Chapter 13: Guarded Hearts (Nico Valenti POV)
Chapter 13: Guarded Hearts (Nico Valenti POV)
I’m gripping the steering wheel, my knuckles still sore from last night, as I drive Luca out of Chicago’s heart, the city’s lights fading in the rearview. Tommy’s text, You’re next, is burned into my brain, and after the stash house explosion, I’m not taking chances. Luca’s in the passenger seat, his hood up, fiddling with a loose zipper on his jacket. The truck’s engine hums, and a talk radio host drones through the static, but I keep it low, my thumb tapping the wheel, a restless habit.
“You sure this is necessary?” Luca asks, glancing at me. “Hiding out?”
“Yeah,” I say, turning onto a quieter street, the pavement cracked and lined with sagging rowhouses. “Tommy’s not bluffing. Neither are the O’Connors. You’re staying somewhere safe.”
He sighs, leaning back, and pulls his phone out, scrolling through it before shoving it back in his pocket. “Where are we going?”
“Safehouse,” I say, keeping it short. It’s a small apartment Marco set up, off the grid, in a rundown part of town. I turn into an alley, parking behind a brick building with peeling paint. “Grab your bag,” I tell Luca, cutting the engine and hopping out. I sling a duffel over my shoulder, stuffed with clothes and a gun, and carry two grocery bags from the back.
Luca follows, his sneakers crunching gravel, and grabs one of the bags from me. We climb a rusty fire escape to the second floor, the metal creaking under our weight. I unlock the apartment door, pushing it open, and step inside. The floors creak louder than I’d like, and the place smells like dust and old coffee. I set the bags on a wobbly kitchen table, flipping on a lamp that flickers before steadying.
“Home sweet home,” Luca says, dropping his bag by the couch. He starts unpacking groceries, stacking cans of soup in a cupboard, his movements quick but tense. I grab a can of beans, helping him, but my eyes keep darting to the windows, checking the alley below.
A knock at the door makes me stiffen, my hand going to the knife in my belt. I motion for Luca to stay put and crack the door open. It’s just a neighbor, a lanky guy in a flannel shirt, holding a paper bag. “Saw you moving in,” he says, grinning. “Got some extra bread from the bakery. Want it?”
Luca steps over, taking the bag before I can say no. “Thanks,” he says, smiling back. “That’s nice of you.”
The guy, Matt, he says, leans on the doorframe, chatting about the neighborhood, his eyes lingering on Luca. “You need anything, I’m next door,” he says, handing Luca another bag he’d been carrying, this one with apples. My jaw tightens, and I grab a can of soup from the counter, tossing it onto the shelf harder than I mean to. It clatters, nearly falling.
Luca glances at me, his smile fading. “We’re good,” he says to Matt, stepping back. “Thanks again.”
Matt nods and leaves, his footsteps fading down the hall. I slam the door shut, locking it, and turn to Luca, who’s setting the bread on the table. “What the hell was that?” I snap, grabbing another can and shoving it into the cupboard.
“What?” Luca says, crossing his arms. “He was being nice.”
“Nice?” I toss a bag of rice onto the counter, the plastic rustling. “He was looking at you like you’re his next date.”
Luca’s eyes narrow, and he steps closer, his voice sharp. “You’re serious? I took some bread, Nico. That’s it. You think I’m flirting with every guy who says hi?”
I stop, my hand frozen on a jar of sauce, and blow out a breath. “I didn’t say that,” I mutter, but my chest’s tight, jealousy burning through me. Luca’s mine, and every look from someone else feels like a threat.
“Then what?” he says, grabbing the jar from me and setting it down. “I’m here, Nico. With you. Stop acting like I’m not.”
I rub my keychain cross in my pocket, the metal grounding me, and step toward him. “I know,” I say, my voice softer. “I just… I can’t lose you, Luca.”
His face softens, and he reaches out, touching my arm. “You won’t,” he says, his fingers squeezing. I pull him into a hug, desperate and tight, our foreheads touching. His breath’s warm against my cheek, and I hold him there, the world shrinking to just us.
“Sorry,” I whisper, my hands gripping his jacket. “I’m an idiot.”
“Yeah, you are,” he says, but there’s a smile in his voice. He pulls back, tugging a curl behind his ear, and grabs a loaf of bread, slicing it with a knife from the drawer. “Let’s eat. I’m starving.”
I nod, grabbing a couple of plates and some peanut butter from the groceries. We make sandwiches, sitting on the couch, the springs creaking under us. Luca takes a bite, crumbs falling on his shirt, and I laugh, brushing them off. “You’re a mess,” I say, stealing a piece of his bread.
“Look who’s talking,” he shoots back, tossing a crust at me. We eat, joking to shake off the fight, and I feel the tension ease, like a knot loosening.
After, I grab a mop from a closet, cleaning mud we tracked in, while Luca washes the plates, humming a tune, some pop song he always gets stuck in his head. I’m wringing out the mop when my phone buzzes with a text from Marco: Meet at the bar. Got a lead on Raf. I pocket it, deciding to head out soon, but first, I need to make sure Luca’s set.
“Let’s check the locks,” I say, setting the mop aside. We test the door and windows, sliding bolts and jamming a chair under the knob for extra security. Luca grabs a notebook, jotting down a grocery list, milk, eggs, cereal, like we’re playing house. I smirk, adding beer to the list, and he laughs, shoving my shoulder.
“I’m heading to the bar,” I say, grabbing my jacket. “Stay here. Don’t open the door for anyone, not even that bread guy.”
Luca rolls his eyes, but nods, tucking the notebook into his pocket. “Be careful,” he says, pulling me into a quick kiss, his hands on my neck. I kiss him back, lingering a second, then step out, locking the door behind me.
The drive to The Black Rose is quick, the streets quiet except for a kid kicking a soccer ball against a wall. I park out front, unlocking the bar and stepping inside. The air’s stale, the plywood window still up, and I grab a rag, wiping down the counter to keep busy while I wait for Marco. That’s when I spot it, Gia’s bag, left on a bar stool, its strap dangling. I grab it, unzipping it, and dig through, lipstick, keys, a pack of gum. Then my fingers brush something hard. I pull it out, a burner phone, its screen glowing with recent calls.