13. The Infernos Blaze

CHAPTER 13

THE INFERNO'S BLAZE

The neon sign of The Inferno nightclub pulsed like a heartbeat in the darkness, casting sickly red shadows across the rain-slicked street. Rocco's hands trembled on the steering wheel as he pulled up a block away, his eyes scanning for any sign of Victor or Bianchi's men.

He shouldn't be here. Every instinct screamed at him to turn back, to listen to Victor's orders for once in his goddamn life. But the memory of Victor's face—fierce and tender all at once—spurred him forward.

As Rocco slipped out of the car, the muffled thump of bass vibrated through the soles of his shoes. The club was still operational, oblivious patrons dancing and drinking while danger lurked in the shadows.

Keeping to the darkened edges of the street, Rocco made his way towards the club's rear entrance. His heart pounded in his ears, drowning out the music as he neared the alley.

The crack of gunfire shattered the night.

Rocco's blood ran cold as he pressed himself against the rough brick wall. Shouts and the sounds of a scuffle echoed from around the corner. He recognized Victor's voice, barking orders to their men.

Taking a deep breath, Rocco steeled himself and peered around the edge of the building.

The scene before him was chaos incarnate. Victor and a handful of Rossetti soldiers were pinned down behind a dumpster, exchanging fire with Bianchi's crew. The acrid scent of gunpowder filled the air, mingling with the stench of garbage and spilled alcohol.

And there, in the center of it all, stood Marco Bianchi himself. The rival boss grinned like a shark, his gold teeth glinting in the harsh glow of the security lights.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are," Bianchi called, his voice dripping with false sweetness. "Don't you want to play, Kovac? Or are you too busy babysitting the Rossetti brat?"

Rocco's fists clenched at his sides, anger flaring hot in his chest. He wanted nothing more than to storm out there and wipe that smug smile off Bianchi's face.

But Victor's lessons hadn't been entirely in vain. Rocco forced himself to think, to analyze the situation. Their men were outnumbered, but not hopelessly so. If he could create a distraction...

Decision made, Rocco crept along the wall towards the club's back door. The lock was child's play—he'd spent enough misspent nights sneaking in and out to know all its weaknesses.

As the door clicked open, Rocco sent up a silent prayer. To whatever god looked after foolish mafia princes and the men who loved them.

The service corridor was blessedly empty, the sounds of the club growing louder as Rocco made his way towards the main floor. He passed the DJ booth, snagging a bottle of top-shelf vodka on his way.

In the swirling chaos of the dance floor, no one paid him any mind. Sweaty bodies writhed to the pounding beat, blissfully unaware of the life-and-death struggle unfolding just outside.

Rocco weaved through the crowd, making his way to the raised VIP section. From here, he had a clear view of the emergency exit that led to the alley. More importantly, he had access to the club's electrical panel.

With shaking hands, Rocco pried open the panel. The tangle of wires and switches might as well have been written in Greek, but he didn't need to understand it all. He just needed to cause enough mayhem to give Victor an edge.

Taking a deep breath, Rocco yanked out a handful of wires.

The effect was instantaneous. The music cut out mid-beat, plunging the club into eerie silence. A moment later, the house lights flickered and died, leaving only the pulsing glow of the emergency strips.

Panicked shouts rose from the crowd as people stumbled in the darkness. Rocco used the confusion to his advantage, shoving his way towards the emergency exit.

He burst out into the alley just as all hell broke loose.

Victor and his men had used the distraction to gain ground, pushing Bianchi's crew back towards the street. But Marco himself was nowhere to be seen.

A flicker of movement caught Rocco's eye. There—slipping back into the club through a side door. Bianchi was trying to escape through the panicked crowd.

Without thinking, Rocco took off in pursuit. He shouldered his way through the mass of bodies, eyes locked on Bianchi's retreating form.

He caught up to the rival boss just as they reached the main bar. Bianchi whirled, eyes widening in surprise as he recognized Rocco.

"Well, well," he drawled, recovering quickly. "If it isn't the Rossetti golden boy himself. Come to play hero?"

Rocco's fists clenched at his sides, fury bubbling in his veins. "It's over, Bianchi. Your men are outnumbered, and the cops will be here any minute."

Bianchi's laugh was cold and cruel. "Oh, you sweet summer child. You really think this ends here? This is just the beginning."

Before Rocco could react, Bianchi lunged forward. Pain exploded in Rocco's abdomen as the older man's fist connected. He doubled over, gasping for air.

Bianchi used the moment to make a break for it, shoving aside panicked clubgoers as he made for the exit. Rocco straightened, ignoring the ache in his gut as he gave chase.

They burst out onto the street, the cool night air a shock after the stuffy heat of the club. Bianchi sprinted towards a waiting car, its engine already revving.

"Stop!" Rocco shouted, desperation giving him a burst of speed. He couldn't let Bianchi get away, not after everything they'd sacrificed to bring him down.

Just as Bianchi reached for the car door, a shot rang out. The rival boss stumbled, clutching his shoulder as blood blossomed across his expensive shirt.

Rocco whirled to see Victor standing there, gun still raised and smoking. The older man's face was a mask of cold fury as he advanced on Bianchi.

"It's over," Victor growled, his voice leaving no room for argument. "On your knees, you piece of shit."

Bianchi sank to the ground, his trademark smirk replaced by a grimace of pain and defeat. Victor kept his gun trained on the fallen boss as he turned to Rocco.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" he demanded, eyes blazing with a mixture of anger and fear. "I told you to stay put!"

