Chapter 4 – Dario
The alley behind Velvet Vice stinks of wet rot and last chances. Narrow and cracked, it funnels rain from the buildings above, puddling in the uneven dips between dumpsters and broken crates. Neon bleeds onto the slick pavement from the sign above the back door—pink letters half-burnt out, humming like a dying fuse.
Leon’s posted up beside the door, one boot braced to the wall, shoulders hunched in a coat too thin for this weather. He lifts his chin when he sees me, says nothing.
I nod once. That’s enough.
Inside, the temperature jumps by twenty degrees. Heat clings to skin—sweat, smoke, perfume, and the grease they wipe from the kitchen fan but never fully clean. Brass spills from the stage in slow, lazy waves, trumpets chasing keys, the drums tight and steady. It’s jazz for people who think they understand pain but really just want to feel classy while they drink.
I scan the room.
Same regulars in the back booths. Same new blood at the bar, too eager, too loud, eyes always searching. A few Caldera men posted near the side tables. They don’t make eye contact. We all know better than to pretend this is neutral ground.
Rita catches my eye before I even make it halfway across the room.
Red hair coiled up like fire. Cigarette hanging from her lips, lipstick still perfect. Black tank top, gold hoops, nails like glass blades. She’s been here longer than anyone. The Vice pulses under her gaze.
She jerks her chin toward the booth tucked behind the pillar near the piano. Private enough.
I take the long route, weaving through smoke and noise, ignoring the eyes that glance too long. She’s already sliding in when I reach the booth, drink in hand.
“You only crawl out of the dark when someone’s bleeding,” she says.
“That’s most days lately.”
She snorts. “Yeah, well, your face says it’s more than the usual bullshit tonight.”
“Need a favor.”
She exhales slow through her nose. “Of course you do.”
I nod to her drink. “That mine?”
“Nope.”
“Figures.”
I wave off a server and settle in. The booth creaks. The seat’s sticky. Still feels better than the rest of the place.
“Alright,” she says. “Who do I need to lie about?”
I pull a folded napkin from my coat pocket. Slide it across.
She doesn’t touch it. Just scans the note—block letters, tight script.
Female. Mid-twenties. Black hair. Green eyes. South Side florist. No crew. Possible civilian. Saw a hit. Didn’t run.
Rita lifts one brow. Then looks at me.
“She yours?”
“No.”
“She alive?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” She picks up her glass. “Let’s keep it that way.”
“I need to know who she is.”
“She’s clean. I’ve seen her before. Comes into the market near Roosevelt sometimes. Doesn’t talk much. Carries herself like she’s got a spine but doesn’t flaunt it.”
“She didn’t scream when the guy hit the floor. She didn’t look away. She stayed long enough to see me wipe the knife clean.”
“She a runner?”
“No.”
“That’s rare.”
I sip the bourbon the server drops off. “She saw the blood, saw the body—and didn’t even flinch. Not once.”
“That’s trauma, Dario. Not training. People like her—they’ve already survived worse.”
I watch her.
“She’s not in this life,” Rita says. “And if she is now, it’s because someone pulled her into it without permission.”
“She got a note. Red Thorn. Delivered to her shop.”
Rita’s expression stills. “You sure?”
“She showed it to me herself.”
“That’s not good.”
“Yeah.” I say.
“She wasn’t meant to get it.”
“No.”
“She got someone else’s message.”
“Or someone wanted her there.”
Rita drinks again. “She said anything since?”
“No. Haven’t seen her.”
Rita leans back, resting her glass on her knee.
“Word is Corradino’s been sniffing hard around Dock 7,” she says. “He’s asking questions. He doesn’t like surprises, and that ambush? That was a mess.”
“I killed his guy.”
“I know. That’s why he’s pissed.”
I rub my temple. “Someone’s feeding him information.”
“You got a leak?”
“Not from my side.”
“You sure?”
“No.”
Rita stares at me a long beat. Then sighs. “Jesus. Who’d you piss off this time?”
“Probably everyone.” I set my glass down. “You think she’s bait?”
“No. But you’re asking like you want her to be.”
“She complicates things.”
“Then clean it up.”
“I don’t know if I want to.”
Rita’s gaze sharpens. “Dario.”
“She didn’t look away.”
“She didn’t understand what she was looking at.”
“She’s still standing.”
“She shouldn’t be in your world at all.”
“She already is.”
Rita flicks her cigarette into a nearby ashtray. “You don’t save people like that. You drag them down with you.”
“She walked into it.”
“She walked into a trap.”
“Same thing.”
Rita leans forward, voice lower. “What is this really about?”
I hold her eyes. “She looked at me like Massimo did—like she already knew this life would never let her leave clean.”
That quiets her.
She looks down at her hands. Then nods, barely.
“Massimo was different.”
“Not really.”
“You tried to save him.”
“And failed.”
She doesn’t argue.
“She got hit today,” I add. “Someone went to her shop. Hurt her. Or tried to.”
Rita’s eyes widen. “You’re sure?”
“She hasn’t called. But I know how Corradino operates.”
Rita looks away, jaw tight. “Then you need to move. Fast.”
“I’m already thinking about next steps.”
“I don’t like this.”
“I don’t either.”
We sit in silence for a beat.
Then Rita’s eyes shift—over my shoulder.
She mutters, “Shit.”
I don’t turn.
“Six o’clock,” she says.
I raise my glass, angle the mirror behind the bar into view.
