“You’re still coming to graduation, right?” she asked, keeping her voice light. When Jackson didn’t respond, she frowned. “Jackson, are you alright?”
“Yeah, just tired,” he eventually replied, his voice rough. “I will be there. Just... stay safe, okay? Keep your head down, focus on your studies.”
“I love you, big brother.”
“Love you too, sis. Baby, I need to go. Duty calls.”
“Night, Jackson.” Her voice drifted across the bedroom, gentle as the last rays of honeyed lamplight stretching over thewood floor. The faint scent of her vanilla perfume mingled with the distant aroma of rain on warm concrete wafting in through the open window.
“Sweet dreams, baby girl.”
“Will you zip me up?”
I paused, heart stuttering just a little, and looked up from knotting my tie. My wife stood at the foot of the bed, her dress shimmering softly in the lamplight, back to me—her bare shoulders peppered with goosebumps. She glanced over her shoulder, and her eyes caught mine, glinting with mischief and the kind of love that had carried us through storms and late-night laughter. Rising, I crossed the worn rug, the familiar creak of the old floorboards echoing the rhythm of evenings spent in this very room. My fingers brushed her spine as I gently gathered the silky fabric and pulled the zipper up, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath my touch. I pressed a tender kiss to the hollow just below her ear, breathing in the scent so achingly hers.
“Let’s stay in tonight,” I murmured, my lips brushing her skin as I spoke. A smile tugged at my mouth, memory crowding in, a month after our wedding when she talked me into spending the day in bed with takeout and spilled wine, laughter echoing off the walls. “We could celebrate by turning the bed into a masterpiece again.” I let out a soft, playful chuckle, fingers tracing idle circles on her hip.
She laughed—a sound bright and true, filling the space between us. Turning, she met my eyes, her cheeks still rosy from my kiss. “We did that last night.” Her hand slipped up to rest against my jaw, thumb brushing lazily over my cheekbone—a gentle, grounding gesture that I’d come to love, rely on.
“And I plan on doing it again tonight.” I grinned, letting the silence linger for a heartbeat. In the quiet, the soft tick of the clock and the distant clatter of silverware from the kitchendownstairs reminded me we weren’t alone—that this night was different, wrapped in celebration and surrounded by the accomplishments she worked tirelessly to achieve.
Tonight wasn’t about me, but about her.
She sighed, but her lips curved in amusement. “Everyone is waiting downstairs. Cesar went all out—reserved the whole club. He said he invited everyone.” She squeezed my hand, her wedding band cool against my skin.
“That’s his problem. Let him play host,” I grumbled, unrepentant, as my arms wrapped tighter around her, unwilling to let go just yet. Her laugh, low and familiar, rumbled softly against my chest. For a moment, my world narrowed to the two of us—her heartbeat against mine, and that should have been enough—but the lie I kept hidden from her refused to give me relief.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Massimo
The Valentine Club, the hottest and best nightclub in Chicago, owned and operated by the Valentinetti Family, was packed full of patrons eager to celebrate my wife’s achievements. The drinks flowed freely, and the music pounded heavily amidst the laughter and celebration. Neon lights flickered against the exposed brick, casting shifting shadows that danced in time with the thrum of bass vibrating underfoot. The air was thick with perfume and the sharp bite of tequila.
Standing in the shadows, I watched diligently as my wife laughed and danced with her best friend, Oliver Thorpe, who had been by her side since college, her smile brighter than any spotlight in this place. I didn’t want to be here. I wanted to take her home, lock her back in the safety of my room, but I refused to deny her this night. She worked hard for this and deserved every moment. Still, unease gnawed at me—a pressure in my chest that wouldn’t let up, my heart ticking faster with every sudden crash of glass or burst of laughter too close to my ear. Something about the way the crowd pressed in, faces blurring in the strobing light, made it difficult to shake the feeling that danger lurked just out of sight.
Luca approached me, carrying two champagne flutes. He handed me one with a reassuring smile, trying to ease the tension that had settled deep in my chest. “Massimo,” he said, his voice low and steady, “she’s safe, brother. Relax.”
