Chapter 24 – Nico
The Drago bar pulses with a restless energy, its hardwood floor scarred from decades of spilled whiskey and blood. Elara stands at my side, her eyes sweeping the room, sharp and predatory, already calculating angles and exits.
This bar is ours—my father’s legacy, warped by Tommy’s betrayal, coveted by Marco’s greed, now reclaimed in defiance. Tonight, we’re not hiding in back rooms or plotting over maps. We’re standing in the open, staking our claim, loud and unyielding.
Ten of Marco’s holdouts face us, a ragged crew of loyalists too stubborn or desperate to flee after we tore down his empire. Their faces are a mix of defiance and fear, hands twitching near an arsenal of makeshift weapons—knives, a crowbar, a studded bat, a single revolver. The jukebox hums a gritty blues riff, its neon glow casting crimson shadows across their tense features. I step forward, hands loose, my knife sheathed but close, its weight a familiar comfort.
“This is Drago’s bar,” I say, my voice cutting through the heavy air, steady and cold. “Marco’s dead. His name means nothing here.”
A broad-shouldered man with a snake tattoo curling up his neck steps forward, gripping a bat studded with rusted nails. “You think you can erase him?” he snarls, his voice thick with contempt. “This place is Marco’s, and you’re just corpses waiting to drop.”
Elara shifts beside me, her stance coiled. “Wrong,” she says, her voice sharp as a blade. “This is ours, and you’re the ones who don’t belong.”
The tattooed man roars, swinging the bat toward my head. I drop low, the nails whistling past, and tackle him, my shoulder slamming into his gut. We crash into a table, splintering it, bottles and glasses shattering across the floor. His bat skitters away, and I draw my knife, slashing across his thigh. Blood spurts, hot and slick, and he howls, clawing at me. I pin his wrist, driving my knee into his chest, and he goes limp, gasping.
Elara is already in motion, facing a wiry woman with a switchblade and a lanky man wielding a crowbar. The woman lunges, her blade aimed at Elara’s ribs, but Elara sidesteps, grabbing a heavy whiskey bottle from the bar counter. She smashes it across the woman’s temple, glass exploding in a spray of amber liquid and blood. The woman crumples, her switchblade clattering to the floor. The crowbar man swings, catching Elara’s arm. She grits her teeth, ducking under his next swing, and drives her elbow into his throat. He chokes, staggering, and she kicks his knee, sending him to the floor.
The bar erupts into chaos. Three more thugs charge me—a stocky man with a chain, a younger guy with a hunting knife, and a grizzled veteran with brass knuckles. The chain whistles through the air, grazing my shoulder, tearing my jacket and drawing blood. I spin, kicking a barstool into the stocky man’s legs, toppling him.
The knife-wielder slashes at my chest, but I parry with my blade, metal scraping, and drive my fist into his jaw. He reels, and I slice his forearm, disarming him. The veteran lands a brutal punch to my ribs, pain flaring, but I grab his arm, twisting until his elbow pops, and shove him face-first into the bar counter. He slumps, blood streaming from his nose.
Elara faces the remaining four—a burly man with a revolver, a skinny kid with a broken chair leg, and two others with knives. The revolver man aims, but Elara hurls a barstool, knocking his arm. The shot goes wild, shattering a neon sign, sparks raining down. She closes the distance, tackling him to the ground, wrenching the gun from his hand, and smashing its handle into his temple. He goes still, blood pooling. The skinny kid swings the chair leg, catching her thigh, and she stumbles, cursing. She recovers, grabbing his wrist and flipping him onto a table, which collapses under his weight, wood splintering. One knife-wielder charges, but she dodges, kicking a chair into his shins, then slamming his head against the jukebox. The music skips, then resumes, a warped blues wail. The last attacker hesitates, knife trembling, and Elara stares him down, her presence a force. He drops his weapon, backing away.
