Chapter Thirty-Seven #2
“Consider it done, brother,” I replied with clarity and resolve, my voice cutting through the chaos.
As Guilio and Miranda hurried over, Guilio swiftly moved me aside to reach Cesar.
I rose to my feet and turned toward Luca, who gave me a silent nod, already pulling out his phone.
Without hesitation, Luca stepped outside through the emergency exit, making a call as he went.
Focusing on Aurelio and Emanuelle, I issued firm instructions. “Stay with Cesar and my wife. They don’t leave your side. Call when there is news.” The urgency in my voice made it clear that their safety was paramount.
Emanuelle looked at me, concern flickering in his eyes as he glanced between Cesar and myself. “You’re leaving?” he asked, his voice uncertain.
I met his gaze, my tone unwavering. “Do as you’re told, Emanuelle. I want hourly updates.”
Without another word, I strode from the club, the weight of responsibility heavy on my shoulders. Outside, Luca was already waiting, the car engine running, ready for what came next.
Rain pounded relentlessly against the car’s windshield, each drop echoing the turmoil roiling inside me.
The city outside, usually a network of neon flickers and brooding shadows, had transformed into a bleak, waterlogged landscape.
Beside me, Luca was silent, his tense silhouette outlined by the smear of blurred streetlights—jaw clenched, eyes unwavering as we navigated the drenched streets, determined to leave no avenue unexplored.
We’d reached out to every contact, desperate for any scrap of information about Barbari or his reasons for orchestrating the attack on the club.
I could understand Barbari’s anger—after all, the underworld thrived on vendettas.
But what gnawed at me was the willingness to use his own daughter as a pawn, sending her into danger with full knowledge of the risks.
In our world, a daughter wasn’t sacred; she was currency, traded and sacrificed as the circumstances demanded.
Barbari knew those rules as well as anyone, yet he’d sent her into our stronghold.
He had to realize he stood no chance against my family’s power.
There had to be something deeper at play—an ulterior motive that remained just out of reach, a game we hadn’t yet deciphered.
“Anything?” I asked, my voice rough, unused to the quiet hum of the car.
Luca shook his head and kept his eyes glued to his phone, waiting for any news to break through the silence.
“Just the usual whispers,” he muttered, frustration evident in his tone.
“I don’t like this, Massimo. He’s cunning, slippery, like trying to catch smoke.
He knows he just marked himself tonight.
” Luca let out a slow, rumbling exhale, the tension in the car palpable. “Why?”
“I don’t know, brother.” My response was quiet, uncertainty lingering between us as the rain continued to drum against the car.
“The boys are working their usual channels,” Luca continued, trying to reassure me. “Benny’s got his ear to the ground in Pilsen; Frankie’s squeezing a few rats in the North Side. Shit, Giovanni texted Guilio. He knows about the attack. He’s pissed.”
My hands tightened around the steering wheel, knuckles straining with the pressure of my grip.
Club Valentine was more than just a business; it was considered a sanctuary by those who knew its reputation.
Inside those walls, the usual codes and brutal rules that dictated our lives were suspended—Club Valentine was a rare haven, a place untouched by the constant power struggles of the city.
The club carried even more weight because it was owned and operated by Giovanni Valentinetti, the former head Don of Chicago.
His decision to effectively hand control of the city over to our brother Cesar had unsettled the established order.
Tensions simmered among the Italian families, many of whom resented Giovanni’s choice and saw Cesar’s rise as a challenge to their own ambitions.
Since then, we had endured a series of attacks, each one orchestrated by those determined to seize what Giovanni had entrusted to Cesar.
Every move we made was shadowed by the threat of betrayal or violence, a constant reminder that our hold on the city was still contested territory.
No one challenged us more persistently than Barbari.
He was convinced that ruling Chicago was his birthright, and he refused to accept the new order.
Barbari’s relentless ambition and sense of entitlement made him the most formidable threat to our family’s control, fueling much of the unrest that now plagued the city.
The drive west felt endless, rain still pelting the windshield as the city’s unfamiliar corners blurred past in streaks of gray.
Eventually, we rolled to a stop outside a bar that looked like it had seen better days—a place where secrets were traded for the price of a drink and no one asked questions.
The fading neon above the door sputtered, spelling out “Al’s” in uneven letters, its glow barely piercing the gloom.
The sign’s flicker was a silent invitation to anyone seeking to disappear for a while.
Inside, the air was thick with a haze of stale smoke, and the lingering scent of spilled whiskey permeated every surface.
Shadows clung to the corners, and the low murmur of conversation merged with the faint clink of glass behind the bar.
This was the kind of place where desperation felt at home, and anonymity was the only currency that mattered.
We moved through the gloom, eyes adjusting as we searched for our contact.
At the far end of the bar, hunched over his glass, sat Silas.
He barely looked up as we approached, his gaze sharp and assessing, narrowing ever so slightly as we slid onto the stools beside him.
Silas was a man who thrived on the city’s undercurrents; he was always listening, always watching, and he knew all the players—sometimes before they even knew themselves.
His reputation as a source of information was unmatched, but getting him to part with what he knew was never easy.
With Silas, nothing came directly. He preferred to speak in riddles, winding around the truth rather than handing it over. Tonight, getting answers would be a game of patience and careful negotiation—one we couldn’t afford to lose.
I leaned forward, my tone laced with a warning edge. “Silas,” I began, my voice a low growl, “we’re looking for Barbari.”
Silas didn’t seem fazed in the slightest. His hand moved lazily to his glass as he grinned, the gesture casual and mocking. “I’m sure you are,” he replied, the words hanging in the smoky air between us.
Luca, not one for patience, leaned in closer, his presence suddenly a heavy, tangible thing. He didn’t bother with subtlety. “If you know something, you better tell us now,” he threatened, his words cold and direct. “Because if we find out you knew anything and didn’t tell us, you’re dead.”
Silas didn’t flinch. Instead, he threw his head back and let out a gravelly laugh, the sound cutting through the tension at the bar. “Good luck with that threat,” he said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You don’t scare me.”
I tried to dial back the heat, hoping reason might reach where intimidation failed. “Silas, please,” I said, my voice more pragmatic. “Barbari hurt innocent people. We just need to know where he is.”
Silas regarded me, then took a long, deliberate sip of his beer. His eyes glinted in the dim light, unreadable and sharp. “Barbari’s not the one you need to worry about tonight,” he said, his tone cryptic.
The words hit me like a bullet, the chill that crept down my spine sharper than the rain still seeping through my coat. “What do you mean?” I pressed, a tremor of unease in my voice.
Silas’ eyes hardened for a moment, but then I saw a flash—something almost like pity—before he blinked it away. His voice was grave, each word deliberately measured. “Did you honestly think you could play against the Devil and win? He knows about her.”
The air in the bar suddenly felt charged, the tension palpable and dangerous. I turned to Luca, catching the way his body tensed as he processed Silas’ words.
My calm unraveled, my heart thundering in my chest. “Who?” I demanded, already knowing the answer, as I tried to force composure into my voice to replace the panic that had set in.
The walls of the bar seemed to close in, the air so thick I could barely draw breath.
Every implication of Silas’ warning felt heavy and suffocating.
This was no longer just about catching Barbari—it was about shielding her from a truth that could rip apart everything my family had built.
Silas’ final words came as a whisper, his tone almost gleeful despite their gravity, his voice barely rising above the drum of rain at the windows as I slowly stood from my seat. “Run, Massimo. The Devil is coming for you.”