Page 5

Three

ANTONIO

The entire point of tonight is to have a good time.

For once, nobody is waiting for me to make a decision that will determine whether someone walks away from a room alive.

It is a rare luxury, and I intend to enjoy it.

I sit in the back of the limo with my cousins. Enzo is beside me, Carmine is sprawled across the seat opposite us, his mask pushed halfway up his face because wearing it properly makes it impossible to drink. His twin, Raffaele, occupies the center seat with Marco, arguing about why we’re bothering to go to the club when there isn’t a hunt tonight.

I listen to them bicker while I sink deeper into the leather seat. Their voices blend with the sound of the engine as the city slides past the darkened window of the car in streaks of headlights and neon.

I adjust my mask when it shifts against my cheeks, and as it always does whenever I put it on, it reminds me of when our fathers started the rule years ago after a rival organization identified one of my uncles at a private party and used the information to set him up. After that, covering our faces in certain places stopped being a choice.

We were taught that our masks are also an armor.

Mine is matte black, molded close to my face, covering everything from my brow to the bridge of my nose and cutting my features into something less recognizable.

Enzo’s is similar, but is silver and slightly broader, while the others have one that covers half of their faces and makes them look even more unsettling than usual.

We have ignored plenty of rules our fathers put in place over the years, but the masks aren’t one of them, especially somewhere like The Bloodrot.

The club has built its reputation on discretion. Money changes hands without receipts, men buy privacy alongside their drinks, and nobody asks questions as long as everyone involved understands the rules. What happens inside stays there, which is exactly why men like us are willing to spend our nights beneath its roof.

The limo slows as we approach the club, the polished streets around the financial district giving way to older buildings washed in red and violet. The sidewalks are crowded despite the cold, packed with people already dressed for the night, their laughter and raised voices drifting to us whenever we stop at a red light.

The Bloodrot comes into view a few minutes later, its black stone exterior standing between the surrounding buildings with dark windows and gold lettering above the entrance. As expected, a long line stretches down from the entrance, bodies pressed together while security controls the door.

Our driver pulls toward the curb, and Carmine finally lowers his mask into place. I step out and straighten my jacket while the others climb out behind me and we start toward the entrance without joining the line. Conversations dip as we pass, and the crowd shifts instinctively to give us room.

The bouncers greet us as soon as we reach the entrance and wave us through. I hear a few people in line grumble as the door opens for us, but nobody says anything loudly enough to be worth turning around for.

The music presses against my chest the moment we step inside, the air is much warmer than outside and reeks of alcohol. We take our usual booth at the back, where the lighting is low. Carmine barely sits down before waving a waiter over, and the man appears immediately to take out orders. Our drinks arrive just as quickly, arranged across the table without a single mistake.

I’m reaching for mine when someone walks onto the stage and starts talking about an audition. I only half listen as he reminds everyone to keep their hands to themselves and other shit.

I take my drink and glance toward the stage, expecting some pretty woman to walk out and work the pole for a few minutes, which will inevitably end with Enzo turning on his charm, taking her home, fucking her, and forgetting her name by breakfast.

Instead, a young man steps through the curtain.

My glass stops halfway to my mouth.

He’s wearing a white shirt that ends at his navel, a pair of ridiculous black shorts, and a bow tie. His glasses sit low on the bridge of his nose, and although he’s trying to hide it, his hands are trembling.

This man is frightened.

It should amuse me, but there is nothing funny about the way he stands with his shoulders tense and his breathing coming a little too shallow. He’s trying hard to steady himself.

I lower my glass to the table.

His eyes move across the crowd in uncertain passes, never settling anywhere for long. He looks toward the tables closest to the stage before his attention travels farther into the room and eventually reaches our booth.

His gaze passes over Carmine, Raffaele, Marco, and Enzo before it reaches me and stops. I hold his stare until he breaks eye contact.

He starts moving across the stage, and instead of returning to my drink, I find myself watching him. There is stiffness in his knees when he walks and hesitation in the way he approaches the pole. He pushes his glasses higher on his nose and brushes his fingers against the knot of his bow tie before quickly dropping his hand again.

I can tell he doesn’t belong here and I wonder who thought putting him up there was a good idea.