The bar falls quiet, save for the jukebox’s distorted hum and the groans of the fallen. Blood stains the floor, mingling with whiskey, glass, and neon shards. My ribs ache, my shoulder bleeds, but I’m standing. Elara wipes blood from her knuckles, her arm bruised, thigh swelling, but her eyes burn with unrelenting fire. The tattooed man, clutching his bleeding thigh, and the kid, dazed but conscious, are the only ones still moving.
I step forward, my voice low and deliberate. “You’re alive for a reason. Go back to Calvetti. Tell him Drago’s ours—bar, name, everything. Come for us again, and there won’t be anyone left to carry a message.”
Elara leans against the bar, her gaze fierce. “Make it clear: we’re done playing defense. Calvetti’s next, and we’re coming for him.”
The tattooed man nods, fear overtaking his bravado. He drags the kid up, and they stumble toward the door, leaving a trail of blood. The door slams shut, the wind howling outside, carrying their retreat into the night.
I turn to Elara, checking her over. Her arm is bruised, her thigh limping, but she’s steady. “You okay?” I ask, keeping my voice soft, just for her.
She winces, testing her leg. “Hurts like hell, but I’m fine. Your shoulder’s a mess.”
I glance at the gash, blood soaking my sleeve. “It’ll hold. We made our point.”
She scans the wreckage—broken tables, shattered glass, bodies sprawled. “Think they’ll spread the word?”
“They’ll talk,” I say, wiping my knife clean. “Calvetti sent these guys to test us, but he’s running out of pawns. We need to hit him before he regroups.”
Elara nods, her jaw tight. “I’m sick of cleaning up his messes. Let’s end this already.”
“Agreed,” I say, my mind already on Luca’s intel: Calvetti’s warehouse at the south docks, lightly guarded at night. “Our scouters have reported back, Luca and Sal are in. Frankie, if he’s clean. Small crew, fast and quiet.”
“Good,” she says, her voice steady, eyes burning. “I want Calvetti to see our faces when it’s over.”
I grin, despite the pain in my ribs. “He’ll see you, alright. Nobody brings it like you.”
She laughs, rough and real, nudging my arm. “Don’t lag behind, then.”
“Never,” I say, meeting her eyes, feeling the weight of our partnership, solid as the bar itself.
We start cleaning up, dragging bodies to the back, mopping blood and glass. The jukebox shifts to a slower, mournful tune, thunder rumbling closer, shaking the windows. I pause, looking around—the bar’s battered, but it’s ours. My father built this place, his name carved into its bones. Tommy broke it, Marco tried to steal it, but we’re rebuilding it, fight by fight.
“Why’d they come tonight?” Elara asks, tossing a bloodied rag aside. “They had to know they’d lose.”
I crouch by a man, noticing a folded note tucked in his belt. I pull it out—orders, scrawled with Calvetti’s sigil. “Calvetti’s desperate,” I say, handing it to her. “He’s burning through men, hoping to wear us down.”
She reads it, her lips pressing tight. “He’s underestimating us.”
“His mistake,” I say, standing. “We’re going to show him exactly who we are.”
Elara folds the note, tucking it into her pocket. “This bar, this fight—it’s more than just us now, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I say, looking at her, the chain around her neck glinting red under the flickering neon. “It’s for everyone who’s ever been caught in their games. We’re breaking the cycle.”
Her lips curve, a faint, tired smile. “That’s a big promise.”
“Worth keeping,” I say, stepping closer, my hand brushing hers. “With you.”
She laces her fingers with mine, her grip firm, rough from fights but warm. “You’re stuck with me, you know.”
“Good,” I say, holding her gaze. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
The back door creaks open, wood groaning against the frame. No one’s there, just the storm’s breath pushing through, rain spitting across the threshold. A gust swirls in, cool and sharp, tugging at Elara’s jacket. She laughs, soft and sudden, shaking her head as she crosses the room, her chain swaying with her steps. “Storm’s got no manners,” she says, shoving the door shut, the latch clicking firm.
