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I hang up the phone.
Fortunately, I don’t have time to obsess over it. I grab my purse, finagle George into his carrier with a quick pet and a handful of treats—along with whispered promises of better days for him, then head home to wait for Cade and Maria.
Chapter Twenty
Nico
The thud of techno music from the Agua nightclub vibrates through the walls, its bass a constant presence. Outside, the sound dulls, muffled by insulation, yet the ground still pulses with the beat. The club’s back door bouncer lies in a heap in the corner while Dante and I let the other capos file in. They would blend in with the crowd easily, unlike us—our height and build can be most inconvenient when trying to blend in.
Once they're inside, Dante and I count down silently. At zero, we slip in and follow them in, but head to the far side of the club, armed with loaded syringes in our pockets.
Getting through the dance floor to the other end of the club takes a few minutes since the place is packed with sweaty gyrating bodies. We step into the relatively quiet hallway that leads to where the real action is happening—prostitution and dog-fighting. Sure enough, two guards loom outside the large stairwell door, just as expected.
Dante approaches them with a confident swagger. “I’m looking for my girl. She wandered back here trying to find the bathroom a few minutes ago,” he weaves his tale with a playful grin. “She’s got long dark hair, golden eyes, and a great fucking rack. Looks amazing soaking wet. Have you seen her?”
Stronzo—he’s describing Sophie.
Before either of the men can respond, we’re in position, and our syringes are already pumping them full of tranquilizers.
As their limp bodies go down, we catch them, then open the stairwell door. We drag them up the short steps and leave them on the first-floor landing.
I glance at my watch, but right on time, Salvatore and Enzo meet us at the stairwell, ready to take the place of the fallen guards.
I nod. “Give us a thirty count, then join us downstairs.”
Sì, Signore,” Salvatore says, and Enzo nods.
Dante and I start down the spiral staircase to the basement. It’s an impractical setup for guards, offering them minimal warning—which works out well for us. We descend with casual nonchalance, no hurried footsteps betraying our presence.
At the bottom, two more guards await, unsuspecting and precisely where they’re supposed to be.
Dante takes point again, spinning a tale about the club’s bartender. “Sergio sent us down here. We’re looking for a girl who’s up for double-teaming,” he nods to the row of closed doors, lined side by side, behind which Romano’s girls are hard at work. “My brother likes to share.”
He wags his eyebrows at me, wearing that moronic grin that would look really nice at the end of my fist. Unfortunately, all I can do is smile and grind my teeth through the red haze of anger.
It’s our fucked-up way of ribbing. He knows I’m crazy about Sophie. In the same way, I know he’s not yet over his redhead.
Before the guards can respond again, we are already dragging their limp bodies out of sight. Salvatore and the rest of our men now appear within seconds.
We advance down the hallway, bypassing the rooms where Romano’s girls are tucked away, our focus fixed on the double doors at the very end. We’re a few feet from the dog-fighting room when a side door flings open. A woman, clad only in a bra and thong, strides toward the double doors, oblivious to our presence behind her.
She pushes the double doors open, and a wave of sounds—shouts, cheers, and the desperate sounds of dogs—floods the hallway. We catch a brief but good glimpse inside before the door starts to close: the stark fluorescent lighting casting everything in a grim light, revealing a bare wall and about two dozen men, faces alight with a grotesque thrill, sitting around a large cage and watching as dogs tear into each other.
The only problem is, Romano’s women are in there too. Fucking and sucking off those men we’re about to kill.
Fuck. That complicates things.
“Porca puttana!” Enzo swears in disgust, while Orlando only spits and continues to chew on his toothpick. Salvatore’s expression borders on nausea, a rare sight, and for once, Dante’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
Their anger is palpable, a silent storm brewing. Yet, my gaze lingers on Salvatore because his usual cool facade is slipping. Knowing his potential for brutality, his reaction spells trouble.
“Watch your aim, amici,” I warn as we start forward. “You don’t want to hit any of those women.”
“Hear that, Sal? No holes in the hookers,” Dante chimes in, slinging an arm around Salvatore’s shoulders with a knowing look as if to tether him to restraint.
“What would I do without you?” I mutter under my breath as we ready our weapons.
“Probably die of boredom,” Dante quips, his nonchalance stark against the backdrop of tension.