Rocco lifted his chin, defiance warring with the desperate need to feel Victor's arms around him. "I couldn't just sit back and do nothing. Not when you were in danger."

Victor's jaw clenched, a vein throbbing at his temple. For a moment, Rocco thought the older man might actually shoot him out of sheer frustration.

But before either of them could speak, a deafening explosion rocked the night. They turned in unison to see flames erupting from the roof of The Inferno.

"Fuck," Victor cursed, already moving towards the burning building. "There are still people inside!"

Rocco's heart leapt into his throat as he watched Victor charge headlong into danger. Without hesitation, he followed, ignoring the screams of protest from his battered body.

The scene inside was pure chaos. Smoke filled the air, making it difficult to see or breathe. Panicked clubgoers pushed and shoved, desperate to escape the growing inferno.

Victor's voice cut through the din, barking orders to the staff and any patrons coherent enough to listen. Rocco did his best to help, guiding people towards the exits and checking dark corners for anyone left behind.

As they neared the back of the club, a sickening crack echoed overhead. Rocco looked up just in time to see a section of the ceiling give way.

"Victor!" he screamed, throwing himself forward without thought.

His body collided with Victor's larger frame, sending them both tumbling to the ground. Burning debris rained down around them, missing them by mere inches.

For a moment, they lay there tangled together, hearts racing in perfect sync. Victor's arms tightened around Rocco, crushing him to his broad chest.

"You stupid, reckless, beautiful idiot," Victor growled, his voice rough with emotion. "If you die on me, I swear to God I'll bring you back just to kill you myself."

Rocco managed a weak smile, even as smoke burned his lungs. "Didn't know you cared so much, old man."

Victor's eyes flashed with an emotion Rocco couldn't quite name. "You have no idea, little one," he murmured, his voice surprisingly tender.

The moment was shattered by the ominous groan of stressed metal. Victor cursed, hauling Rocco to his feet.

"We need to move," he growled, keeping one arm wrapped protectively around Rocco's waist. "This whole place is about to come down."

They stumbled towards the exit, dodging falling debris and helping stragglers along the way. The heat was oppressive, sweat mingling with soot on their skin.

Just as they reached the door, another explosion rocked the building. Victor shoved Rocco forward, shielding him with his body as they burst out into the cool night air.

They collapsed on the pavement, coughing and gasping. Rocco clung to Victor, his face buried in the older man's chest. The steady thump of Victor's heartbeat grounded him, a reminder that they were alive, they were safe.

For now.

As sirens wailed in the distance, Victor pulled back slightly, his eyes raking over Rocco's form. "Are you hurt?" he demanded, hands roaming Rocco's body with desperate intensity.

Rocco shook his head, wincing as the movement aggravated his various bruises. "I'm okay. Just some scrapes and?—"

His words were cut off as Victor crushed their lips together. The kiss was brutal, all teeth and tongue and barely contained fear. Rocco melted into it, pouring every ounce of his own terror and relief into the connection.

When they finally broke apart, both panting, Victor rested his forehead against Rocco's. "Don't ever do that to me again," he growled, his voice rough with emotion. "I can't lose you, baby. I won't."

Rocco's heart clenched at the raw honesty in Victor's tone. He opened his mouth to respond, to pour out the tangled mess of feelings in his chest.

But before he could speak, a commotion near the police barricade caught their attention. Rocco's blood ran cold as he recognized the imposing figure striding towards them.

His father.

Giovanni Rossetti's face was a mask of cold fury as he took in the scene. His eyes locked on Rocco and Victor, still tangled together on the ground.

"Both of you," he barked, voice sharp as a whip crack. "My office. Now."

As they scrambled to their feet, Rocco couldn't shake the feeling that they'd just leapt from the frying pan into the fire. The Inferno might be reduced to ashes, but the real inferno was just beginning.

Victor's hand found his as they made their way to Giovanni's waiting car. Rocco squeezed it tightly, drawing strength from the connection.

Whatever came next, they would face it together. Of that, at least, he was certain.

The drive back to the Rossetti compound passed in tense silence. Rocco's mind raced with possibilities, each scenario more dire than the last. Would his father disown him? Cut him off completely? Or worse, separate him from Victor permanently?

As they pulled up to the grand entrance, Rocco's stomach churned with dread. Victor's hand on the small of his back was a steadying presence as they made their way to Giovanni's study.

The room was thick with tension as Giovanni settled behind his massive desk. He regarded them with cold, assessing eyes, like a judge about to pass sentence.

"Explain," he said simply, the single word laden with threat.

Rocco opened his mouth, ready to take full responsibility. But Victor stepped forward, shoulders squared.

"It was my fault, sir," Victor said, voice steady despite the muscle ticking in his jaw. "I failed to adequately secure the perimeter. The blame lies with me."

Rocco's heart clenched at Victor's self-sacrifice. He couldn't let the older man take the fall for his recklessness.

"No," Rocco interjected, lifting his chin defiantly. "I disobeyed orders. I followed them to the club against explicit instructions. If anyone's to blame, it's me."

Giovanni's eyes narrowed, flicking between them. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

Finally, the don spoke, his voice deceptively calm. "I see. And is there anything else you'd like to tell me? Perhaps about the nature of your... relationship?"

Rocco's breath caught, panic clawing at his throat. He glanced at Victor, seeing his own fear reflected in those stormy eyes.

This was it. The moment of truth. Whatever they said next would determine not just their fate, but the future of the entire Rossetti family.

As the weight of Giovanni's stare bore down on them, Rocco made a silent vow. No more lies, no more hiding. Whatever the consequences, he would face them head-on.

With Victor by his side.