I lean against the bar, watching her move, the way the neon catches her hair. Rain streaks the windows now, blurring the world outside, and the bar feels like ours alone, wrapped in the jukebox’s slow rhythm. Elara’s back at the table, rag tossed aside, her fingers tapping the scratched wood, matching the beat, her hips swaying just a fraction, like she’s testing the music.
“That all of it?” she asks, voice light, brushing a strand of hair from her eyes.
I glance at the door, then back at her. “Tonight.”
I reach for her arm, fingers brushing her jacket, grounding us. “Elara.”
She nods, eyes steady, chain glinting as she steps closer. “Nico.”
The bar’s still, jukebox humming soft, neon painting the walls red. I look around—what’s left, what we’re holding. Tables scratched from years of laughter, bar top burned from forgotten nights, floorboards marked by us now, blood drying into the grain. This isn’t just a bar. It’s the heart of what we’re keeping, moment by moment, choice by choice.
“Storm’s loud,” Elara says, tilting her head toward the windows, her knife tucked away, chain catching the light as she sways.
I step closer, grinning, catching the spark in her eyes. “Louder than your singing,” I tease, remembering her off-key humming last week, the way she laughed when I caught her.
She snorts, nudging my shoulder, her chain clinking softly. “You’re one to talk. You dance like a brick.”
“Or I’m just clever,” I say, holding out a hand, testing her. “Saving my best moves for the right partner.”
Her lips quirk, eyes narrowing playfully. “Big talk, Nico.”
“Try me,” I say, meeting her gaze, feeling the ease of her laugh pull me in.
She steps forward, taking my hand, her fingers cool and sure. “So, what’s this? You gonna spin me or just stand there?”
I pull her closer, slow, the jukebox shifting to a softer tune, something with a lazy swing. “Spin you, maybe. If you keep up.”
Her laugh’s rough, warm, her boots scuffing the hardwood as we move. “Keep up? You’re dreaming.”
“Yeah,” I grin, quick and real. “And you’re in it.”
She leans into the sway, our steps clumsy at first, finding the rhythm. “You’re not bad yourself,” she says, her voice low, teasing, her chain glinting as we turn.
I hold her gaze, seeing it—her spark, her fire, the reason this feels right. “We’re better together,” I say, voice soft, meaning every word.
“Damn right,” she says, her hand tightening in mine, her other resting on my shoulder. “Remember that time you tried to juggle those bottles behind the bar?”
I laugh, spinning her slow, her hair catching the neon. “And you bet me I couldn’t do three.”
“You dropped two,” she says, eyes bright, stepping closer as we sway. “Glass everywhere.”
“Worth it for your laugh,” I say, pulling her in, our steps slowing, the music wrapping around us.
She tilts her head, her chain brushing my arm. “You’re getting soft, Nico.”
“Only for you,” I say, my hand sliding to her waist, feeling the warmth through her jacket.
The thunder’s closer now, shaking the walls, rain drumming steady outside. I look around the bar again—blood on the floor, tables scarred, neon flickering like it’s alive.
“You make this place feel like more.”
She steps closer, her shoulder brushing mine. “This bar—it’s more than just a place, isn’t it?”
“It’s where it started,” I say, looking at the bar top, the scratches my father left, the burns from nights we won. “Where it’s starting again.”
Her hand squeezes mine, steady. “Then we hold it. No matter what.”
“No matter what,” I echo, feeling the truth settle, solid as brick.
The jukebox shifts, blues fading to something warmer, a slow guitar matching the rain outside.
“Let’s finish up,” I say, reluctant, stepping back but keeping her hand.
“Yeah,” she says, her smile lingering as she grabs the rag again. “Then we’re done.”
“Until tomorrow,” I say, meeting her eyes, the promise unspoken but clear.
“Tomorrow,” she echoes, her voice steady, her chain catching the light one last time.
We wipe the last of the blood, lock the door, and step into the rain, her shoulder brushing mine. The city waits, but for now, it’s just us, marked by this night, this place, this moment. And it’s enough.