Metal screamed. The handle warped. The lock buckled.
By the seventh shot, the door finally gave – a sharp crack – and swung inward.
I slammed it open and charged down the cement stairs, the smell of damp concrete and oil thick in the air. The light dimmed with every step, replaced by a low, sickly yellow glow.
The basement came into view.
Rough. Bare. A big room with mismatched chairs and crates, men sitting, standing, leaning like they had all the time in the world. Cigarette smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling. Conversations died the moment they saw me.
My chest heaved.
“Where is my wife?!” My voice filled the room, raw and unhinged, vibrating off the walls.
A man stepped to me – younger, stupidly confident – raising a hand like he could stop me with words.
I backhanded him with my gun, the crack of bone against metal sharp and final. He hit the floor like dead weight, groaning.
I stood there, breathing hard, gun raised, eyes burning as I scanned every face in that room. I was done asking nicely.
“Easy, Matteo–”
“WHERE. IS. MY. WIFE.”
The words ripped out of me, shaking the room. My gun was still raised, my finger tight, my vision tunneled red.
“Matteo?”
Francesca stepped forward from behind me, out of the shadows like she’d simply wandered into the wrong room, hair perfect, eyes sharp, very much alive. Untouched. Unhurt.
“Are you alright?” I crossed the room in three strides, grabbing her shoulders, my hands checking her instinctively – arms, waist, face.
“I’m fine,” she hissed, swatting my hand away. “What are you doing?”
The adrenaline drained too fast, leaving something colder behind. Heavier. The realization hit me square in the chest.
She hadn’t been in danger. She just hadn’t listened.
My jaw clenched hard enough to ache. I took her hand, grip iron.
“Come on,” I said flatly. “We’re leaving.”
“I’m not done – Matteo!” she protested under her breath as I turned, already dragging her toward the stairs.
She followed – not willingly, but smart enough not to turn it into something worse. Her heels clicked angrily against the concrete as we climbed, the basement door slamming open ahead of us like a warning shot.
We exited through the back of the restaurant, the night air slapping into us – cold, sharp, smelling like asphalt and exhaust. The bass from inside thudded faintly behind the walls, oblivious.
The moment the door shut, she yanked her hand back.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” she snapped as we crossed the street. “You embarrassed me in front of everyone.”
We reached the curb. My G-Wagon sat across the street, black and hulking under a flickering streetlamp, engine still warm.
“You scared the entire room to death!” she said. “You pulled a gun in a basement full of unarmed Cosa Nostra men.”
“Because they wouldn’t let me come down to you.”
I walked around the front of the G-Wagon, yanked open the passenger door, and held my hand out to her anyway.
