20. Chapter Twenty

The thud of techno music from the Agua nightclub vibrates through the walls, its bass a constant presence. Outside, the sound dulls, muffled by insulation, yet the ground still pulses with the beat. The club’s back door bouncer lies in a heap in the corner while Dante and I let the other capos file in. They would blend in with the crowd easily, unlike us—our height and build can be most inconvenient when trying to blend in.

Once theyre inside, Dante and I count down silently. At zero, we slip in and follow them in, but head to the far side of the club, armed with loaded syringes in our pockets.

Getting through the dance floor to the other end of the club takes a few minutes since the place is packed with sweaty gyrating bodies. We step into the relatively quiet hallway that leads to where the real action is happening—prostitution and dog-fighting. Sure enough, two guards loom outside the large stairwell door, just as expected.

Dante approaches them with a confident swagger. “I’m looking for my girl. She wandered back here trying to find the bathroom a few minutes ago,” he weaves his tale with a playful grin. “She’s got long dark hair, golden eyes, and a great fucking rack. Looks amazing soaking wet. Have you seen her?”

Stronzo—he’s describing Sophie.

Before either of the men can respond, we’re in position, and our syringes are already pumping them full of tranquilizers.

As their limp bodies go down, we catch them, then open the stairwell door. We drag them up the short steps and leave them on the first-floor landing.

I glance at my watch, but right on time, Salvatore and Enzo meet us at the stairwell, ready to take the place of the fallen guards.

I nod. “Give us a thirty count, then join us downstairs.”

Sì, Signore,” Salvatore says, and Enzo nods.

Dante and I start down the spiral staircase to the basement. It’s an impractical setup for guards, offering them minimal warning—which works out well for us. We descend with casual nonchalance, no hurried footsteps betraying our presence.

At the bottom, two more guards await, unsuspecting and precisely where they’re supposed to be.

Dante takes point again, spinning a tale about the club’s bartender. “Sergio sent us down here. We’re looking for a girl who’s up for double-teaming,” he nods to the row of closed doors, lined side by side, behind which Romano’s girls are hard at work. “My brother likes to share.”

He wags his eyebrows at me, wearing that moronic grin that would look really nice at the end of my fist. Unfortunately, all I can do is smile and grind my teeth through the red haze of anger.

It’s our fucked-up way of ribbing. He knows I’m crazy about Sophie. In the same way, I know he’s not yet over his redhead.

Before the guards can respond again, we are already dragging their limp bodies out of sight. Salvatore and the rest of our men now appear within seconds.

We advance down the hallway, bypassing the rooms where Romano’s girls are tucked away, our focus fixed on the double doors at the very end. We’re a few feet from the dog-fighting room when a side door flings open. A woman, clad only in a bra and thong, strides toward the double doors, oblivious to our presence behind her.

She pushes the double doors open, and a wave of sounds—shouts, cheers, and the desperate sounds of dogs—floods the hallway. We catch a brief but good glimpse inside before the door starts to close: the stark fluorescent lighting casting everything in a grim light, revealing a bare wall and about two dozen men, faces alight with a grotesque thrill, sitting around a large cage and watching as dogs tear into each other.

The only problem is, Romano’s women are in there too. Fucking and sucking off those men we’re about to kill.

Fuck. That complicates things.

“Porca puttana!” Enzo swears in disgust, while Orlando only spits and continues to chew on his toothpick. Salvatore’s expression borders on nausea, a rare sight, and for once, Dante’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

Their anger is palpable, a silent storm brewing. Yet, my gaze lingers on Salvatore because his usual cool facade is slipping. Knowing his potential for brutality, his reaction spells trouble.

“Watch your aim, amici,” I warn as we start forward. “You don’t want to hit any of those women.”

“Hear that, Sal? No holes in the hookers,” Dante chimes in, slinging an arm around Salvatore’s shoulders with a knowing look as if to tether him to restraint.

“What would I do without you?” I mutter under my breath as we ready our weapons.

“Probably die of boredom,” Dante quips, his nonchalance stark against the backdrop of tension.

Reaching the door, Dante thrusts it open, and we move as one. The room momentarily oblivious to our presence, allows us to spread out, surrounding the bloodthirsty crowd before they realize it.

