Chapter 2 – Nico
Floorboards creak under every step, like the house is warning me to sit down. I don’t. I keep pacing.
The safehouse used to belong to my uncle. Back when the Brotherhood actually meant something. Back when people answered calls without hesitation and respect didn’t come with a price tag. Now it’s just me, old floorboards, and the ghost of better days.
There’s a long scratch on the wall across from me. I don’t know who left it. Could’ve been a knife, a bullet, a drunk with a belt buckle. Doesn’t matter. This place holds damage. That’s why I like it.
The exposed bulb above the table hums like it’s breathing shallow. Light flickers once, but holds.
Maps spread across the table. Red ink for threats, blue for bribes, green for routes we can’t trust anymore. I stare at the Atlantic corridor, tracing the coastline with my finger until it lands on The Cage’s rough mark.
Elara Ricci.
The name sticks.
She wasn’t supposed to be a variable. I went to watch, maybe speak, maybe get a read. What I got was a woman who doesn’t blink when blood hits pavement. Who doesn’t flinch when men with knives ask questions.
Most people break quiet.
She cracks loud.
I remember that.
I slide a cigarette between my lips but don’t light it yet. My hands twitch—rare for me. I clench one into a fist and breathe through it.
Her face flashes in my head. Not in some soft-focus bullshit kind of way. Just the image—eyes locked on mine, chin lifted, like she’s ready to spit in my drink and walk away clean.
I drag my shirt up and trace the scar on my left side. Faded, jagged. Chicago job. Years ago. A door went wrong, a shipment vanished, and three guys who swore loyalty died with lies in their throats. That was before everything started rusting. Before we had to buy silence from men we used to command.
Now I don’t trust half my own crew.
I fish the silver ring from my pocket and turn it in my hand. Heavy. My father’s. Worn smooth around the edges. He gave it to me the night before he was shot six times in our garage. No speech. Just pressed it into my palm like it was a bill to be paid.
Not a keepsake. A burden.
The door groans open behind me.
“Pacing again,” Luca says.
He’s still in last night’s jacket. Dark leather, a little too new for a guy who’s supposed to be laying low. His eyes sweep the room, then land on me.
“You look like shit.”
I light the cigarette. “Didn’t sleep.”
“No kidding.”
He drops into the busted armchair by the window and kicks his feet up on the milk crate we use as a table. Cracks open a warm beer. The guy never changes.
“You gonna tell me why you’re staring holes through a map of a strip club?” he asks.
“Not a strip club.”
“Fine. A cage-dancer joint with blood on the floor.”
“She’s not part of it.”
“She stabbed a guy last month. You know that, right?”
“She didn’t stab anyone,” I say. “She cracked his jaw. I saw the footage.”
He snorts. “And that’s your recruitment strategy now? She hits hard and doesn’t panic. Let’s bring her into a criminal organization?”
“She moves like she’s still surviving,” I say. “That matters more than half the guys we’ve got.”
Luca rolls his eyes. “You know who else is good at surviving? Roaches.”
“She’s not a roach.”
“No, she’s just a hot girl in leather who doesn’t scare easy. That makes her what—Queen of the Damned?”
“I don’t need her to be a queen,” I say. “I need her to be sharp. Uncompromised.”
“Jesus, Nico,” he mutters. “You’re serious.”
“She’s not clean. But she’s not corroded. Not yet.”
Luca throws his head back. “You sound like a bad commercial.”
I take another drag, lean against the table. The cigarette burns too fast. I ash it into a glass we’ve been using as an ashtray since last week.
Footsteps upstairs. Slower. Heavier.
Vince.
Of course.
The door creaks again and Vince steps in like he owns the place.
Hair slicked, suit too expensive for a man who claims to be broke. His tie is off, hanging loose around his neck, and his shoes are polished. Always polished. I never trust a guy whose shoes never get dirty.
“Smells like frustration in here,” he says, grabbing a chair and flipping it around to sit on it backward.
“Go home,” I tell him.
He grins. “Not until I hear about your new pet project.”
“She’s not a project.”
“Oh, come on,” he says. “Dragging in a girl from a club? That’s a bold choice. What’s next, recruiting baristas?”
“She’s got grit.”
He lifts both eyebrows. “She’s got tits.”
“She also didn’t flinch when a man’s guts hit the pavement.”
Vince shrugs. “Neither did I when we buried your uncle. Doesn’t mean I’d hand her a gun.”
“She doesn’t want a gun.”
“No,” Vince says, “she wants to be left alone. Which is exactly why we don’t bring her in. You want unpredictable? That’s how you get holes in the plan.”
I lock eyes with him.
“You’re worried she’ll mess things up.”
“I’m worried you already have,” he says.
I step closer. “She’s not part of the rot. That’s the only reason I’m even thinking about her.”
