10. Closing In #2
Victor Russo raises his glass in greeting as I pass his table.
The aging mobster’s hands tremble as he stacks his chips, but his eyes remain sharp.
His son Nick hovers nearby, too eager to take control.
The dynamic between them reminds me uncomfortably of Lucas and myself.
Another father-son relationship poisoned by power and expectation.
Don’t go there . Thinking about Lucas leads to dangerous territory. To blood on floors and Naomi’s terrified eyes. To feelings I can’t afford to examine too closely.
A flash of movement in my peripheral vision snaps me back to the present.
Three men in dark clothing emerge from the crowd with practiced coordination.
Everything slows, adrenaline sharpening each detail into crystal clarity.
The first attacker’s switchblade glints as it deploys, aiming for my kidney. A killing strike, not meant to wound.
Years of muscle memory take over. I pivot, redirecting the blade with my forearm while driving my other elbow into the attacker’s throat. The impact produces a satisfying crunch. He staggers back, eyes wide with shock, probably expecting an easier target.
Never assume the old man’s slow, asshole .
The second and third assailants converge from opposite angles, forcing me to split my attention. One swings a chain, the other brandishes brass knuckles. Professional equipment, professional moves. This isn’t random violence—it’s a message.
I duck the chain, feeling it whistle past my ear.
The brass knuckles catch my arm as I block, pain blossoming sharp and immediate.
Blood soaks my sleeve—mine or theirs, I can’t tell.
A table overturns as I grapple with the chain-wielder.
Chips scatter across the floor like expensive confetti.
Someone screams. The sound seems far away.
My size usually works against me in close quarters, but I use it to my advantage, letting momentum carry me into the smaller attacker. We crash into another table. Cards flutter through the air like dying butterflies. My opponent’s nose breaks with a wet snap under my elbow. Two down .
The third man gets in another shot before security responds, his brass knuckles hitting my biceps so hard it’ll leave a mark. Then Eli arrives like an avenging angel, all coiled violence and cold efficiency. The fight ends as abruptly as it began.
Silence descends, broken only by ragged breathing and the soft patter of blood dripping onto green felt. My arm throbs in time with my pulse. The room spins—blood loss or adrenaline crash, maybe both—but I stay on my feet. Showing weakness now would undermine everything we’ve built.
“Get them out of here,” I growl to Eli, who nods grimly. He and his team drag the attackers away to their eminent death, leaving only bloodstains and scattered chips as evidence of the violence.
Zeke materializes beside me, his expression thunderous. “Office. Now.” His clipped tone communicates volumes.
This attack is a challenge to our authority, a public demonstration that we’re vulnerable. Someone let these men in. Someone betrayed us.
“Dammit,” Zeke grumbles when we reach his office. “That cut needs stitches.”
He picks up his phone and calls the doctor he keeps on our payroll. In our line of work, we sometimes need an entire staff to heal our wounds.
Dr. Martinez arrives quickly, his medical bag ready. The doctor’s weathered face shows no reaction to my blood- soaked appearance. He’s patched me up too many times to be squeamish. I shrug out of my ruined jacket, wincing as the movement pulls at torn flesh.
“Looks worse than it is,” I mutter as Martinez examines the wound. It’s a lie and we both know it. The gash is deep. It’ll need stitches. But pride and necessity demand the pretense of invulnerability.
Zeke paces behind his desk while Martinez works, the rhythm of his footsteps matching the sting of the needle. Neither of us speaks until the last stitch is tied off and the doctor packs away his supplies. Only when we’re alone does Zeke finally voice what we’re both thinking.
“Someone betrayed us.” His hands clench into fists. “Someone gave them access, told them where you’d be.”
I nod, testing my newly bandaged arm as I dig a spare shirt out of the cabinet in Zeke’s office. The pain has settled into a dull throb. “Question is, who? The guest list was limited. Coalition members only.”
“Could be anyone.” Zeke’s frustration fills the room like smoke. “Francesca Barone has been pushing boundaries. Or Nick Russo. He’s getting impatient for control.”
“Or someone else entirely.” I lean back carefully, mindful of my injuries. “This feels different. Professional. More like…”
I let the thought trail off, but Zeke picks it up immediately. “Nicolo.” His expression darkens further. “Testing our defenses. Seeing how we respond to pressure.”
“Makes sense.” Though I wish it didn’t. Nicolo Moretti playing games from New York is the last thing we need right now. “What’s our move?”
Zeke studies me for a long moment, calculation replacing anger in his eyes. “You need to disappear for a few days. Let them think the attack rattled us more than it did. Meanwhile, we’ll squeeze our contacts, find out who’s been talking to New York.”
The suggestion aligns so perfectly with my need to protect Naomi that it almost feels suspect.
Zeke’s aware of her connection to Lucas’s death, but he doesn’t know how my feelings have progressed.
Sometimes fate hands you exactly what you need.
Usually right before it pulls the rug out from under you.
“I guess a few days won’t hurt,” I agree, already planning my exit. “Can’t be too long though, might look like weakness.”
Zeke nods, apparently satisfied. “Watch your back. If this is Nicolo making moves, there’ll be more coming.”
I leave through the back entrance, checking my surroundings with paranoid thoroughness. The afternoon sun feels too bright after the club’s dimness, making my head pound.
The drive to Hocking Hills stretches ahead, miles of highway between civilization and isolation.
Time enough to process the day’s developments, to consider their implications for Naomi’s safety.
With the investigation narrowing, Sandra’s growing suspicions, now this attack revealing weaknesses in our organization—each new complication increases the danger surrounding her.
Yet each problem also extends our forced proximity, keeping me close when I should be maintaining professional distance. The realization that I welcome these excuses troubles me more than the physical wounds throbbing beneath my bandages.
Attachment is vulnerability, and vulnerability gets people killed. I learned that lesson watching Sandra twist Lucas against me. I can’t afford to forget it now.
The city fades behind me as I drive, replaced by the looming shadows of forested hills.
Out here, among the trees and silence, it’s easier to ignore the day’s violence, to focus on simpler concerns.
Is Naomi safe? Has she eaten? Will she notice my injury the moment I walk in, her green eyes filling with worry I don’t deserve?
My determination to protect her has evolved beyond professional obligation or familial duty. Something deeper drives me now, something I haven’t felt in decades.
The recognition doesn’t change my course—I’ll still protect her, still find a solution that ensures her safety—but it transforms my motivation from abstract principle to personal necessity.
As I turn onto the gravel road leading to the cabin, I can’t ignore uncomfortable reality.
I’m falling hard for my dead son’s wife.
The woman I should see only as a victim to protect, a responsibility to fulfill, has somehow become essential to my peace of mind.
The distinction may prove crucial in the decisions that lie ahead.
The cabin comes into view, smoke rising from the chimney in lazy spirals. Through the window, I glimpse movement—Naomi in the kitchen, probably baking again. The sight sends an ache through my body that has nothing to do with physical injury.
God help me , I think as I park the truck. This can only end in tragedy .