Chapter Thirty-Seven
Massimo
The Valentine Club, the hottest and best nightclub in Chicago, owned and operated by the Valentinetti Family, was packed full of patrons eager to celebrate my wife’s achievements.
The drinks flowed freely, and the music pounded heavily amidst the laughter and celebration.
Neon lights flickered against the exposed brick, casting shifting shadows that danced in time with the thrum of bass vibrating underfoot.
The air was thick with perfume and the sharp bite of tequila.
Standing in the shadows, I watched diligently as my wife laughed and danced with her best friend, Oliver Thorpe, who had been by her side since college, her smile brighter than any spotlight in this place.
I didn’t want to be here. I wanted to take her home, lock her back in the safety of my room, but I refused to deny her this night.
She worked hard for this and deserved every moment.
Still, unease gnawed at me—a pressure in my chest that wouldn’t let up, my heart ticking faster with every sudden crash of glass or burst of laughter too close to my ear.
Something about the way the crowd pressed in, faces blurring in the strobing light, made it difficult to shake the feeling that danger lurked just out of sight.
Luca approached me, carrying two champagne flutes. He handed me one with a reassuring smile, trying to ease the tension that had settled deep in my chest. “Massimo,” he said, his voice low and steady, “she’s safe, brother. Relax.”
Ignoring his words, I drained the champagne in one quick gulp and handed the glass back to him, my reply clipped and tense.
“I can’t. I don’t like it here. Every shout from the crowd makes me flinch; every shadow feels heavy.
Something is off.” My eyes swept over the room, restless and searching, trying to spot anything out of place among the unfamiliar faces filling the club.
Luca tried again, his tone firm. “Cesar has the place surrounded. Only those invited can enter.”
But I shook my head, refusing to be comforted.
Instead, I turned my attention back to my wife, watching her as she danced with Emanuelle, my younger brother.
The lights cast shifting colors across the dance floor while she spun in his arms, her laughter rising above the pulsing music.
It was a sound that should have put my fears to rest, yet it only made my heart pound harder, a desperate hope thrumming through me that the night would end with her safe, held close in my embrace.
In the far corner of the club, Cesar lounged comfortably, his posture easy and unhurried as he engaged in conversation with a striking woman with dark hair.
I couldn’t see her face, but I saw the way Cesar was looking at her.
His eyes were fixed on her, and the way he leaned in closer suggested that whatever she was saying had genuinely piqued his interest. Not far from them, Guilio sat with a distinct air of indifference, his body language stiff and detached.
He lifted another glass of whiskey to his lips and downed it in one swift motion, the movement betraying his boredom with the surrounding festivities.
Closer to the bar, Aurelio was wrapped up in a passionate embrace, kissing a woman with a bold disregard for the crowd, unconcerned by the lack of privacy in the bustling nightclub.
All across the room, laughter and animated conversations filled the air as people reveled in the celebration, their joy and excitement a stark contrast to the tension that lingered deep within me, silently coiling tighter with each passing moment.
Despite the vibrant celebration, a cold prickle traced the back of my neck—a warning I couldn’t ignore.
My instincts, honed over years of protecting what was mine, screamed for vigilance.
I scanned the crowd again, searching for a familiar face or a sign that everything truly was as safe as Luca insisted.
The hairs rose on the back of my neck when my eyes landed on the front doors where Leviticus Barbari stood, surround by several of his men.
Leviticus’s presence was as imposing as ever, a constant reminder of old grudges and uneasy truces.
His eyes swept over the room, cold and calculating, while his men flanked him with rigid precision, creating an invisible barrier between the celebration and the danger he represented.
I tensed, every muscle in my body coiled, watching their movements with the measured patience of someone who’d had to expect betrayal at every turn as his men reached into their coats.
Instinct seized me before thought could catch up.
Without hesitation, I vaulted over the banister, the rough metal digging into my palms as I landed hard.
The club’s air was thick and damp with sweat, sharp with tequila and perfume.
