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.
We head toward the VIP area. The air changes here. It's quieter, thicker, the sound of the crowd below muted. The lighting is softer, the space more secluded.
I keep her close, the rush of adrenaline still in my veins, the memory of every moment in that room still sharp in my mind.
We step into a private lounge, the space intimate, all deep reds and soft shadows. A low couch sits against one wall, flanked by a bar cart gleaming with crystal decanters. The door closes behind us, sealing out the world, and for the first time since we left the car, I let myself breathe.
My suit is a mess. Blood is splattered across the cuffs, a smear of it on my shirt where I wiped my knuckles. The sight of it doesn’t bother me, but I glance at Liliana, searching her face for any signof fear, any trace of the horror she might feel after witnessing what I did.
