Chapter 16: Blood on the Street (Luca Moretti POV)
Chapter 16: Blood on the Street (Luca Moretti POV)
I’m curled up on the safehouse couch, Nico’s arm around me, when a sharp scream slices through the cricket’s chirping outside. I bolt upright, my heart slamming against my ribs, and Nico’s already moving, grabbing his knife from the coffee table. “Stay here,” he says, his voice low, but I’m not listening. I grab my jacket, zipping it up, and follow him to the door, my sneakers squeaking on the creaky floorboards.
“Luca, I said stay,” Nico snaps, unlocking the door, but I shake my head, tucking a curl behind my ear.
“I’m coming,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. He curses under his breath, rubbing his keychain cross, but doesn’t argue, pushing the door open. We step onto the fire escape, the metal groaning under our weight, and hurry down to the street. I trip over a cracked curb, catching myself on Nico’s arm, and we scan the dimly lit alley.
That’s when I see him, Joey, a Valenti soldier I’ve seen at the bar, sprawled on the pavement, clutching his side. Blood seeps through his fingers, staining his shirt, and his breaths are shallow, ragged. Nico kneels beside him, grabbing his shoulder. “Joey, talk to me,” he says, his voice sharp.
Joey’s eyes flutter, his face pale. “O’Connor… thugs,” he mutters, wincing. “Jumped me… three of ‘em.” His head lolls, and he passes out, his hand falling limp.
I pull my phone from my pocket, my hands steady despite the panic clawing at me, and dial 911. “We need an ambulance,” I say when the operator picks up, giving the street name. “Guy’s been stabbed, he’s bleeding bad.” Nico glances at me, nodding, and I shove the phone back in my pocket, grabbing his hand. I’m not leaving, no matter how scared I am.
Nico rips his jacket off, pressing it to Joey’s side to slow the bleeding. “Stay with me, man,” he says, his voice tight. I kneel beside him, my jeans soaking in a puddle, and grab a rag from my pocket, wiping blood off Joey’s face to keep it from his eyes. A stray cat watches from a dumpster, its eyes glinting, and I shoo it away, waving my hand.
“Think it’s Tommy’s crew?” I ask, my voice low, still holding Nico’s hand.
“Gotta be,” Nico says, pressing harder on the jacket. “After the stash house, they’re hitting back.”
I nod, humming a nervous tune, some old pop song, to keep calm. Sirens wail closer, and I stand, waving down the ambulance as it screeches around the corner. Paramedics jump out, carrying a stretcher, and Nico steps back, letting them work. They lift Joey, strapping him in, and I grab Nico’s bloody jacket from the ground, folding it over my arm.
“We need to get out of here,” Nico says, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Cops’ll be next.”
I nod, following him to the truck parked behind the safehouse. We climb in, the doors slamming, and Nico starts the engine, pulling onto the street. I set the jacket on the floor, grabbing a water bottle from the cupholder and taking a sip, the cold soothing my throat. “Where to?” I ask, screwing the cap back on.
“Back to the bar,” Nico says, his fingers tapping the wheel. “Need to grab Gia’s bag, check that burner phone again.”
I lean back, doodling on a napkin I find in my pocket, my pen scratching out random lines. “You think Gia’s tied to this?” I ask, glancing at him. “Joey getting jumped?”
Nico rubs his cross, his jaw tight. “Maybe,” he says. “She’s been too quiet since that photo. I’m done giving her passes.”
I nod, folding the napkin and tucking it away. We reach The Black Rose, parking out front, and I unlock the door, flipping on the lights. The plywood window casts shadows, but I head to the counter, grabbing a broom to sweep up dirt we tracked in. Nico grabs Gia’s bag from the stool, unzipping it and pulling out the burner phone, scrolling through the call log.
“Anything new?” I ask, leaning the broom against the wall and grabbing a rag to wipe the counter.
“Couple calls from last night,” Nico says, setting the phone down. “No names, just numbers. I’ll get Marco to trace ‘em.”
I nod, stacking glasses behind the bar, my hands moving fast to stay busy. “What about Raf?” I say, setting a glass down. “He was in the office, Nico. Those receipts, he didn’t want me finding them.”
Nico grabs a crate of bottles, helping me restock. “He’s next,” he says, slamming a bottle of vodka on the shelf. “I’m cornering him at the docks tomorrow.”
I grab a notebook from under the counter, jotting down inventory to clear my head, lemons, tonic, napkins. Nico watches, leaning on the bar, his fingers still on that cross. “You’re gonna wear that thing out,” I say, nodding at it, trying to lighten the mood.
He smirks, pocketing it. “Keeps me sane.”
We finish restocking, and I grab a mop, tackling a sticky spot by the bar. Nico sweeps, the bristles scraping the floor, and we fall into a rhythm, cleaning like it’s normal, not like we just saw Joey bleeding out. A delivery truck rumbles past, its brakes squealing, and I check the clock, 9:22 p.m.
“Let’s eat,” I say, grabbing my phone to order takeout. Nico nods, pulling two stools to the bar. I order Chinese, and we sit, waiting for the delivery. I grab a pen, doodling on another napkin, swirls and a rough sketch of a cat, thinking of the one by the dumpster. Nico adds a goofy tail to it, grinning, and I laugh, shoving his shoulder.
The food arrives, and I pay the delivery guy, setting the bag on the bar. We eat straight from the cartons, chopsticks clicking, passing fried rice and lo mein back and forth. Nico drops a noodle on his shirt, cursing, and I toss him a napkin, laughing. “You’re a mess,” I say, stealing a piece of his chicken.
“Look who’s talking,” he shoots back, flicking a grain of rice at me. We finish eating, stacking the cartons by the trash, and I wipe down the counter, humming again, the tune grounding me.
Nico grabs a rag, helping me clean, but his phone buzzes on the bar, interrupting us. He checks it, his face darkening, and answers, holding it to his ear. Gia’s voice comes through, sobbing, loud enough for me to hear: “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”