Chapter 26: Fight or Flight (Luca Moretti POV)
Chapter 26: Fight or Flight (Luca Moretti POV)
The O’Connor thug’s gun is aimed at Nico’s chest, the scar on his neck gleaming under the pier’s floodlight. I don’t think, I just move, slamming into him like I’m tossing a drunk out of Murphy’s. We crash onto the dock, my elbow digging into his ribs, and I grab his wrist, twisting hard until the gun hits the planks with a clatter. Nico’s there in a heartbeat, kicking the gun toward the water, his fist slamming into the guy’s jaw, snapping his head back.
“Move!” Nico shouts, yanking me up, his hand tight on my arm. I scoop the gun as we run, shoving it into my jacket, my sneakers skidding on the wet boards. My heart’s pounding, and I’m humming that ballad, shaky and loud, as we sprint past crates and lobster traps to Nico’s truck parked behind a warehouse. I dive into the passenger seat, Nico slamming the gas before my door’s shut, tires screeching as we peel out, the pier’s lights fading in the rearview.
“You hurt?” Nico asks, weaving through a narrow street, his cap low, his hand dropping to his cross keychain, rubbing it like a lifeline.
I shake my head, but my arm’s stinging, a gash from a jagged board on the dock. “Just a cut,” I say, my voice unsteady, and I grab a rag from the floor, pressing it to the blood seeping through my sleeve. Gia’s voice, I’m protecting you, loops in my head, raw and desperate, but her calls to Sean O’Connor, her lies, make my stomach twist. “She sounded like she meant it,” I say, tucking a curl behind my ear. “Gia. Said she’s keeping me safe.”
Nico glances at me, his jaw tight. “She’s a liar,” he says, his voice hard. “Playing Sean to save herself. Don’t buy it.”
I nod, but my hands are shaking, and I pull the thug’s gun from my jacket, checking the clip, six rounds left. “We can’t let him tail us,” I say, tucking the gun under my seat. “He’s one of Raf’s O’Connor contacts.”
Nico nods, pulling into a side alley and cutting the lights. “Stay here,” he says, grabbing a crowbar from the truck bed and jogging to a dock worker unloading crates nearby, a guy in a yellow vest with Port Authority stitched on it. I crack the window, catching Nico’s low voice. “You see a big guy, scar on his neck, around slip 17?”
The worker, name tag says Carl, wipes his brow, glancing at the twenty Nico’s holding. “Yeah,” he says, pocketing the cash. “Him and two others, loading a van by the east warehouse. Left five minutes ago, headed toward the bridge.”
Nico tosses him another bill. “They mention Raf?”
Carl shrugs, grabbing a crate. “Heard the name. Something about a boat at slip 17, midnight.”
Nico’s back in the truck, slamming the door. “Raf’s still at the pier,” he says, starting the engine. “We hit the safehouse, gear up, then go for him.”
I grab a first-aid kit from under the seat, pulling out gauze and tape, my fingers fumbling as I wrap my cut, blood soaking the rag. “You saw how Gia looked,” I say, taping the gauze tight. “Scared, Nico. Like she’s drowning.”
He snorts, turning onto a back road, the city’s neon lights flickering past. “She’s scared because she’s in deep with Sean,” he says, grabbing his phone and dialing Marco, putting it on speaker. “We took down an O’Connor thug at slip 17,” he says when Marco picks up. “Scar on his neck. His crew’s moving, van, east toward the bridge. You got eyes on Raf?”
Marco’s voice crackles, a cigarette lighter flicking in the background. “Raf’s loading a boat, slip 17,” he says. “Got two guys with him, O’Connor muscle. They’re packing crates, probably the cash.”
“Stay on them,” Nico says, hanging up and tossing the phone on the dash. “We end this tonight.”
I finish bandaging, tossing the kit back, and lean against the seat, my humming softer now, the ballad’s notes grounding me. “What if Gia’s telling the truth?” I ask, my voice low. “What if she’s trying to keep Sean off us?”
Nico’s hand tightens on the wheel, his thumb still on his cross. “Then why’s she calling him every day?” he says. “She’s hedging bets, Luca. Always has.”
I nod, pulling my notebook from my pocket, jotting Raf, slip 17, midnight, O’Connor van to keep my hands busy. “We need to get that money before Antonio finds out,” I say, flipping my knife open, closed, the click steadying my nerves. “Or he’ll gut us both.”
Nico pulls into an alley behind the safehouse, a squat brick building with boarded windows, and cuts the engine. “We’ll get it,” he says, grabbing a water bottle from the console and taking a swig. “But we’re doing this smart. No more running into fights.”
I smirk, tucking the notebook away. “Says the guy who punched first,” I say, grabbing the water and drinking, the cold hitting my throat.
He laughs, a short, rough sound, and reaches over, squeezing my hand. “You’re trouble,” he says, his voice softer now, his eyes holding mine.
I’m about to reply when Nico pops the glovebox, reaching for his spare clip. His hand freezes, pulling out a burner phone instead, its screen scratched, a cheap model with no passcode. He swipes it on, his face going hard as he scrolls the call log, five outgoing calls to a number labeled S.O., the last one an hour ago. “Gia’s,” he says, his voice like ice, showing me the screen. Sean O’Connor’s number stares back, undeniable.