Chapter 21: The Don’s Wrath (Nico Valenti POV)
Chapter 21: The Don’s Wrath (Nico Valenti POV)
Marco’s fist is still pounding the door, each bang like a hammer on my skull. I shove my gun back into my waistband, glancing at Luca, who’s gripping his knife, his eyes wide but steady. “Stay close,” I mutter, unlocking the bolt and cracking the door. Marco’s there, beard flecked with sweat, his jacket open like he ran here.
“Antonio’s office,” he says, voice low, urgent. “He’s pissed, Nico. Wants you and Luca, no excuses.”
My stomach twists, but I keep my face blank. “What’s his play?” I ask, stepping onto the threshold, Luca right behind me, his shoulder brushing mine.
Marco shakes his head, pulling a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it, the flame flaring in the dark. “Didn’t say. Just said move your asses.” He exhales smoke, nodding at Luca. “You too, kid.”
Luca tucks a curl behind his ear, his jaw tight, and I grab his arm, pulling him back inside for a second. “Grab your jacket,” I say, keeping my voice calm, like this is just another errand. He nods, slinging it over his shoulder, and I grab my cap from the table, tucking my cross keychain into my pocket, its weight grounding me.
We follow Marco to his car, a beat-up Chevy parked in the alley, and pile in—me up front, Luca in the back, his knife still in his hand, flipping open and closed. The city’s a blur outside, streetlights streaking past, and I lean forward, grabbing Marco’s burner phone from the console. “I need to call Vinnie,” I say, punching in the number. “He’s got eyes on Gia.”
Marco grunts, weaving through traffic. “Make it quick. Antonio’s not in a waiting mood.”
Vinnie picks up on the second ring, his voice raspy, like he’s been up all night. “Nico? You in deep shit or what?”
“Something like that,” I say, glancing at Luca in the rearview. He’s staring out the window, humming that damn ballad under his breath, his fingers tapping his knee. “What’s Gia doing? She been near the motel?”
Vinnie coughs, papers rustling in the background. “Saw her at the diner an hour ago, talking to some guy—didn’t get a good look, but he had an O’Connor tat on his wrist. She left in a hurry, burner in hand.”
I grip the phone tighter, my thumb rubbing the cross through my pocket. “She mention me or Luca?”
“Nah,” Vinnie says. “But she’s twitchy, checking her phone every minute. You want me to grab her?”
“Not yet,” I say, my mind racing. “Keep tailing her. Text me if she meets anyone else.”
I hang up, tossing the phone back to Marco, who catches it without looking. “Gia’s with the O’Connors,” I say, my voice low so Luca doesn’t catch the edge in it. “Probably sold us out already.”
Marco blows smoke out the window, his eyes on the road. “And Raf’s still playing both sides. I got a guy watching his next meet—tomorrow, south pier, midnight.”
“Good,” I say, leaning back, but my hand’s clenched on my thigh, nails digging in. Antonio’s call, Gia’s moves, Raf’s betrayal—it’s all closing in, and Luca’s poem, those stolen words, are out there, ready to burn us.
We pull up to Antonio’s office, a squat brick building tucked behind a bar, its neon sign flickering Open. Marco kills the engine, and we climb out, Luca sticking close, his knife now tucked in his pocket. I adjust my cap, pulling it low, and lead the way, pushing through the bar’s back door. The place smells of whiskey and stale cigars, a few Valenti guys playing cards in the corner, their eyes flicking to us as we pass.
Upstairs, Antonio’s office door is cracked, and I knock once, pushing it open. He’s pacing behind his desk, a cigar stub smoldering in an ashtray, his suit jacket slung over a chair. His eyes, cold and sharp, land on me, then Luca, who’s hovering by the door, his hands stuffed in his pockets.
“Sit,” Antonio says, pointing to a leather chair. I do, keeping my back straight, but Luca stays standing, shifting his weight. Antonio doesn’t push it, just keeps pacing, his shoes clicking on the hardwood.
“You’re late,” he says, tossing the cigar stub into the ashtray, where it hisses out. “I don’t like waiting, Nico.”
“Got here as fast as I could,” I say, my voice steady, but my fist’s clenched behind my back, out of sight. “What’s the job?”
He stops, leaning on the desk, his knuckles pressing into the wood. “The money,” he says, his voice low, like a blade sliding out. “The cash Raf lost to the O’Connors. I want it back. Every cent.”
I nod, keeping my eyes on his. “I’m on it. Raf’s meeting them tomorrow night. I’ll handle it.”
Antonio’s lips twitch, not quite a smile, and he straightens, crossing his arms. “Your priorities are slipping, Nico,” he says, his voice softer now, but it’s worse—like he’s toying with me. “You’re distracted. Running around with…” He glances at Luca, his eyes narrowing. “Certain people.”
My blood goes cold, but I keep my face blank, my fist tightening until my knuckles ache. “I’m focused,” I say, leaning forward. “The O’Connors won’t touch us again.”
He stares at me, long enough that I feel Luca’s tension from across the room, his fingers probably twitching for that knife. “They better not,” Antonio says, grabbing a glass of whiskey from the desk and taking a sip. “Because if I find out you’re putting anything—or anyone—above this family, you’re done. Both of you.”
I stand, grabbing my cap from the chair and jamming it on. “Understood,” I say, my voice flat. “I’ll get the money.”
“See that you do,” he says, turning to the window, dismissing us. “And Nico? Don’t make me call you again.”
I nod, motioning for Luca to follow, and we head out, the door clicking shut behind us. Downstairs, the card game’s still going, but one guy—Joey, a Valenti soldier with a scar across his cheek—watches us, his cards untouched. I ignore him, pushing through the bar’s back door, the night air hitting my face like a slap.
“You okay?” Luca asks, his voice low as we cross the lot to my truck. He’s tucking a curl behind his ear, his other hand in his pocket, probably gripping that knife.
“Yeah,” I say, unlocking the truck, but my hand’s on my cross, rubbing it raw. “He’s fishing. Doesn’t know anything solid.”
Luca nods, climbing into the passenger seat, but his eyes are on the bar’s door, like he’s waiting for someone to follow. I start the engine, pulling onto the street, my mind on Antonio’s words, the poem, Gia’s burner calls. I need to hit Raf’s meet, get that money, and shut this down before Antonio puts it all together.
“Call Marco,” I say, tossing Luca my phone. “Tell him we’re heading to the pier early. I want eyes on Raf before he moves.”
Luca dials, his voice steady as he relays the message, but his fingers are tapping his knee, that nervous tic he can’t shake. I glance at him, his face lit by the dashboard’s glow, and swear I’ll keep him safe, no matter what.
We pull into a side street near the pier, parking behind a dumpster to wait for Marco’s signal. Luca’s still on the phone, nodding as Marco talks, when I notice movement in the rearview. Joey’s car, a gray sedan, rolls into the lot behind us, slow, like he’s not in a hurry. I tense, my hand on my gun, and glance at Luca, who’s still talking, oblivious.
Joey steps out, leaning against his car, lighting a cigarette. His eyes aren’t on me—they’re on Luca, watching him through the truck’s window, too close, too long.