Vince raises both hands. “Hey, it’s your funeral.”
He stands, smirking again, and walks to the door.
Before he leaves, he glances over his shoulder.
“You bring her in, she better be worth it. Because if she breaks the wrong way? That’s on you.”
He leaves without waiting for a response.
Luca mutters, “Prick.”
I nod, barely hearing him.
I stare down at the maps again, tracing the old Drago routes with the edge of the ring. I see supply cuts, payout gaps, faces that used to matter before they sold us out.
We’re bleeding out.
I can’t stop the rot with loyalty alone. That died with the old guard. I need grit. I need people who won’t crack just because someone waves a stack of cash or a badge.
Elara didn’t fold.
She didn’t even blink.
She might not be the answer.
But she’s a start.
The door slams open so hard the hinge lets out a snap.
Luca jumps to his feet. I don’t flinch. That kind of entrance only means one thing.
Urgency.
The kid’s barely twenty, face red, chest heaving like he ran the whole length of the boardwalk. Skinny, damp, patchy facial hair and shaking hands—he’s not built for this life, but he’s in it now.
“Boss,” he pants. “Marco’s people. They’re sniffing around the old pier.”
I stare.
No reaction. Just processing.
“You saw them yourself?”
He nods. “Yeah. Two of ’em. Looked armed. Parked near the broken ferry shack. I didn’t stop to ask names.”
“Good.”
I slide the blade from the table.
It’s a thick combat knife—heavy, reliable. Handle worn down from years of use. My fingers find the groove like they’re returning to a familiar pressure point.
Luca moves toward me. “You want backup?”
“No.”
“Marco’s not subtle lately. He might have more nearby.”
“Then I’ll go say hello.”
The kid steps back. Knows better than to argue.
Vince doesn’t appear. Of course. He never does when it’s messy.
I holster the blade under my jacket, grab the folded collar, and head out the back.
Outside, the boardwalk is half-lit and quiet. The kind of quiet where things wait to go wrong.
The mist hangs in the air like the ocean doesn’t know if it wants to rain again or not. Wood planks beneath my boots groan as I move. Most of the vendors are closed, metal grates down, paper signs sagging in the wet breeze.
Seagulls cry out, distant, bored. Nothing alive here except the sea and whatever trash Marco decided to throw near the pier tonight.
I walk.
No rush.
No fear.
This is what I know. The quiet before a blade slides in. The second after blood hits the ground. That moment between pulse and spill—that’s home.
But her?
Elara Ricci.
She’s something I don’t know yet.
And that’s why I can’t stop thinking about her.
Not the way men usually think about women. Not lust. Not fantasy.
She’s a question mark in a room full of collapsing answers.
The Brotherhood used to run on certainty. We had codes, rules, men who followed because they believed. Now we run on bribes and paranoia. The code’s cracked. The center’s rotting.
Maybe she’s a solution. Maybe a spark. Maybe just a distraction.
But I keep seeing her eyes.
She looked at me like she was measuring, not reacting.
Most people don’t look at me like that. They flinch. They posture. She calculated.
I reach the turn at the edge of the boardwalk where the old pier juts out like a broken limb. Lights are busted. The railing’s rusted through. The only reason anyone comes out here is to dump something—or someone.
I spot them quick.
Two men.
Marco’s guys, judging by the sloppy stance and tacky bomber jackets. One’s leaning against the half-collapsed shack, arms crossed. The other’s pacing, checking a phone. They’re not careful. They think the darkness protects them.
I step around the nearest post and move without sound.
The pacing one hears me first—too late.
He turns and his mouth opens.
I don’t let him speak.
My blade’s out, slicing through his neck in a clean, hard line. Arterial. Blood jets and he drops hard.
The other tries to react, hand going for his jacket.
I cross the space in two strides and slam him against the shack wall, forearm crushing his throat. His hand fumbles at his waistline.
“Don’t,” I say.
He freezes. Eyes wild.
“Tell Marco he’s not subtle. And that I’m done waiting for him to grow a pair.”
I dig the blade in under his ribs—not enough to kill. Just enough to keep him bleeding while he limps home.
He screams when I yank the knife back out.
I don’t care.
He crumples to the floor, hands pressing into the mess at his side.
I wipe the blade on his jacket, step back, and look down at the bodies.
One’s still. One’s shaking.
No threat left.
The waves crash against the wooden supports below. The sound swallows everything. Blood drips between the boards, washed away by saltwater and time.
I walk back without looking over my shoulder.
The boardwalk feels thinner on the return. Lighter. That’s what violence does—it takes up space and then leaves a vacuum.
My feet hit pavement again as the mist thickens.
I mutter the name under my breath.
“Elara Ricci.”
Not a prayer.
Not a warning.
Just a decision forming in real time.
Let’s see what kind of trouble you’re really built for.