The safehouse is a world away from Moretti's club. No pulsing bass, no perfume-laced secrets slipping between bodies, no ghosts dressed in silk. Just silence. Concrete. Shadows that don't move when you blink.
Luca drives us through the city like he's maneuvering a war zone—checking mirrors, watching for tails, barely speaking. He's quiet, but not cold. Focused. Moretti's most trusted, and for now, I'm trusting him with my life.
When we arrive, he does a quick sweep before unlocking the front door with a security code. The bolt clicks shut behind us like a judge slamming down a gavel.
"This place is off-grid," Luca says, eyes scanning the hallway. "Cameras on every entrance, reinforced glass, underground panic exit if needed. Surveillance feed goes straight to the club."
"Sounds cozy," I mutter.
He doesn't smile. Just hands me a burner phone and disappears to check the perimeter.
The silence settles fast. Not peace—something heavier. My own pulse sounds loud in the stillness. I toss my bag down, but don't sit. I wander. Restless.
There's a room near the back—half office, half storage. Clean but underused. On a worn writing desk sits a small wooden box. It's unlocked. That's the first red flag. This place is built like a bunker. Nothing should be left unlocked.
But curiosity always cuts deeper than caution.
I open the lid.
Photographs, old and sun-bleached. Dust smudged at the corners like someone touched them a hundred times—but never with clean hands. Men in suits. Gathered around long tables. Holding drinks. Whispering like priests at confession.
And there—my father.
Younger. Confident. Standing close to a man whose face doesn't register right away… until it does.
The same angular jaw. The same sharp-cut stare. The same eyes Dante has when he's trying not to kill someone.
Dante Moretti's father.
In every photo, they're side by side. Not rivals. Not strangers. Something closer. Something worse.
I slam the box shut, heart rattling in my chest. He knew. Dante fucking knew.
A knock sounds behind me.
I spin, hand instinctively going to the Glock at my hip.
Luca.
He leans in the doorway, expression unreadable. His eyes flick to the box, then back to me.
"You shouldn't be poking around here," he says.
"You knew," I say. "You knew our fathers were close."
He doesn't confirm. Doesn't deny. "Some truths aren't mine to give."
"Well, you better make sure Dante understands that I don't play blind."
Before he can respond, his comms crackle with static.
Then: "Perimeter breach. Possible contact near the back entrance."
Luca curses under his breath. "Stay here."
I shake my head. "Not a chance."
Before he can argue, the lights flicker. Once. Twice.
Then die.
Darkness swallows the room whole.
I press my back to the wall, breath tight, Glock drawn and up. My thumb flicks off the safety. I don't speak. Neither does Luca.
Footsteps.
Too many.
Luca whispers, "Back door's compromised. Move. Now."
He hits a switch on his watch. A section of the wall groans open, revealing a hidden stairwell.
"This way."
We move without sound. Down cold stone steps. Into deeper dark.
Above us, voices rise. Men. Searching. Confident.
They're not guessing—they knew.
We slip into the night through a hidden exit, emerging into an alley behind an abandoned butcher shop. The cold hits hard, like someone trying to wake us up with a slap.
By the time we make it back to the club, my lungs burn and my hands are steady only because I force them to be.
Inside Moretti's office, the mood is tense. Lights low. Guns visible. Rage not yet spoken aloud.
Moretti's already pacing behind his desk, Luca beside him.
"They came in fast. Professional. Left nothing behind," Luca says.
"Any clue who sent them?" Moretti asks.
Marco enters with three more men, brushing past me like I'm furniture. "They left a message," he says. "Tag on the outer wall."
"What kind of tag?" I ask.
Marco glances at me, then turns to Moretti. "Tell her."
"Marco," Moretti growls.
Marco shrugs. "Black Scythe," he says. "They left their mark."
The name detonates inside my chest. I don't flinch—but I feel the room shift. Even Luca glances at me.
"They were wiped out," I say, too calm. "Years ago. My family made sure of it."
"You thought you did," Marco says. "But some rot survives fire."
I meet his gaze. "You think I don't know that?"
"They know you're alive," Moretti says. "And they know you came to me."
"Then someone's been talking."
"Possible," Luca says. "But they could've been tracking you from before you got here."
"No," I say. "That woman—whoever sent the package—she's connected to them. And she knew exactly what would draw me in."
"We're still running her through facial recognition," Luca says. "So far, nothing."
Marco steps forward, arms folded. "She's a ghost, and you see ghosts everywhere."
I bristle.
"You want this to be personal," he continues, "because that gives you permission to go off-book. But personal gets people killed."
I step closer. "You think this isn't personal to you?"
He smirks. "You're a liability, Valenti. Your little sob story might've earned you sympathy somewhere else. But instincts? That's not something you get just because your life went to shit."
Wrong move.
My hand moves fast. Too fast for Marco to react.
I pull the blade from my boot, the steel glinting under the fluorescent light as I press it against his throat. Just enough pressure to make him freeze.
"You want instincts?" I ask, my voice calm. "You wouldn't be breathing if I didn't have them."
"Enough," Moretti's voice comes.
I lower the blade but don't take a step back. I want him to remember that I could've opened his throat and walked away without a scratch.
"Marco," Moretti says, levelling him with a glare. "Keep talking and you'll be picking your teeth out of the floorboards."
Luca clears his throat. "That woman set the whole thing in motion," he says. "But we've got no prints, no hits. Clean profile. Either she's very good or someone cleaned up for her."
"Or both," I mutter.
Moretti watches me like he's waiting for something to break.
I speak before he does. "I want access to the rest of that safehouse. All of it. If you're hiding something about our fathers, I'll find it anyway."
He narrows his eyes. "What exactly do you think I'm hiding?"
I meet his gaze head-on. "You tell me. You knew our families were tied, and you let me walk into this blind."
His jaw flexes, but he says nothing.
"That's what I thought," I mutter.
He leans back, unreadable. "Where are you planning to go?"
"Somewhere with fewer knives aimed at my back."
"Then you're staying here."
I blink. "Come again?"
"The safehouse is burned. You want another option, find one. Until then, you stay under this roof."
"With him?" I gesture at Marco.
"With whoever I trust to protect my operation."
"I don't take orders."
"You do if you want to keep breathing."
My teeth clench. "You cage me now, I'll find a way to cut through it."
He nods once. "Then sharpen the blade. Because you're not walking out that door."
I turn to leave, ignoring the heat in my throat, the flicker of something unfamiliar in Moretti's voice.
If this is my cage, then I'll learn every inch of it. Every crack. Every weak point.
And when it's time, I'll make it bleed.