Chapter 30: Wounds and Words (Luca Moretti POV)

Chapter 30: Wounds and Words (Luca Moretti POV)

Nico’s sprawled on the cot in the safehouse, his shirt off, the knife wound on his side oozing blood, staining the mattress. I’m threading a needle with fishing line from a tackle box, my hands steady despite the hum of that ballad in my throat, soft and uneven. My knife’s on the table, close enough to grab, and I’m tucking a curl behind my ear as I lean over him, the needle glinting under the safehouse’s bare bulb. “Don’t move,” I say, starting the first stitch, the thread pulling tight, Nico’s hiss sharp but controlled.  
“You’re too good at this,” he says, his voice rough, his hand dropping to his cross keychain, fingers rubbing it like a prayer. His eyes meet mine, steady despite the pain, and he grabs my wrist, pulling me closer, the needle pausing mid-stitch. “Luca, I’m scared,” he whispers, his voice raw, breaking. “Scared I’ll lose you.”  
I set the needle down, leaning in, kissing him softly, my lips brushing his, tasting sweat and fear. “You won’t,” I say, my voice firm, pulling back to finish the stitch, my hands moving fast to keep my own fear at bay. I grab my notebook from the table, flipping to a new poem I scratched out last night, lines about Nico’s strength, our fight, the way we hold on. “Listen,” I say, reading aloud, my voice low but clear: “Your hands, my anchor, through the storm’s cruel bite / We carve our names in shadows, defying night.”  
Nico’s eyes soften, and he pulls me into a hug, his arms tight despite the wince it costs him. “We’re enough,” he says, his breath warm against my hair, and I nod, my throat tight, tucking another curl behind my ear.  
I finish the stitches, tying off the thread and grabbing a rag to wipe the blood, then move to the duffel by the cot, pulling out the guard’s phone we took from the warehouse. I swipe through it, my fingers smudging the screen, finding a text chain labeled Vinny, O’Connor’s runner. “Look at this,” I say, showing Nico. “Orders to hit Valenti’s main stash house, dawn tomorrow. Full crew, heavy weapons.”  
Nico grabs the phone, his jaw tight, scrolling the texts. “We need to warn the crew,” he says, pulling his own phone and texting Tommy, the bartender at Murphy’s, who’s got a line to Valenti’s muscle. Stash house hit planned, dawn. Get word to Frankie. He tosses the phone on the cot, grabbing a water bottle and taking a swig, his hand still on his cross. “We need supplies,” he says, dialing another number. “Vinnie’s got medical stuff stashed nearby.”  
I nod, moving to the safehouse door, checking the bolts and wedging a chair under the handle for extra security. Gia’s face, watching us from across the street, flashes in my mind, her blank stare chilling me more than the warehouse ropes. I grab a broom, sweeping the concrete floor to keep my hands busy, the bristles scraping loud in the quiet.  
Nico’s on the phone with Vinnie, his voice low. “Need bandages, antiseptic, now,” he says. “Drop it at the alley, usual spot.” He hangs up, leaning back on the cot, his face pale but set. “Vinnie’s ten minutes out,” he says, grabbing my hand, squeezing it. “You did good back there, Luca. Kept me going.”  
I smirk, tossing the broom aside. “Had to,” I say, sitting beside him, my knife flipping open and closed in my hand. “You’re no use to me passed out.”  
He laughs, short and rough, but the door bangs hard, and I’m on my feet, knife ready, Nico grabbing his gun from the table. It’s Marco, pushing through, his jacket dusted with ash, a cigarette dangling from his lips. “Antonio’s sniffing around,” he says, tossing the cigarette onto the floor and grinding it out. “Joey’s been talking, says you two are too close. He’s got Antonio’s ear.”  
I swallow hard, tucking a curl behind my ear, and grab the guard’s radio from the duffel, checking its batteries, still good. “Joey’s been watching me since the bar,” I say, setting the radio on the table. “If Antonio knows, ”  
“He doesn’t,” Nico cuts in, standing, wincing as he pulls a clean shirt from the duffel and tugs it on. “Not yet. We get the stash house secured, prove our loyalty, and Joey’s just noise.”  
Marco nods, grabbing a water bottle and drinking, his eyes flicking to Nico’s side. “You good?” he asks, nodding to the blood seeping through the shirt.  
“Good enough,” Nico says, his hand on his cross, his voice firm. “What’s Raf doing?”  
“Still at slip 22,” Marco says, pulling a folded map from his pocket, spreading it on the table. “Unloading crates with Vinny. I’ve got Tommy watching the dock. We hit them tonight, before the O’Connor crew moves.”  
I grab my notebook, jotting slip 22, Vinny, stash house hit, dawn, my pen scratching fast. “We need more than Tommy,” I say, looking up. “If O’Connor’s bringing a full crew, ”  
The guard’s radio crackles on the table, cutting me off, a voice slicing through the static: “Stash house hit, dawn. Full crew, bring the heavies.” I grab it, turning the volume low, my heart pounding, Nico and Marco leaning in, their faces grim.