth, his knife flipping open, closed. “Joey?” he asks, tucking a curl under his hood.
“Maybe,” I say, grabbing Sal’s phone and pocketing it. “Or the O’Connors. We’re not waiting to find out.” I pull Luca up, heading for the warehouse door. “Get our stuff. We’re hitting Raf’s place now.”
Inside, Luca grabs the duffel, slinging it over his shoulder, while I text Marco: Sal’s dead. Alley off pier. Raf’s behind it. Meet us at his apartment. I pocket my phone, grabbing my cap from a crate and jamming it on. Luca’s already at the door, his notebook out, scribbling something, probably Sal’s name, like he’s keeping score.
“Let’s move,” I say, leading him to the truck parked behind the dumpster. The engine roars to life, and I peel out, tires screeching as we hit the street. Luca’s in the passenger seat, his knife still out, his humming louder now, filling the cab.
“You sure it’s Raf?” he asks, his voice tight, glancing at me. “What if Gia, ”
“Gia’s with the O’Connors,” I cut him off, weaving through traffic, a horn blaring as I cut off a cab. “But Raf’s the one selling us out. Sal was tailing him, and now he’s dead. That’s no coincidence.”
Luca nods, pulling his phone and texting someone. “Marco’s five minutes behind us,” he says, pocketing it. “Said Raf’s been dodging him all night.”
“Good,” I say, my hand gripping the wheel, my other on my cross. “We catch him before he bolts.”
Raf’s apartment’s in a rundown building near the docks, all cracked windows and graffiti. I park a block away, cutting the lights, and we slip out, Luca sticking close, his hood up. The street’s quiet, just a drunk yelling somewhere, and we hit the stairwell, the steps creaking under our boots. At Raf’s door, 3B, paint peeling, I pull my gun, nodding to Luca. He nods back, knife ready, and I kick the door in, wood splintering as it slams open.
The place is a mess, empty beer cans on the counter, a pizza box on the couch, clothes strewn across the floor. No Raf. I move fast, checking the bedroom, kicking open the closet, empty. Luca’s already at the desk, rifling through papers, his hands steady despite the shake in his breath.
“Anything?” I ask, tossing a chair aside, the wood clattering against the wall.
“Gambling slips,” Luca says, holding up a stack of betting receipts, his voice sharp. “Horses, fights, cards, Raf’s in deep. Owe’s thousands.”
I grab the slips, scanning them, dates, amounts, O’Connor bookies’ names scrawled in the margins. “He’s paying them with Valenti secrets,” I mutter, shoving the slips into my pocket. I kick over a table, frustration boiling over, papers scattering. “Where the hell is he?”
Luca moves to the kitchen, opening drawers, tossing forks and takeout menus. “He’s gotta have a burner,” he says, pulling out a junk drawer. “Something to contact the O’Connors.”
I nod, heading to the couch, slicing the cushions with my knife, nothing but foam and springs. My phone buzzes, and I pull it out, Marco: Outside. Raf’s car’s gone. Neighbor saw him leave an hour ago. I curse, texting back: Search the block. He’s running.
“Marco’s here,” I tell Luca, grabbing a lamp and checking the base, empty. “Raf’s already gone.”
Luca slams a drawer shut, tucking a curl behind his ear. “We need to find his next meet,” he says, grabbing his notebook and jotting Raf, O’Connors, gambling. “These slips might have a location.”
I nod, moving to the fridge, yanking it open, beer, ketchup, a moldy sandwich. “Check Sal’s phone,” I say, tossing it to him. “He might’ve texted someone before…” I trail off, my hand on my cross, the metal biting my thumb.
Luca catches the phone, swiping through it, his jaw tight. “Last text was to me,” he says, his voice low. “But there’s one before that, to a burner. Says, ‘Raf’s at the pier, midnight.’ That’s tonight.”
I grab the phone, reading it myself. “He was setting Raf up,” I say, pocketing it. “And Raf got to him first.”
A knock on the doorframe makes us both spin, Luca’s knife up, my gun drawn. It’s Marco, cigarette dangling, his jacket dusted with ash. “Place is trashed,” he says, stepping in. “Find anything?”
“Gambling slips,” I say, tossing him one. “Raf’s selling us out to cover his debts.”
Marco scans it, blowing smoke. “Neighbor downstairs heard him arguing on the phone earlier,” he says. “Something about a deal going south. Then he peeled out.”
“Deal with who?” Luca asks, stepping closer, his notebook still in hand.
“Didn’t hear a name,” Marco says, flicking ash onto the floor. “But I got a guy checking the pier. If Raf’s there, we’ll know.”
I nod, grabbing a trash can and dumping it, receipts, cigarette butts, nothing useful. “We hit the pier,” I say, looking at Luca. “Midnight. We end this.”
He nods, pocketing his notebook, but his hand’s shaking, and he starts humming again, low and uneven. I grab his shoulder, squeezing once, and head for the kitchen, needing to check one last thing. The fridge door’s still open, and I’m about to slam it when I see it, a note pinned under a magnet, white paper, black ink. I rip it off, my blood running cold as I read: You’re too late.