Chapter 22: Chasing Shadows (Luca Moretti POV)
Chapter 22: Chasing Shadows (Luca Moretti POV)
Joey’s eyes are burning holes through the truck’s window, his cigarette glowing red as he leans against his sedan, watching me like I’m prey. My pulse hammers in my throat, and I grip the phone tighter, Marco’s voice still droning about Raf’s pier meet. “Gotta go,” I mutter, hanging up and shoving the phone into my pocket. I glance at Nico, who’s focused on the rearview, his hand on his gun, but he hasn’t seen Joey’s stare, not yet.
I can’t sit here. “I’m checking the street,” I say, popping the door open before Nico can argue.
“Luca, wait, ” he starts, but I’m already out, pulling my hood up and ducking low, my sneakers hitting the pavement. The air’s sharp, smelling of diesel and damp asphalt, and I hurry down the side street, away from Joey’s line of sight. My knife’s in my pocket, a reassuring weight, but my hands are shaking, and I start humming that ballad, low and uneven, to keep my head straight.
The street’s empty, just a flickering streetlight and a stray cat darting across the road, but I feel Joey behind me, his stare like a blade between my shoulders. I cut into an alley, my shoulder brushing a brick wall, and my foot catches a loose brick, sending me stumbling. I catch myself on a rusted fire escape, the metal creaking, and curse under my breath, my heart slamming against my ribs.
“Luca!” Nico’s voice is sharp, close, and I turn to see him sprinting toward me, his cap low, his boots pounding the pavement. He grabs my arm, yanking me behind a dumpster, the stink of rotting garbage hitting me hard. “What the hell are you doing?” he hisses, his hand still on my arm, tight but not painful.
“Joey,” I say, my voice low, breathless. “He was watching me, Nico. Not you, me.”
Nico’s jaw clenches, and he peers around the dumpster, his other hand in his pocket, probably gripping that cross keychain. “He’s still by his car,” he says, pulling back. “But he’s on the phone. We need to move.”
I nod, tucking a curl under my hood, and grab my phone, thumbing to Marco’s number. “I’m calling Marco,” I say, hitting dial. “We need backup.”
The line rings once, twice, then Marco picks up, his voice rough. “You two okay? Where you at?”
“Alley off the pier,” I say, keeping my voice low. “Joey’s tailing us. Can you get here?”
“Ten minutes,” Marco says, an engine roaring in the background. “Stay out of sight. And Luca? Don’t do anything stupid.”
I hang up, pocketing the phone, and Nico pulls me closer, his breath warm against my cheek. “We’re not waiting ten minutes,” he says, his voice a growl. “There’s a warehouse two blocks down. We hole up there until Marco’s clear.”
I nod, but my stomach’s twisting, the poem’s absence like a ghost in my head. Whoever took it, Joey, Gia, the O’Connors, they’re closing in, and Joey’s stare means he knows something. Nico’s hand slides to mine, squeezing once, and then we’re moving, crouching low, sticking to the alley’s shadows.
We’re halfway down when footsteps echo behind us, slow, deliberate, like someone’s not in a hurry. Nico shoves me back behind another dumpster, this one overflowing with cardboard, and we press against the wall, his arm across my chest. I hold my breath, humming silently now, my fingers clutching his sleeve so tight my knuckles ache.
The footsteps stop, and a voice, not Joey’s, rougher, older, calls out. “I see you, kid. Come out, or I start shooting.”
Nico’s hand tightens on his gun, but I grab his wrist, shaking my head. “We don’t know how many,” I whisper, my voice barely audible.
He nods, his eyes locked on mine, and then he leans in, kissing me hard, desperate, like it’s the last chance we’ll get. I kiss him back, my hands fisting his jacket, the world narrowing to his lips, his heat, the way he tastes like bread and fear. The footsteps start again, closer, and we break apart, gasping, Nico’s hand still on my neck.
“Stay here,” he whispers, pulling his gun and peering around the dumpster. I grab my knife, flipping it open, and crouch lower, my heart pounding so loud I’m sure they’ll hear it.
The footsteps fade, turning a corner, and Nico exhales, holstering his gun. “Gone,” he says, pulling me to my feet. “Let’s go.”
We sprint to the warehouse, a looming brick building with boarded windows, and slip through a side door, the hinges groaning. Inside, it’s dark, the air thick with dust, and I pull out my phone, using the screen’s glow to light our way. Nico grabs a crate, shoving it against the door, and I check my phone, no signal, no way to reach Marco now.
“We need to know who that was,” I say, pacing, my knife still in hand. “If it’s Joey’s crew, or the O’Connors, ”
“Slow down,” Nico says, grabbing my shoulders. “We’re safe for now. Marco’s coming. We’ll figure it out.”
I shake my head, tucking a curl behind my ear, and pull out my notebook from my pocket, flipping to my last page of notes. “We can’t just wait,” I say, scribbling alley, unknown voice, Joey’s stare. “I know a guy, Sal, works the pier. He owes me from the bar. He might’ve seen something.”
Nico raises an eyebrow, grabbing a water bottle from his jacket and taking a sip. “You trust him?”
“Not really,” I say, pocketing the notebook. “But he’s got no love for the O’Connors. I can call him when we get a signal.”
Nico nods, handing me the water, and I drink, the cold steadying me. “Okay,” he says, wiping his hands on his jeans. “But we stay sharp. No more running off.”
I smirk, handing the bottle back. “You’re one to talk, Mr. ‘Let’s Trap Raf at the Pier.’”
He snorts, pulling me into a quick hug, his chin resting on my head. “Shut up,” he mutters, but there’s a smile in his voice.
I pull back, grabbing my phone again, and move to a corner, trying for a signal. One bar flickers, and I text Sal: Near pier. Heard anything about Joey or O’Connors tailing us? The message sends, and I pocket the phone, turning to Nico, who’s checking the crate by the door.
“Anything?” he asks, his hand on his cross, rubbing it like a prayer.
“Sent a text,” I say, flipping my knife again, the click calming my nerves. “Sal’s quick. He’ll, ”
My phone buzzes, and I pull it out, squinting at the screen. Sal’s reply: Joey’s asking about you. Said you’re hiding something big. Watch your back. I show it to Nico, my stomach dropping.
“Son of a bitch,” Nico mutters, grabbing his gun again. “He’s onto us. Antonio must’ve tipped him.”
I nod, tucking a curl behind my ear, and start humming again, louder now, the ballad’s notes shaky. “What’s our move?” I ask, stepping closer to him.
“We stick to the plan,” he says, checking his phone. “Marco’s two minutes out. We hit Raf’s meet tonight, get the money, and shut Joey down before he talks.”
I grab a crate, dragging it to block another door, the wood scraping loud. “And if Joey’s already told Antonio about us?” I ask, wiping sweat from my brow.
Nico’s hand pauses on his cross, his eyes meeting mine. “Then we run,” he says, his voice low. “Together.”
I nod, grabbing his sleeve again, and we move to a window, peering through a crack in the boards. The alley’s quiet, just a flickering streetlight and the cat from earlier, slinking past. I’m about to turn away when a gunshot cracks through the air, sharp and close, echoing off the walls.