Gray suit. Black shirt. Face too thin for the body it’s sitting on. He’s nursing a drink that’s untouched.
“You know him?”
“No. But he’s been in here three times this week. Always the same booth. Doesn’t order anything. Doesn’t flirt. Just sits and watches.”
“Fed?”
“Maybe. Maybe worse.”
“Corradino’s?”
“Feels twitchier than that.”
“Gun?”
“Hard to tell.”
I breathe once, finish my bourbon.
“Want me to handle him?” Rita asks.
“No. I’ve got it.”
I stand, coat sliding back into place.
“You sure?”
“He’s not the problem.”
Rita raises her brows. “No?”
“No,” I say, eyes still locked on the glass. “The girl is.”
The man behind me moves. Two tables back. Gray suit, short beard, keeps one hand inside his jacket like he’s just resting it there.
He’s not.
Across the room, another one enters through the rear booth door. Bulkier. Hoodie pulled up. No drink in hand. No interest in the band. He sees me, and keeps walking. Dead-on approach.
I glance at Rita. She doesn’t react.
The guy by the bar shifts again.
I flip a nearby table.
It crashes loud, fast, chairs toppling. The man in the hoodie is already lunging.
His punch misses my face by an inch, cracks into the back wall with a solid thud. Bottles rattle.
I grab a serving tray from a nearby bus bin, slam it into the side of his head. He stumbles, but doesn’t go down.
He grins like he enjoys it.
Another fist comes—sloppy this time. I duck, slam my elbow into his ribs. He grunts. I pivot and grab a bottle from an empty table, snap the neck off on the edge.
I jam it into his thigh.
He screams.
Blood sprays onto the floor, slick and fast. He grabs at the wound. I shove him into a server’s cart, send plates crashing.
Behind me, the suit is moving in.
“Valtieri!” he barks. “Don’t make it worse.”
“Already past that,” I mutter.
He pulls the gun—small, quick. I charge. Slam him into the bar hard enough to rattle the shelves. He grits out a curse and tries to aim. I drive my forearm into his wrist, the gun clatters to the floor. He scrambles for it.
I elbow his face. Hard. His nose splits. Blood covers his shirt.
He doesn’t scream. Just groans, dazed.
From behind the bar, Rita snarls, “You better not bleed on my register.”
She ducks and re-emerges with a bat. Metal. Regulation weight.
She tosses it over.
I catch it mid-air and turn.
The heavy’s back on his feet, limping. He pulls a knife from his waistband.
“Come on, then,” he growls.
I don’t wait.
I swing for his hand. The bat cracks against bone. He drops the knife.
Before he can recover, I hit his knee.
He goes down again—this time he stays down.
The guy in the suit has the gun now, but his hands are shaking.
I kick it out of reach, grab his collar, and slam his face into the bar top.
“Who sent you?” I hiss.
Blood fills his mouth. “We didn’t come for you.”
“Bullshit.”
“Wrong night. Wrong girl.”
That hits me hard.
“What girl?”
His eyes shift. He realizes his mistake too late.
I drop him.
People are screaming. The stage is dead quiet. Smoke curls from a tipped-over candle near the back booth—thickening fast.
Someone pulls the fire alarm. A shrill blare floods the room.
I grab the bar with one hand and vault over.
Rita glares at me. “This ain’t your personal war zone.”
“They made it one.” I pull her closer. “You see anyone else?”
“One more. Out the front before you started swinging. No ID. Grey jacket. Didn’t panic.”
“Scout.”
She nods.
“They’re testing the perimeter,” I mutter. “Getting bold.”
“Too bold.”
I straighten. “Corradino’s not guessing anymore.”
“You think he’s aiming at the girl?”
“He’s aiming through her.”
“Then you need to stop circling and choose.”
“I already did.”
She tosses me a towel. “Then mop up, because you’re dripping.”
Blood paints my sleeves. I toss the rag on the floor.
She leans in, voice low. “Dario. This isn’t your usual reaction. What’s the angle?”
I don’t answer.
“Massimo?”
I shake my head. “Different.”
She reads my face. “Not so different.”
“You wouldn’t get it.”
“I get enough.”
Behind us, the club starts to clear. People spill into the alley, shoving each other, sirens growing louder somewhere out on Wabash.
I reach for the back door and pause.
“She matters,” I say.
Rita lights a new cigarette. “She’ll matter more if you move your ass.”
I push the door open.
Rain hits hard.
I step into the alley. Cold wind punches through my coat. Smoke from the building follows me out, catching in my throat.
I light a cigarette with damp fingers. Takes three tries.
The rain helps cool the heat still burning in my chest.
I lean against the wall and look down at my hands.
They’re shaking.
It’s not adrenaline.
It’s her.
Every path I follow leads back to her. The envelope. The dock. That look in her eyes.
I wanted her to be an error in the system. A mistake I could erase.
But if that were true, Corradino wouldn’t be sending men after me in jazz bars.
He’s not hunting me.
He’s watching how close I’ll get to her before I break.
I check my phone.
One new text.
Cam: Confirmed—Viviana Torrisi. No priors. Business clean. Father was Vincent Torrisi. Badge ID 40192. KIA during a Caldera operation.
I lock the screen.
A cop’s daughter. Of course.
That explains part of it. The way she carries herself. The control. The detachment.
But not all of it.
Corradino won’t let this die.
If he can’t get to me, he’ll go through her.
And I’m done playing defense.
I push off the wall and walk.