16. In the Shadows
In the Shadows
Ezekiel
I lean against the bar’s polished mahogany surface, my fingers absently tracing the rim of my whiskey glass as I survey the pulsing crowd before me.
The bass thrums through the floorboards, a steady heartbeat matching the rhythm of bodies moving on the dance floor.
Even from this elevated vantage point, I catch the mingled scents of perfume, sweat, and desire.
My muscles remain coiled tight despite the familiar environment of Club Velvet Petal.
Years of running this place have taught me to read the subtle shifts in energy—the way conversations flow, the movement patterns of the crowd, the positioning of my security team.
Tonight, something feels off. Maybe it’s the way that guy in the corner keeps checking his phone, or how that group by the DJ booth seems too interested in the back hallway.
The whiskey burn slides down my throat as I take another sip.
My one and only drink for the night. Unlike the intoxicated masses below, I need my mind sharp.
Clear. Ready. My brother Sebastian is working the floor tonight, moving through the crowd with practiced ease, but his eyes keep darting to the exits. He feels it too.
A flash of movement catches my attention—one of our newer bartenders fumbling with a bottle. The glass doesn’t break, but the near-miss sets my teeth on edge. Everything has to be perfect, controlled. It’s the way I run my business. Broken liquor bottles are for other bars, not mine.
My phone buzzes against my thigh. Another security update from Eli about the precinct surveillance.
I don’t check it yet. It reminds me of all the threads I’m trying to keep under control.
The club. The vigilante operation. Eve’s safety.
The brewing war with the Columbus families that’s sucking me back into mafia activities I’ve fought so hard to escape.
Each one a potential bomb with a short fuse, and I’m the one holding all the matches.
The whiskey burns, but not enough to chase away the memories that hit me like a freight train. Eve. Always Eve.
Last night, watching her sleep beside me, I realized how fucked I truly am.
The sight of her peaceful face, the trust she shows even after everything—it does things to me.
Makes me want to be better. Makes me want to burn the world down to keep her safe.
Both impulses war inside me, leaving me raw and exposed in ways I haven’t felt since I was that scared kid in foster care.
I take another sip, letting the alcohol ground me in the present. But even the familiar burn of whiskey can’t drown out the echo of her moans, the way she submitted to me, the perfect arch of her back as she came apart under my hands. Christ, I’m already hard just thinking about it.
I never stopped wanting her. Never stopped needing her. Never stopped … Fuck. The realization settles heavy in my chest, uncomfortable and terrifying in its intensity.
A shadow falls across the bar, and I glance up to find Micah’s hulking frame blocking out the pulsing lights. His expression makes my muscles tense. His usual stoic demeanor has cracked, revealing an urgency I don’t see in his expression often.
“Boss.” His voice is low, barely audible over the music. “We need to talk. Now.”
I set down my glass and follow him to my office, that nagging sense of wrongness from earlier intensifying with each step. Once inside, Micah closes the door, shutting out the thrum of the club.
“Salvador’s dead.” The words are like ice water on my warm skin. “Found floating in the East River an hour ago. One of our guys in New York just called it in.”
My stomach drops as the implications cascade through my mind. Salvador was our most reliable contact in New York, our early warning system for any moves Nicolo might make.
“How?” The word comes out harsh.
“Two in the head, execution style. But first,” Micah’s jaw clenches, “they worked him over good. Broken fingers, cigarette burns. They wanted information.”
The whiskey turns sour in my gut. Salvador knew everything—our operations, our safeguards, our weaknesses. And there’s only one person who would go to such lengths to get that information.
“Nicolo.” The name tastes like ash on my tongue.
Micah nods grimly. “Has to be. Question is, what did Salvador tell them before the end?”
I brace my hands against my desk, the polished wood cool under my palms. Salvador was tough, loyal to the bone. But everyone breaks eventually. And if he talked …
“He wouldn’t.” The muscles in my jaw tighten as Salvador’s fate sinks in. My old friend, tortured and executed like a fucking animal. The rage building inside me is familiar—a dark companion I’ve known since childhood. But I can’t let it control me. Not now. Not when there’s so much at stake.