Bass thumped so hard it rattled my ribs, nearly drowning out my voice as I yelled for my brothers.
I plunged into the press of bodies, the heat from the crowd sticking to my skin, every shove met with resistance from strangers slick with humidity and excitement.
My eyes darted frantically, searching for any sign of my wife, but the strobing lights turned every face into a blur.
Panic surged, tightening in my chest, when a piercing scream slashed through the pounding music and chatter, freezing me in place and confirming my worst fears as a hail of bullets rained down, causing panic and pandemonium.
Chaos erupted as clubgoers frantically scattered in all directions, fear transforming them into a desperate tide surging toward any possible exit.
Cries of panic mingled with the thunder of gunfire and the pounding music as people collided, stumbled, and shoved each other in their attempt to escape the sudden violence.
I forced my way through the turmoil, gun drawn, my voice hoarse from shouting my wife’s name over the cacophony that filled the air.
Each moment stretched with agonizing uncertainty as I searched for her, fighting against the press of bodies and the suffocating dread threatening to overwhelm me.
Then, through the haze of confusion, I caught a flash of movement—Leviticus Barbari’s cold, calculated smirk.
Our eyes locked for a split second. With deliberate slowness, he lifted his hand, shaped his fingers into the form of a gun, and mimed firing at me.
The silent gesture struck as threateningly as any bullet, a promise of continued enmity.
In the next instant, Barbari vanished into the night, leaving only the echo of his warning behind.
It was a declaration.
He wanted war.
As the crowd dispersed and the music died away, I found my feet rooted in the middle of the dance floor, numb and breathless amid the chaos.
The silence left behind felt heavier than the panic that had just passed.
Guilio rushed over, his eyes sharp and roving, constantly on the lookout for any new danger lurking in the aftermath.
“Was that Barbari?” he demanded, his posture tense as he came to stand stiffly by my side, bracing for another attack.
Aurelio appeared next, pushing through the lingering haze. Blood seeped through his shirt at the shoulder, turning the fabric dark.
“You’ve been hit,” Guilio noted, his tone flat as he holstered his gun and moved to inspect Aurelio’s wound, briefly shifting his focus from the threat to his brother’s injury.
A sudden, desperate voice cut through the lingering tension. “Massimo!”
Before I could react, my wife crashed into me, urgency and relief in every step. I wrapped my arms around her, holding her tightly. The familiar scent of her hair and skin washed over me, soothing the terror that had threatened to consume me moments before.
Emanuelle’s voice explained, breathless, “She needed to use the bathroom. The second I heard the gunshots, I kept her hidden in the ladies’ room until it was safe to come out.”
Gratitude surged within me and, with shaking hands, I pulled Emanuelle into a hug, planting a kiss against the side of his head. “Thank you, brother. Thank you.”
Above the rapid thrum of my heart and the scattered voices, Aurelio spoke up, scanning the room as the sirens outside grew louder and closer. “Where is Cesar?”
At that, I stilled as my gaze darted frantically around the devastated club, searching for any sign of him.
Panic clawed at my chest as each second passed with no answer, the dread of what I might find threatening to choke me.
Every shadow seemed to pulse with menace, and the anticipation in the room was almost unbearable as we waited for Cesar to emerge from wherever he had been swept by the violence.
Police rushed into the club, guns drawn, quickly taking control of the scene.
Then, through the shattered remnants of tables and the haze of spilled champagne, I saw movement—a hunched figure making its way slowly toward the exit.
It was Cesar, clutching his side, his face pale but determined, as if the violence of the night had aged him a decade in a single hour, and that was when I saw his blood dripping onto the floor.
I rushed to Cesar’s side, just as his strength failed him and he collapsed into my arms. Lowering him gently to the floor, I saw the pain twisting his features. He met my gaze, his voice barely more than a whisper. “She was a plant.”
“What?” I asked, confusion and dread mingling in my chest.
Cesar coughed, his grip tightening on my shirt as blood stained his hand. He forced out the words, “The bitch. Find her and kill her.”