Chapter 15 #2
The city slides by in ribbons of gold and shadow, streetlights casting their brief glow across her face.
She sits close enough that I can feel her warmth, her posture straight, her gaze turned toward the glass.
But every few seconds, her fingers brush lightly against her wrist, that familiar nervous motion she does without realizing.
I catch it out of the corner of my eye, my mouth curving faintly. “Careful,” I murmur, my voice low enough for just her. “If you keep that up, I might have to kiss you. And maybe if I do, your nerves won’t be so jittery.”
Her head turns toward me at once, her eyes widening slightly before a smile blooms across her face, bright and unguarded. It pulls something deep in my chest, sharp enough to feel dangerous.
Before I can add anything, she leans in, her lips brushing my cheek in a light kiss. The simple contact sends heat through me faster than it should.
I still for a moment, the faintest growl lodged in my throat. My jaw tightens, the thought rising unbidden: tell the driver to stop, turn back home, and handle this properly. Thoroughly. The image is vivid, almost enough to tip me into it, but I force myself to stay still.
I keep my gaze forward, though my hand tightens slightly over hers. “You’re going to make me regret leaving the house tonight,” I tell her, my tone a quiet promise she can’t mistake.
Her smile lingers, her eyes glinting faintly as she settles back in her seat, still close enough that I can feel her against me.
The rest of the drive is quiet, the city’s pulse matching the heat in my blood.
When we pull into the private entrance of the club, the lights are already spilling across the pavement, bright enough to catch the sharp lines of the building.
The low thrum of music vibrates faintly through the walls, mixing with the muted sound of voices within.
Tomasso steps out first, his eyes scanning the area with practiced precision before he opens our door. I step out, turning back to offer my hand to Liliana. She takes it, her fingers light but steady as I guide her out.
Her heels touch the ground, and she straightens at once. Her gaze sweeps briefly over the entrance before returning to me. There’s a faint tightness to her jaw, but her chin stays high.
Inside, the air shifts immediately. The mingled scents of expensive liquor, faint smoke, and polished wood hit at once. Music and conversation thread together into a hum that vibrates subtly in the space. Heads turn as we step in.
Liliana stays close to me, her hand brushing mine as we move through the crowd. She doesn’t falter, doesn’t look away from the path ahead, though I can feel her awareness sharpening under the weight of the stares we draw.
I guide her toward the private section reserved for the summit. The lighting softens here, but the tension sharpens. The air carries the kind of quiet that precedes something calculated. Rival groups gathered in one room—it always settles like this.
We step inside, and the murmur of conversation falters briefly. Heads turn, eyes shifting to me, then to her. I feel the shift of attention, deliberate and measured.
Liliana’s chin stays lifted, her expression composed. Her presence here is intentional. A statement.
I guide her to our place at the table, my hand at the small of her back as she sits. I take the seat beside her, my attention sliding toward the men across from us without losing the steady awareness of her beside me.
She doesn’t shrink under the scrutiny. She doesn’t flinch. She sits with the same quiet composure she had in the car, even as every gaze in the room weighs on her.
And in that silence, beneath the undercurrent of calculation and rivalry in the air, I feel something settle in my chest. A deep, quiet pride that she is here. That she is mine.
Tonight, she stands with me. And everyone in this room will know exactly what that means.
The lighting in the private room is low, the air threaded with smoke and the faint hum of the bass from the club below.
The scent of liquor lingers, heavy and expensive, clinging to polished wood and sharp suits.
The walls are lined with bottles, each one catching and bending the light, glinting like quiet promises.
The men are seated at the long table, each with their own guards positioned along the edges of the room. They watch with practiced stillness, hands close to their jackets, eyes scanning the space like it could turn hostile at any moment.
Liliana is a still point beside me, her composure steady even under the weight of a dozen stares. I keep a hand at her back, steady, before speaking.
“Gentlemen,” I say, my voice cutting through the quiet. “This is my wife. Liliana.”
The shift is immediate. A flicker of surprise runs through the room, sharp enough to register on every face before they mask it. It is subtle, but it is there—the pause, the slight widening of eyes. A few glance at one another, like they are recalibrating old assumptions.
