ONE
The gun feels heavier than Marco’s coffin had.
Turning it over in my hands, I trace the grip one last time before sliding it into the hidden pocket I’d sewn into my jacket lining.I take a deep breath and let it out slowly as I catch my reflection in the mirror above the sink. Even in the expensive suit I bought to pull off the lie, I still look like shit. Dark circles shadow my eyes from too many sleepless nights, but that just makes me look like every other overworked contractor in this city.
I run the water cold and wash my hands until the shaking stops. Wipe them dry on paper towels that smell faintly of cigarette smoke.
When I look up again, I barely recognize the person staring back.
They say death changes the people left behind. What they don’t say is how much of yourself you bury alongside them. For me, that was six months of erasing Luca Moretti to become this ghost with a grudge so I could destroy the man who took my brother from me. And in less than five minutes, I’ll be walking into his empire with nothing but forged credentials,a fake name, and nine millimeters of justice pressed against my ribs.
Square up, Luca.
I straighten my jacket and push through the bathroom door into Eclipse’s lobby.
It’s quiet and empty. The clubs on the first and second floors won’t come alive until after dark, and for now, the only person here is a guard scrolling through his phone behind the security desk. The elevator bank gleams beyond him like the gates to hell.
I clear my throat as I approach, and he looks up at me like I’ve interrupted his whole fucking life.
“Morning.” I slide my ID across to him.
He barely glances at it. “David DaCosta?” He squints at the card, then at me, like he actually gives a shit. “New consultant?”
“Security analyst.” I keep my voice flat, my face blank. The second dose of suppressants I choked down this morning sits like battery acid in my gut, but it’s working. No omega scent bleeding through, no tells. As far as anyone knows, I’m just another beta contractor here to tell the Valerio family how to better protect their money laundering business.
“I have a meeting with—”
“Yeah, yeah.” He waves me through, already back to his phone. “Third floor. Someone’ll meet you.”
That easy, huh? I half-expect him to ask for more details, but he just keeps on scrolling. I make myself walk toward the elevators before my hesitation starts to look suspicious.
The ride up takes forever. Three floors shouldn’t feel like ascending to a guillotine, but the slow climb gives my mind too much room to wander.
I wonder if Marco got waved through just as easily that night—the night he walked into Valerio’s warehouse thinking it was just another pickup. Same job he’d done a hundred times. No reason to expect anything different.
Bet he had no idea it’d be the start of a nightmare that would end with his body in a cell and my life burning down around it.
I shove the thought down before it can sink its teeth in. Can’t afford to lose focus now. Not when I’m this close.
The elevator chimes and the doors slide open. I step out to what looks like a corporate executive floor. My eyes immediately scan the space. There’sa reception desk, a waiting area with leather chairs, and frosted glass conference rooms beyond. Two visible exits, probably more hidden. Cameras are everywhere, at least four, maybe six covering just this reception area. The angles are professional, no blind spots.
I’d mapped the first two floors of the club easily enough through public records and careful observation. But the third floor had been impossible. I couldn’t find any blueprints of the layout or leaked photos.
This is where Enzo Valerio conducts his real business, and access is invitation-only.
And now I’m here.
Everything in the space screams money, from the black marble to the chrome fixtures, lighting designed to make you lookdangerous or fuckable, depending on your taste. The legitimate business veneer is almost convincing.
But that’s the game, isn’t it? Hide the crime and blood under paperwork and tax filings. Make it look legal enough that nobody asks questions.
To any outsider, Eclipse is just another upscale club. But to anyone who knows better, it’s one of the many tentacles Valerio uses for his dirty work.
I’ve been in places like this before, back when Marco thought he could keep me separate from the life. I remember sitting in reception areas with magazines I never read while he disappeared into back offices for “meetings.”
He tried so hard to shield his omega baby brother from how we really survived. Working double shifts so I could afford to go to school. Lying to me about where the money truly came from.
“Mr. DaCosta?”