“His wife,” I say. “Maria. The kids. They need to disappear before Nicolo’s men show up on their doorstep.” I’ve seen it before—entire families wiped out as messages or bargaining chips. “Get them new identities, new lives. Somewhere far from New York. Somewhere safe. Take care of them.”
Micah nods, already pulling out his phone. “I know a guy in Arizona. Owes me. He can set them up with everything they need—house, jobs, school records for the kids.”
“Good.” My throat tightens as I remember Salvador’s youngest daughter, barely five years old. “Tell him Sal was family. We take care of our own.”
Responsibility settles heavy on my shoulders. How many more? How many more bodies will Nicolo leave in his wake before this ends? The familiar guilt eats at my conscience—every death, every broken family, they’re all because I dared to defy him. Because I chose freedom over loyalty.
“Boss?” Micah’s voice pulls me back. “There’s something else. Maria … she’s pregnant. Found out last week.”
Another innocent life caught in this web of violence and revenge. Another child who’ll grow up without a father because of this life we chose.
“Double the money,” I order. “Set them up for life. And make sure she has the best medical care. Whatever she needs. Salvador died protecting us—protecting me. The least I can do is make sure his family survives.”
The house is dark and quiet when I walk in, every step heavier than the last. My shoulders tense fromt the stress of the day, of the choices and consequences that never seem to end in this life.
I move through the shadows to my home office, not bothering with the lights. The darkness fits my mood. The familiar burn in my chest hasn’t eased since Micah delivered the news. Another good man gone. Another family destroyed because of this endless cycle of violence and revenge.
My hands shake as I reach for the crystal decanter. The sound of liquid hitting glass breaks the silence as I pour a generous measure of whiskey. The amber liquid catches what little light filters through the windows. I down half in one swallow, welcoming the familiar burn.
I lean against the wall, letting my head fall back. The whiskey isn’t doing enough to dull the edges of this pain. Nothing ever does.
I can throw money at the problem—set Maria and the kids up somewhere safe, make sure they want for nothing. But it won’t bring Sal back. Won’t give those children their father back. Won’t erase the fact that my choices, my war with Nicolo, led to this.
“Fuck,” I whisper, then down the rest of my whiskey before calling it a night.
After leaving the office, I pause in the kitchen, taking in the lingering evidence of dinner—a few dirty dishes in the sink, Leo’s math homework spread across the counter, Eve’s martini glass still half-full beside it.
These small signs of life, of family, make my chest ache even more.
This is what Sal’s kids have lost—these simple, precious moments that we take for granted.
The stairs creak under my feet as I head up, each step an effort. The whiskey’s doing its job, dulling the sharp edges of my thoughts, but not enough to quiet the guilt completely. Light spills from our bedroom doorway, a warm glow against the darkness of the hallway.
Eve’s cross-legged on our bed, her dark curls pulled up in a messy bun, case files spread out around her like a paper fortress. The sight of her—so focused, so determined—usually brings me peace. Tonight, it just reminds me of how much I have to lose.
“Hi,” she says without looking up, pen moving steadily across her notepad.
I grunt in response, unable to summon anything more. The weight of the day, of Sal’s death, of all the lies I’m telling her, presses down on my shoulders like a physical burden.
Eve’s pen stills. She looks up at me, her emerald eyes searching my face. “Bad day at work?”
“You could say that.” The words come out clipped, shorter than I intended.
I turn away from her concerned gaze and head for the walk-in closet that’s larger than most people’s bedrooms. I need space.
The familiar scent of cedar and leather wraps around me as I step inside.
My hands move automatically to unbutton my shirt, but they’re still unsteady. Fuck.
I hear her soft footsteps behind me, following me into this space that suddenly feels too small. Too intimate. The whiskey hasn’t dulled my senses enough to ignore her presence, the way she fills every room she enters with an energy that pulls at something deep in my chest.
When I turn, the sight of her nearly brings me to my knees. In my emotional state, I hadn’t noticed she’s wearing one of my old t-shirts, the black fabric worn soft with age, hanging loose on her frame and barely skimming the tops of her thighs.
Mine .
The possessive thought crashes through me with unexpected force, tangling with the grief and guilt.
I want to touch her, to lose myself in her warmth, to forget about Sal and Maria and all the fucking consequences of the choices I’ve made.
The need burns through my veins, hot and demanding, even as I try to hold myself back.