Chapter 12: Ashes and Anger (Luca Moretti POV)
Chapter 12: Ashes and Anger (Luca Moretti POV)
I’m scrambling out of The Black Rose, my sneakers slipping on the wet sidewalk as I chase after Nico. He’s already halfway to his truck, his phone pressed to his ear, barking orders to someone, Marco, probably, about the explosion we just heard. The air’s thick with fog, and a siren wails in the distance, sharp and urgent. I catch up, grabbing his arm. “I’m coming with you,” I say, my voice firm despite the knot in my stomach.
Nico lowers the phone, his eyes narrowing. “No, Luca. Stay here. Lock the bar.”
I shake my head, zipping my jacket up. “I’m not sitting this out. You need me.”
He curses under his breath, rubbing his keychain cross, but doesn’t argue. “Fine,” he says, yanking the truck door open. “Get in.”
I climb into the passenger seat, slamming the door as Nico starts the engine. The truck lurches forward, tires squealing as we speed toward the Valenti stash house across town. I grip the armrest, my other hand fiddling with a loose thread on my sleeve, a nervous tic. “What do you think happened?” I ask, glancing at him.
“Someone hit us,” Nico says, his hands tight on the wheel. “O’Connors, most likely. After what I did to Tommy.”
I nod, swallowing hard. The memory of Tommy’s hand on my shoulder, his threat to stay away from Nico, makes my skin crawl. I pull my phone out, checking for messages, nothing yet, and shove it back in my pocket. A delivery van cuts us off, and Nico leans on the horn, swerving around it.
We reach the stash house, a squat brick building in an industrial lot, now surrounded by fire trucks and flashing lights. Nico parks crooked, jumping out, and I follow, stepping over a hose snaking across the ground. The air’s heavy with smoke, stinging my throat, and I cough, pulling my hood up. Charred beams jut from the rubble like broken bones, and Nico’s already moving, kicking a blackened crate that splinters under his boot.
“Careful,” I say, grabbing a stick to poke through the debris. I nudge a scorched metal box, its lid warped, and lift it, coughing again as ash swirls up. “Anything worth saving?”
Nico snatches the box, prying it open with his knife. Inside, there’s just melted plastic and singed papers. “Nothing,” he mutters, tossing it aside. He kicks another piece of debris, a shattered plank, his temper flaring. “This was ours, Luca. They think they can burn us out?”
I grab his arm, steadying him. “We’ll figure it out,” I say, my voice calmer than I feel. I hum softly, a pop song stuck in my head, trying to keep my nerves in check. A stray dog sniffs nearby, its tags jingling as it paws at a pile of ash. I shoo it away, waving the stick, and turn back to Nico.
He’s crouched now, scraping ash off a wall with his knife. “Look at this,” he says, pointing. I lean in, squinting through the smoke. There’s an O’Connor insignia carved into the brick, a crude shamrock with a slash through it.
“Tommy’s crew,” I say, my stomach twisting. “This is because of what you did at Murphy’s, isn’t it?”
Nico stands, wiping his blade on his jeans. “Maybe,” he says, his voice hard. “Or it’s bigger than that. The money, Raf, Gia, it’s all connected.”
I nod, stepping over a charred beam to check another pile. I grab a rag from my pocket, tying it over my mouth to block the smoke, and start sifting through rubble. Nico joins me, tossing aside a broken chair. A firefighter yells at us to clear out, but Nico waves him off, muttering, “We’re handling it.”
We work for a bit, the dog still sniffing around, until Nico’s phone buzzes. He pulls it out, answering with a curt, “Yeah?” It’s Marco, his voice loud enough for me to hear. “Cops are crawling all over. Get out before they start asking questions.”
Nico hangs up, grabbing my arm. “Let’s go,” he says, pulling me toward the truck. I stumble over a piece of rebar, catching myself on his shoulder, and we climb in, the doors slamming shut. He starts the engine, peeling out of the lot as another siren wails behind us.
Back at the bar, I unlock the door, my hands shaky, and flip on the lights. The plywood over the window makes the place feel like a bunker, but I head to the counter, grabbing a broom to sweep up ash we tracked in. Nico paces, his boots thudding, and grabs a bottle of water from the fridge, tossing me one. I catch it, twisting the cap off, and take a long sip, the cold soothing my throat.
“What now?” I ask, leaning the broom against the wall. I grab a stack of napkins, straightening them on the counter, my fingers needing something to do.
Nico cracks his water open, leaning on the bar. “We hit back,” he says. “But I need to know who’s calling the shots. Tommy’s not smart enough to pull this off.”
I nod, setting the napkins down. “Could be Raf,” I say, wiping my hands on my jeans. “He’s been shady. Or Gia. She had that photo, Nico.”
He rubs his keychain cross, his jaw tight. “I’m dealing with both,” he says. “Starting with Raf. He’s at the docks tonight. I’ll find him.”
“Let me help,” I say, stepping closer. “I can keep an eye on the bar, see who comes around.”
He shakes his head, grabbing my wrist. “You’re staying low, Luca. No more following people.”
I pull my wrist free, crossing my arms. “I’m not helpless,” I say, my voice sharper than I mean. “I’m in this, same as you.”
He sighs, pulling me into a quick hug. “I know,” he says, his lips brushing my forehead. “Just… don’t make me lose you.”
I nod, hugging him back, my fingers curling into his jacket. We pull apart, and I grab a crate of bottles, restocking the bar to keep busy. Nico helps, stacking glasses, his movements tense but steady. A delivery truck rumbles past outside, its horn blaring, and I check the clock, 6:43 p.m.
“Let’s eat something,” I say, grabbing my phone to order takeout. Nico nods, pulling two stools to the bar. I order burgers from a place down the street, and we sit, waiting for the delivery. I grab a pen, doodling on a napkin, random lines, a habit when I’m rattled. Nico watches, sipping his water, and reaches over, adding a crooked smiley face to my sketch.
I laugh, nudging his arm. “You’re terrible at this.”
“Better than you,” he says, smirking. The delivery guy knocks, and I pay him, setting the bag on the bar. We eat, grease staining the napkins, and I toss a fry at Nico, who catches it in his mouth, grinning.
We’re cleaning up, stacking the takeout containers, when Nico grabs a mop, tackling a spot of mud by the door. I wipe down the counter, humming again, trying to shake the image of that O’Connor insignia. I’m rinsing the rag in the sink when Nico’s phone buzzes again. He checks it, his face darkening, but doesn’t say anything, pocketing it.
“You good?” I ask, hanging the rag on a hook.
“Yeah,” he says, but his voice is tight. He grabs his jacket, checking his knife. “I’m heading to the docks. Lock up after me.”
I nod, walking him to the door. He pulls me into another hug, quick but firm, and steps outside, his boots crunching gravel. I lock the door, sliding the bolt shut, and head back to the counter, grabbing my phone to check the time. That’s when it vibrates in my pocket, a new text flashing on the screen. It’s from Tommy: You’re next.