Chapter 3 Chaos
The club Eclipse was alive in a way the estate never was—pulsing lights in purple and blue, bass so deep it vibrated in my bones, bodies moving like one big wave on the dance floor. Sophia had hyped it up all day, and for once, I let myself believe I could have a normal night. No guards breathing down my neck (well, except the two Dante sent, lurking in the shadows). No rules. Just me, my best friend, and the freedom I'd been craving.
We started in the VIP booth Sophia's connection got us—bottle service, fruity cocktails that went down too easy. I wore the red dress on purpose: tight, short, plunging neckline. The one that made me feel powerful. Sexy. Not the guarded mafia daughter hidden away.
"Look at you owning that dress," Sophia said, clinking her glass with mine. "Dante would lose his mind if he saw."
I rolled my eyes. "Good thing he's not here."
We hit the dance floor after the second drink. The DJ mixed R&B with hip-hop, the kind of beats that made you move without thinking.
That's when Jamal spotted us—or me.
He was with a group of friends near the bar: tall, dark-skinned, built like he played basketball, with a fade haircut and a smile that lit up when our eyes met. He wore a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled, gold chain catching the lights.
He came over smooth, leaning in so I could hear. "You two look like you're having more fun than anyone here."
Sophia grinned. "That's the goal. I'm Sophia. This is Liliana."
"Jamal." He shook our hands, eyes staying on me. "Mind if my friends and I join? Or is this a girls' night only?"
"Join," I said, surprising myself with how easy it felt.
We danced in a loose group. Jamal stayed close to me, but not pushy.
"You're good," he said after a song, wiping sweat from his brow. "Where'd you learn to move like that?"
"College parties mostly," I shouted back. "You?"
"Family cookouts in Queens. My aunts don't play—they make everyone dance." He laughed, deep and warm. "What do you do when you're not owning the floor?"
"Art history major. Just graduated. You?"
"Engineer. Work in tech downtown." He spun me gently. "So you're free now? No more classes?"
"Free as I'll ever be." I smiled. His hand brushed my waist—light, testing. I didn't pull away.
We talked more as the music slowed a bit. About favorite spots in the city (he loved Brooklyn rooftops; I missed quiet museums). He told me about his little sister starting college next year. I shared how Sophia and I met in high school.
"You're easy to talk to," he said, closer now. "Most people here just grind and ghost."
I felt the heat from his body. The flirt in his eyes. "You're not so bad yourself."
The music picked up again. He pulled me in—hands on my hips, bodies syncing. Interracial on the floor didn't turn heads here; the club was a mix of everyone. It felt good. Normal. His dark skin against my lighter tone under the lights, moving together.
Sophia danced nearby with one of his friends, shooting me excited looks.
Jamal leaned in. "You want another drink?"
"Yeah—"
Then the vibe shifted.
People near the entrance scattered. Shouts. A group of men pushing through—five, maybe six. Rough. Italian accents I recognized too well. Tattoos peeking from collars. Rossi family soldiers. Dad's old rivals. They'd been quiet, but not gone.
One locked eyes on me. Pointed.
"Her! Caruso's girl!"
Guns came out.
Screams. Panic. People running, knocking into us.
Jamal reacted fast—grabbed my hand, pulled me toward the back. "This way!"
A shot fired—warning into the ceiling. Plaster rained.
Dante's guys—Marco and Luca—moved in, guns drawn, firing back. Controlled. Professional.
But the Rossis were here for blood. For leverage. Me.
Another shot—closer. Glass shattered near us.
Jamal shielded me. "Stay low!"
Chaos everywhere. Tables flipping. Lights strobing wild.
Then Dante appeared—like a nightmare cutting through the crowd. Suit jacket gone, shirt sleeves rolled, gun in hand. Face pure rage.
He saw me. Fired once—took down the closest attacker.
"Liliana!"
He reached us in seconds, shoving Jamal aside. Grabbed my arm.
"We're out. Now!"
Jamal protested. "Hey—"
Dante didn't even look. Just pulled me through the side exit Marco cleared.
Sophia screamed my name from somewhere in the mess.
Outside, the SUV screeched up. Dante pushed me in, climbed after.
"Go!" he barked at the driver.
Tires spun. We peeled out.
My heart hammered. Arm stinging—grazed by a stray bullet? Blood on my dress.
Dante checked it roughly. "You're hit."
"Just a scratch."
He pressed his handkerchief to it. Hands shaking—with anger.
The drive was silent at first.
Then he lost it.
"What the fuck were you doing?"
"Having a night out!"
"With some guy all over you? In a public club?"
"He wasn't—"
"I saw." His voice cracked. "Dancing like that. Letting him touch you."
"I was dancing! Talking! Normal things!"
"Nothing's normal for you!" He yelled. "You're a target! Always!"
"I'm not a kid anymore, Dante! Stop acting like my father!"
"I'm trying to keep you alive!"
Tears came hot and fast. "I'm sick of it! Sick of hiding! Sick of you treating me like I'm still the girl you had to babysit!"
He pulled over hard. Turned to me.
The yelling stopped. His face crumpled.
"Liliana..." He reached out, wiped my tears with his thumb. Gentle. "I'm sorry. I... seeing you there, with him, then the shots... I thought I'd be too late."
More tears. He wiped them all.
"I'm sorry," he whispered again.
His hand lingered on my cheek. Thumb tracing down. Caressing my lips—slow, soft. Eyes dark, conflicted.
I didn't stop him.
He leaned closer—just a breath away.
Then pulled back. Started driving.
"Home," he said quietly.
But his hand stayed on my knee the rest of the way.