Liliana doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t need to. Her smile is soft, measured, the kind that doesn’t seek to impress but cannot be ignored.
There is a long moment before the room exhales again.
The introductions pass, and talk turns back to business. Routes. Numbers. Territory. Every word is wrapped in a layer of civility so thin it could snap at any moment. Alliances here are temporary; the room hums with tension, everyone waiting for someone else to misstep.
I listen and respond when needed, my voice measured, but my awareness never leaves her. She stays still beside me, her presence quiet but constant.
It is halfway through a discussion on supply lines that one of the men shifts in his seat. His gaze flicks toward Liliana, and I feel the change before he opens his mouth.
“Giovanni,” he says. “Your wife has been staring at me all evening. Doesn’t she have anything to say?”
The room stills.
My hand stills on the table. Tomasso turns, his gaze slicing to the man. Beside me, Liliana tenses, the faint motion of her breath shifting. Her hands start to lift, signing something quiet, an apology maybe, but I take her hand before she can finish.
The man laughs, the sound low and mean. “Ah, so she’s an invalid. That’s why you’ve kept her hidden.” His gaze slides over her, slow and assessing. “I can see why you keep her though. Her body makes it worth it.”
The words are barely out of his mouth before I move.
I reach across the table and drive my fist into his face. My fist connects with his face, the crack of bone loud in the sudden silence. His head snaps back, chair skidding before he collapses to the floor.
The room erupts.
Chairs scrape, voices rise, hands go to weapons. Tomasso is already moving, slamming into the nearest guard before his gun is even clear. I push Liliana back behind me, my hand steady at her hip, guiding her into the cover of my body.
The man on the floor groans, blood running from his broken nose, but I don’t give him the chance to recover. I pull my gun from the holster at my side, the motion smooth from years of practice.
I fire once. The shot cracks through the room, silencing everything for half a beat. The bullet tears through his skull, ending him in an instant.
Then the noise returns.
One of his men lunges toward me, his own weapon half-raised. I step into him before he can fire, my forearm slamming into his wrist. The gun clatters to the floor. I catch him by the collar, driving my knee into his ribs once, twice, before shoving him back.
Another comes from the left. Tomasso intercepts him, his fist connecting with a sound that is all impact and bone.
A third guard rushes me from the side. I pivot, the motion quick, my elbow catching his jaw as I twist. My gun is in my other hand, and I fire point-blank into his chest before his body hits the floor.
Around me, the chaos is controlled.
The room is chaos—shouts, the sharp scent of gunpowder, the heavy sound of boots against the floor. But it is controlled chaos.
They are not ready for me.
I move through them, every motion precise, controlled. A punch that sends a man sprawling. A kick that takes another off his feet. My gun fires again, the shot ringing in the confined space
Tomasso moves with the same precision, dropping another guard with a brutal punch. The floor is slick with broken glass and scattered chairs.
It does not last long.
Three of their men lie dead on the floor, the others subdued, their weapons kicked away, their breath ragged. There is barely a scratch on either of us.
I stand over the table, my breathing steady, my gun still in my hand.
“I could kill all of you,” I say, my voice low, even. The truth in the words is enough to hold them still. “Right here. Right now.”
They are silent. Their fear is heavy in the air.
“But I won’t,” I continue, the words sharp. “Not tonight. But your business with me is over. I never want to see you again. And as far as the rest of the world is concerned, your business in the Mafia is finished. You’re done.”
There is a pause, then the murmured sound of agreement, low voices edged with desperation.
Tomasso’s jaw is tight, his eyes still hard. He glances toward Liliana. “You alright?”
She nods once, her movements small but certain.
I look at Tomasso. “Take care of them.”
He nods, already moving to make sure the rest of the room understands what that means.
I turn back to the men. My voice is flat, sharp enough to cut through the quiet. “Apologize to my wife.”
They hesitate for only a second before the apologies come, each one quiet, uneven, their voices betraying the fear in their chests.
Liliana doesn’t respond. She doesn’t need to. Her silence is its own power here.
I take her hand, my grip steady. “Come.”
She rises with me, and I lead her from the room, the weight of every gaze following us.
The door closes behind us, shutting out the noise, leaving only the low thrum of the club beyond.