Chapter 15: Blade’s Edge (Nico Valenti POV)
Chapter 15: Blade’s Edge (Nico Valenti POV)
I’m storming through The Black Rose, my boots thudding on the wood floor, my heart pounding from Luca’s text, Raf’s in the office. Knife. Hurry. The bar’s empty, the air heavy with the smell of stale beer, and I shove open the office door, the hinges squeaking. Raf’s got Luca cornered, twirling a knife, his smirk fading when he sees me. Luca’s gripping my knife, his stance shaky but ready, receipts spilling from his pocket onto the floor.
I lunge, grabbing Raf’s wrist and twisting hard. His knife clatters to the desk, and I slam him against the wall, my forearm pinning his chest. “What the hell are you doing?” I growl, my free hand snatching his blade and tossing it into a drawer.
Raf squirms, his breath hot with cigarette smoke. “Easy, Nico,” he says, raising his hands. “Just checking inventory. Found the kid snooping.”
“Bullshit,” I snap, shoving him harder, the wall creaking. Luca steps forward, pocketing the receipts, his eyes flicking between us. “You were threatening him,” I say, my voice low. “I saw the knife.”
Raf laughs, but it’s forced. “Threatening? Come on, man. I was messing around. He’s the one digging through your desk.”
I glance at Luca, who’s tucking a curl behind his ear, his jaw tight. “I was looking for proof,” Luca says, zipping his jacket. “Found receipts. Cash deposits that don’t add up.”
I loosen my grip on Raf, but don’t let go. “What receipts?” I ask, not taking my eyes off him.
“From the bar,” Luca says, pulling one out and holding it up. “Big amounts. Not in the books.”
Raf’s eyes dart to the paper, and I shove him again, letting him go with a warning. “You’re on thin ice,” I say, pointing at his chest. “One more slip, and you’re done. Get out.”
He straightens his jacket, grabbing his knife from the drawer. “You’re making a mistake, Nico,” he mutters, brushing past me. The door slams behind him, and I lock it, sliding the bolt shut.
I turn to Luca, grabbing his shoulders. “You okay?” I ask, checking his face for any marks.
“Yeah,” he says, exhaling, but his hands are shaking as he pockets my knife. “I’m sorry. I just… I had to know.”
I pull him into a quick hug, my hand on his neck. “Don’t apologize,” I say, my voice softer. “But no more solo missions, got it?”
He nods, stepping back, and grabs the receipts from the floor, handing them to me. I flip through them, $5,000, $10,000, dates that match the ledger Gia brought. “This is big,” I say, tucking them into my jacket. “We’ll go over it at the safehouse. Let’s get out of here.”
I grab a broom, sweeping up paperclips that spilled during the scuffle, while Luca stacks a crate of bottles left on the desk. We lock the office, and I check the bar’s front door, making sure it’s secure. A delivery truck rumbles past outside, its horn blaring, and I grab my cap from a hook, tugging it low. Luca zips his jacket, and we head to my truck, the gravel crunching under our boots.
The drive to the safehouse is tense, the city’s lights blurring past. I keep one hand on the wheel, the other rubbing my keychain cross, the metal warm in my pocket. Luca’s quiet, doodling on a napkin he pulled from his pocket, his pen scratching out swirls. “You sure you’re okay?” I ask, glancing at him.
He sets the pen down, folding the napkin. “Yeah,” he says, but his voice is tight. “Just… Raf’s face. He wasn’t joking, Nico.”
“I know,” I say, turning onto the safehouse’s street. “He’s out of chances. I’m telling Marco to watch him.”
I park behind the building, grabbing our bags from the back. Luca follows me up the fire escape, the metal creaking, and we step inside, locking the door. The apartment’s still dusty, the floorboards groaning as I set the bags on the kitchen table. I grab a bottle of water from the fridge, tossing one to Luca, who catches it and takes a sip, leaning on the counter.
“Let’s see those receipts,” I say, pulling them from my jacket. I spread them on the table, Luca sitting beside me, pointing out the dates. “These don’t match the bar’s cash flow,” he says, grabbing a pen to circle amounts. “Someone’s skimming.”
I nod, my fingers tapping the table. “Gia or Raf. Maybe both.” I grab my phone, texting Marco: Raf’s dirty. Receipts show cash deposits. Keep eyes on him. I set the phone down, rubbing my cross again.
Luca stands, grabbing a loaf of bread from the neighbor’s bag and slicing it with a knife from the drawer. “We need to eat,” he says, pulling out peanut butter. I help, spreading it on slices, and we sit on the couch, the springs creaking. Luca takes a bite, crumbs falling, and I brush them off his shirt, smirking.
“Messy,” I say, stealing a piece of his bread.
He laughs, tossing a crust at me. “You’re worse.”
We eat, the tension easing, and I lean back, Luca’s head resting on my shoulder. He reaches for my hand, his finger tracing a scar across my knuckles, gentle and slow. “How’d you get this one?” he asks, his voice soft.
“Bar fight,” I say, flipping my keychain cross in my other hand, the motion calming me. “Years ago. Guy pulled a bottle, I didn’t duck fast enough.”
He nods, still tracing the scar, and I feel the weight of the day lift, just a little. A cricket chirps outside the window, sharp in the quiet, and I set the cross down, pulling Luca closer. “You’re too good for this,” I say, my voice low. “All this mess.”
“I’m where I want to be,” he says, squeezing my hand. I kiss his forehead, my lips lingering, and we sit there, the couch creaking under us.
I’m about to grab another water when Luca stands, grabbing a mop to clean mud we tracked in. I help, sweeping the floor, the bristles scraping wood. “We’re getting good at this domestic stuff,” I say, nudging him.
He smirks, wringing out the mop. “Don’t get used to it.”
We finish cleaning, and I check the locks, sliding bolts and jamming a chair under the door. Luca grabs a notebook, jotting down the receipt details, his pen scratching. I’m folding a blanket on the couch when my phone buzzes, Marco’s reply: On it. Meet tomorrow. I pocket it, deciding to head back to the bar later to grab Gia’s bag, see if there’s more in it.
“Let’s rest,” I say, sitting back on the couch. Luca nods, tossing the notebook on the table, and curls up beside me, his head on my chest. I flip my cross again, the cricket still chirping, and I’m almost calm when a sharp scream cuts through the night, echoing from the street below.