Chapter 1 – Tiziano
She pours the whiskey like it’s a task she’s done a thousand times.
No wasted motion. No flair. Just habit and focus. The bottle tilts, and liquid hits the glass cleanly. She flicks a lighter, sparks it, and lights someone’s cigarette without breaking her pace.
Her hair catches the neon behind the bar—red in the glow, not soft, not sweet. This isn’t a place for soft things.
She still hasn’t looked at me.
But that’s fine. I can wait. Waiting has its own kind of pressure. And I didn’t come here for pleasantries.
Seventeen hours ago, she called me the Devil.
Could’ve been worse.
I’ve been sitting on this stool for twenty minutes—long enough to blend in. The usual crowd has rolled in: men shaking off jobs they hate, women done pretending to smile. Blues hum low from the speakers, not Leon’s song. She’ll switch to it later when everyone’s gone.
I set the ledger on the bar. I’d first learned its every hidden code under my mentor—known only as S.E., “the Elder”—the man who taught me that blood isn’t enough of a stain to hide a missing dollar.
She notices but doesn’t stop pouring or say anything.
I don’t need permission.
“I need you to clean some money for me,” I say.
No build-up. No smile. Just the facts.
Her hand pauses for maybe two seconds. Then, she finishes the pour and passes the glass to the guy waiting for it.
Still doesn’t look at me.
“Simple job,” I say. “Low risk. Good return.”
That gets her attention.
She looks up, her gray eyes sharp. I expected curiosity, perhaps attitude. But it’s just cold.
“Not interested,” she says. “Find another bar.”
She turns away, heads to the register. Not a full retreat.
That’s something.
I rest my fingers on the ledger again. I’m not pushing it—just reminding her it’s there. The thing’s packed—fake names, dead accounts, buried transactions.
“You want security,” I say. “I want quiet.”
She doesn’t turn; she just keeps typing.
“Could work out for both of us.”
She snorts, one short sound, no smile with it.
“Sounds more like blackmail.”
She’s not wrong.
But that doesn’t make me wrong, either.
“I pay well.”
“Not interested.”
“I keep my mouth shut.”
“Don’t believe you.”
I smile, just barely. “We don’t have to get along.”
“Good,” she says. “Because I don’t.”
She turns back and stares me down. Her hair still reflects that neon glow, but her expression is steady. Her hands rest flat on the counter, ready to shove me off or take a swing.
The rest of the bar doesn’t notice any of it. That’s the thing about a place like this—everyone’s too busy with their own mess to see someone else’s coming.
“You came back,” she says.
“You left the door open.”
“I don’t lock up this early.”
“You should.”
“Why?”
I lean forward, elbows on the bar. “Because I’m not the worst thing you’ll deal with.”
She doesn’t blink, doesn’t back off.
She’s not going to make this easy.
Good.
I push the ledger a little closer. “Open it.”
“No.”
“Just read one page.”
“Still no.”
“You’re not even curious?”
She doesn’t laugh, but something shifts in her face. “You really like hearing yourself talk.”
“That’s not a no.”
She leans in, just enough for me to see the edge in her eyes. “I don’t run mob money.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”
“Pretty damn sure.”
I tilt my head, knowing we’re in it now. “You worked security for Hector Grimaldi five years ago, ran his poker nights out of this bar for him and his retired buddies. Don’t act like you’ve always been above this.”
Her face sharpens, and she doesn’t deny it right away. “That was a one-time thing.”
“No,” I say. “It happened three times.”
“Don’t act like you know me.”
I shrug. “I know the version of you that made it through.”
She doesn’t like that.
Before she can think twice, her hand flies out, smacking the ledger off the bar. It hits the floor with a thud, and papers slide out in messy lines.
She takes a breath through her nose, short, controlled.
“You think you can come in here,” she says, low, “drop your files and your attitude, and I’ll just go along with it?”
“No,” I say. “I think you’ve already decided to go along with it. You’re just pissed at yourself for considering it.”
That stops her.
She goes still. Not checked out—just unreadable.
We’re finally getting somewhere.
I wait.
She doesn’t speak to me first.
“Roy,” she calls to the back. “Last call’s in twenty. And keep that guy away from the jukebox unless you want another broken speaker.”
A grunt answers her.
Then, she faces me again. “Say whatever you came to say.”
“About what?”
“Whatever pitch you’re trying to sell. Get on with it.”
I pull a folded page from my jacket and slide it across the counter.
It’s a list of three businesses that went up in smoke this month.
One cleaned my money.
The other two didn’t know what they were connected to—until the insurance claims got denied.
I tap the name in the middle. “They thought they were off the radar, too.”
She scans the list. Then, she shoves the paper back toward me. “Is this supposed to scare me?”
“No.”
“Because it doesn’t.”
“Good,” I say. “Fear’s messy. Survival’s cleaner.”
She doesn’t say anything.
Instead, she reaches for the ledger.
I know what she wants to do. She isn’t keeping it.
She wants to shove it back across the bar like it’s filth.
Our fingers graze.
It’s not intentional, but it sure as hell doesn’t feel accidental either.
There it is.
A spark—fast and sharp. Like a live wire to wet skin.
Her breath snags, just for a second. Her posture doesn’t break, but her pupils flare. I catch the shift before she blinks it away.
My mouth twitches—not a smile. Not quite.
She snatches her hand back as if I burned her. Or bit her.
“Don’t touch me,” she says. Her voice is hard, but there’s static behind it.
I let her keep that. She needs the high ground right now.
“Touching you wasn’t the point,” I say, tone low, silk-smooth. “Yet.”
Her glare is surgical. If looks could wound, I’d be leaking from the chest by now. But it’s not just venom behind her stare. There’s heat. There’s hesitation she doesn’t want me to see.
But I do.
I lean in, just enough to cross into her space. Not enough to provoke a slap. Just enough for the heat between us to ignite again.
“Think about it,” I murmur, my voice pitched for her ears alone. “Protection comes with perks.”
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.
Then: “From you? I’ll take my chances with the devil.”
“You just met him, sweetheart. And before you ask,” I add, eyes flicking to the door, “my sister Bianca will be watching every move you make. She doesn’t trust anyone, least of all someone mixing mob money behind a bar.”
She exhales sharply, her chest rising and nostrils flaring. Fury rolls off her in waves—but so does something else. The tension between us hums low, like an electric current coiling under her ribs.
She wants to throw me out, but she hasn’t.
And that says more than anything she could.
I drop the cash on the bar: folded, thick. Clean, but untraceable. Not enough to buy her, but enough to bruise her pride if she keeps it. Or intrigue her if she doesn’t.
She doesn’t even shake.
Doesn’t touch it.
Doesn’t thank me.
Just stares.
That stare could gut a man.
And she wants me to know it.
My grin slips in then, sharp and brief.
The bar moves around us. Glasses clink. Laughter hums. A low trumpet rises from the speakers, curling blues around the edges of the room like smoke. But none of it touches the space between us.
That space is carved clean, hot. Ready to catch fire.
She’ll open the ledger.
Maybe not tonight.
Maybe not when she’s sober.
But she will.
And when she does?
She’ll be mine—not bought, not owned, but tangled.
I walk out without another word.
I don’t glance back.
There’s no need.
Because the fuse?
It’s already lit.