Blood on the Blade

The Black Rose is the same old shithole, smoke thick enough to choke on, shadows swallowing everything, voices loud and sloppy, spilling secrets that'd be better off dead. I've been stomping through this haze for years, boots sticking to the floor, but tonight's off, feels wrong, heavy. Maybe it's the neon sign flickering over the bar, buzzing like a dying bug, or the way the air sits, thick, waiting to sucker-punch me. I push through the door, sticky wood grabs my hand, I step in, boots thudding loud over the chatter. That's when I see him.

Luca Moretti. Twenty-five, soft curls flopping over his forehead, eyes wide and trusting, too damn pure for this dump. He's behind the bar, pouring a drink, hands steady, smooth, like he's never had to break a bone. I've heard his name tossed around before, whispers, rumors, but now I'm looking, really looking. Sharp cheekbones cutting through the dim light, small smile tugging his lips, he's got this beauty that slams me hard, right in the chest, knocks the wind outta me. I shouldn't notice that, I don't notice that, not here, not ever.

I drop onto a stool, wood groans under me, creaking loud. Luca glances up, eyes lock with mine, and he freezes, like a deer staring down a barrel. The glass slips in his hand, clatters hard against the bar, amber splashing everywhere. His cheeks go pink, fast. "Sorry," he mutters, snatching a rag, wiping it up quick, flustered.

I don't say nothing, just watch him. His blush deepens, spreading, and it hits me, he's too soft for this place, a lamb in a den of wolves, all teeth and blood. But something about him hooks me, deep, sharp, won't let go.

"What can I get you?" he asks, voice quiet, almost shy, barely cutting through the bar's roar.

"Whiskey," I say, comes out rougher than I mean, biting. He nods quick, turns to grab a bottle off the shelf, back flexing under his shirt. He slides the glass over, fingers brush mine, quick, accidental, and it's like lightning, jolting up my arm. I yank my hand back fast, grip the drink tight, knuckles whitening. What the hell's wrong with me?

He's staring now, head tilted, eyes digging in, like he's trying to crack me open. "You're Nico, right? Nico Valenti?"

"Yeah," I grunt, take a swig, whiskey burning down my throat, harsh and familiar. It doesn't touch the heat climbing my neck, though, I don't get rattled, never do, but this kid's got me tripping over myself.

"I've heard about you," he says, leaning on the counter, close now, too close. "You're one of the family's enforcers."

"Something like that." I keep it short, clipped, don't need him knowing the real shit, the blood staining my hands, the screams I've choked out, the bodies I've dropped to keep the Valenti name ironclad. But he's looking at me, curious, unafraid, like he wants more. That's new, throws me.

"Must be hard," he says, voice soft, slipping under my skin. "Handling all that."

I shrug, his words stick though, snag somewhere deep. No one's ever said that, nobody cares. "It's the life," I mumble, staring into my glass, amber swirling.

He nods, like he gets it, but how could he? Too gentle, too clean for this world of dirt and knives. Still, I can't stop staring, eyes tracing him, betraying me.

He keeps talking, lets it spill, about working the bar, the loudmouth drunks, how he ended up here. I give short grunts, rough answers, don't wanna give much, but he doesn't flinch, just keeps going, curiosity poking at me. First time in years I feel it, something shifting, a crack splitting open inside, letting light in.

Then some slob staggers over, eyes raking Luca, greedy, sloppy. "Hey, pretty boy, give us a smile," he slurs, reaching out with a fat, fumbling hand. My fingers twitch, blade's right there, tucked at my hip, and jealousy rips through me, hot and mean. I wanna gut this bastard, spill him open for even looking at Luca, mine, something snarls inside.

Luca steps back, smile gone. "I'm working," he says, calm, firm, shutting it down. The drunk laughs, shuffles off, pathetic. I force my hand to unclench, breathe slow, ragged. What the hell's happening to me?

Luca glances over, something in his eyes, fear maybe, or more. He slips into the backroom, door creaks, and I don't think, just follow, boots heavy. The door swings shut, cuts off the bar's roar, and it's just us, air thick, pressing in.

He turns, cheeks still flushed, glowing in the dim. "You didn't have to do that," he says, low, shaky, unsure.

I step closer, my heart's slamming, loud in my ears. "Couldn't help it," I say, truth slips out, raw. He's got me twisted up, tangled, I don't even know how.

He looks up, eyes big, bright, pulling me, and I'm done. I kiss him, fast, messy, crashing in like I've been starving for it without knowing. His hands grab my jacket, yank me closer, and it's just this, just us, no family, no rules, no death waiting if they find out.

The door creaks, loud, sharp. I jerk back, breathing hard, Gia's there. My sister, 27, all edges and fire, dark eyes bouncing between us, cold, unreadable. "You're needed at the compound," she snaps, voice like a whip, but her stare lingers on Luca, slicing through.

I step away, the kiss turns cold under her glare, ice in my veins. "I'll be there," I say, tight, clipped. She doesn't move, watches a beat longer, then spins, stalks out, boots echoing.

Luca's quiet, fingers brushing his lips, holding it, eyes wide. I wanna say something, fix it, explain, but words choke me. "I'll see you later," I mutter, lame, weak, head for the door, stomach churning, twisting tight.

Outside, night air bites, sharp through my jacket, cutting deep. Halfway to my car, my phone buzzes, loud in my pocket. I pull it out, screen glows, text from Don Antonio: "We need to talk. Now." Simple, short, hits like a fist to the gut. Antonio doesn't text, doesn't need to, unless it's bad, real bad. Does he already know? About Luca? About me losing my damn mind back there?