It’s one of Romano’s men who spots us first. His beady eyes widen as his gaze swivels around the room. “What the—”

I fire.

The bullet hits him right between the eyes, and he goes down hard, but the element of surprise is gone. The woman kneeling between his legs screams bloody murder, a fine spray of blood covering her face and naked torso.

Dogs bark. Men shout, and more women scream, a continuous backdrop behind the staccato beat of the gunshots ringing out.

I scan the crowd, searching for him. Where the fuck is Romano?

A flash of steel on my left catches my eye, and I turn, firing into the chest of another of Romano’s capo.

He gets off a shot before he goes down, but it flies wide, missing me by a good inch. It spikes up my adrenaline nonetheless, sending a rush through my veins.

“Cutting it a little close there, fratello?” Dante jokes as he appears on my left.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” I joke back. Yet, there’s a grim truth in my words. Caught up in the fray taking down sick, twisted assholes? I’m not sure there’s a warm-blooded man who wouldn’t get off on this shit.

Salvatore is going for body shots, taking down the fleeing dogfight enthusiasts with bullets to the kneecaps, shoulders, or balls. He’s not out to kill; his intent is to leave a brutal and lifelong reminder of the consequences of their cruelty.

Orlando stands at the door, filtering the innocent from the guilty. He lets only the women out while viciously kicking back the men to face Salvatore’s judgment.

It’s over quickly—two minutes, maybe three.

Two women huddle in the far right corner of the room, holding onto each other.

“Out,” I bark, nodding toward the door we’d come in through.

They nod and scurry to their feet, hustling around the dead capos that now pepper the floor. There are seven of them—three Mexicans and four Italians, none of whom is Pascal Romano.

I approach the cage in the center of the room. The dogs inside are quiet now, licking their wounds and eyeing us warily as weary survivors of human cruelty. Salvatore oversees the remaining men, a grim collector herding them towards the cage for a poetic twist of fate.

Dante comes to stand next to me and states the obvious. “I feel like something’s missing from this picture.”

“Where the fuck is he?” My tone is calm and cool, but inside, my blood is boiling.

“Rat?” Dante whispers.

I shake my head. “There’s no way Romano would have sacrificed his best men and shiny new Mexican alliance just to keep us distracted. He didn’t see us coming.”

“Perhaps we arrived at the party too early,” Dante suggests.

I take a mental step back and survey the scenario. “What the hell could have made Romano late for his hosting of the first high-stakes dog fight at the Agua?”

The question hangs in the air, unanswered, until realization dawns on me in my father’s words.

“Pascal is not the sort of man to wait for retaliation. He will throw the first punch, which will likely be unexpected and below the belt.”

“Fuck,” A wave of dread washes over me, my pulse skyrocketing. “I’ve been too damn blind,” I admit, anger at my oversight boiling over.

That’s it. He’s identified my weakness. Watching me, he’s seen the pattern of my visits to her. He waited for the moment I wasn’t there and struck.

Without another word, I sprint toward the door, “Dante, with me. Now!”

He must see the panic in my eyes because he doesn’t hesitate to follow. I rush up the stairs, through the pulsating techno-shit, and out the rear exit door to the street. Dante’s footsteps pound against the pavement behind me, thudding in time with my racing heartbeat.

Reaching my Lambo, I snatch my phone from my pocket and toss it to Dante. “Look for FB —Fredo Batti under contacts. Tell him I need his special clean-up here ASAP and to get Salvatore and Orlando away from those men.”

Dante catches the phone and starts toward his sleek gunmetal gray Porsche, pausing to look me in the eye. “Where are we going, fratello?” he calls out, hovering by his car.

For a moment, I hesitate, and our gazes lock. The weight of my next words feels like a boulder in my chest. Acknowledging it makes it too real, too immediate.

“Sophie’s. I want you to lag behind a bit. If he’s got her, it’s better if he thinks I’m alone.”

Climbing into my car, I fire up the engine, the roar a sharp contrast to the pounding in my chest. With a heavy foot on the gas, I peel away, Dante a shadow in my rearview mirror. I race through the city and hope like hell I’m not too late.