Ignoring his words, I drained the champagne in one quick gulp and handed the glass back to him, my reply clipped and tense. “I can’t. I don’t like it here. Every shout from the crowd makes me flinch; every shadow feels heavy. Something is off.” My eyes swept over the room, restless and searching, trying to spot anything out of place among the unfamiliar faces filling the club.
Luca tried again, his tone firm. “Cesar has the place surrounded. Only those invited can enter.”
But I shook my head, refusing to be comforted. Instead, I turned my attention back to my wife, watching her as she danced with Emanuelle, my younger brother. The lights cast shifting colors across the dance floor while she spun in his arms, her laughter rising above the pulsing music. It was a sound that should have put my fears to rest, yet it only made my heart pound harder, a desperate hope thrumming through me that the night would end with her safe, held close in my embrace.
In the far corner of the club, Cesar lounged comfortably, his posture easy and unhurried as he engaged in conversation with a striking woman with dark hair. I couldn’t see her face, but I saw the way Cesar was looking at her. His eyes were fixed on her, and the way he leaned in closer suggested that whatever she was saying had genuinely piqued his interest. Not far from them, Guilio sat with a distinct air of indifference, his body language stiff and detached. He lifted another glass of whiskey to his lips and downed it in one swift motion, the movement betraying his boredom with the surrounding festivities. Closer to the bar, Aurelio was wrapped up in a passionate embrace, kissing a woman with a bold disregard for the crowd, unconcerned by the lack of privacy in the bustling nightclub. All across the room, laughter and animated conversations filled the air as people reveled in the celebration, their joy and excitement a starkcontrast to the tension that lingered deep within me, silently coiling tighter with each passing moment.
Despite the vibrant celebration, a cold prickle traced the back of my neck—a warning I couldn’t ignore. My instincts, honed over years of protecting what was mine, screamed for vigilance. I scanned the crowd again, searching for a familiar face or a sign that everything truly was as safe as Luca insisted. The hairs rose on the back of my neck when my eyes landed on the front doors where Leviticus Barbari stood, surround by several of his men.
Leviticus’s presence was as imposing as ever, a constant reminder of old grudges and uneasy truces. His eyes swept over the room, cold and calculating, while his men flanked him with rigid precision, creating an invisible barrier between the celebration and the danger he represented. I tensed, every muscle in my body coiled, watching their movements with the measured patience of someone who’d had to expect betrayal at every turn as his men reached into their coats.
Instinct seized me before thought could catch up. Without hesitation, I vaulted over the banister, the rough metal digging into my palms as I landed hard. The club’s air was thick and damp with sweat, sharp with tequila and perfume. Bass thumped so hard it rattled my ribs, nearly drowning out my voice as I yelled for my brothers. I plunged into the press of bodies, the heat from the crowd sticking to my skin, every shove met with resistance from strangers slick with humidity and excitement. My eyes darted frantically, searching for any sign of my wife, but the strobing lights turned every face into a blur. Panic surged, tightening in my chest, when a piercing scream slashed through the pounding music and chatter, freezing me in place and confirming my worst fears as a hail of bullets rained down, causing panic and pandemonium.
Chaos erupted as clubgoers frantically scattered in all directions, fear transforming them into a desperate tide surgingtoward any possible exit. Cries of panic mingled with the thunder of gunfire and the pounding music as people collided, stumbled, and shoved each other in their attempt to escape the sudden violence. I forced my way through the turmoil, gun drawn, my voice hoarse from shouting my wife’s name over the cacophony that filled the air. Each moment stretched with agonizing uncertainty as I searched for her, fighting against the press of bodies and the suffocating dread threatening to overwhelm me. Then, through the haze of confusion, I caught a flash of movement—Leviticus Barbari’s cold, calculated smirk. Our eyes locked for a split second. With deliberate slowness, he lifted his hand, shaped his fingers into the form of a gun, and mimed firing at me. The silent gesture struck as threateningly as any bullet, a promise of continued enmity. In the next instant, Barbari vanished into the night, leaving only the echo of his warning behind.
It was a declaration.
He wanted war.
As the crowd dispersed and the music died away, I found my feet rooted in the middle of the dance floor, numb and breathless amid the chaos. The silence left behind felt heavier than the panic that had just passed. Guilio rushed over, his eyes sharp and roving, constantly on the lookout for any new danger lurking in the aftermath.
