The priest clears his throat.
The gunshots start before he speaks.
Not one or two—it’s a goddamn hailstorm. Screams rip through the pews. Heels clatter against marble. Someone knocks over a floral pedestal. The organist slumps forward onto the keys, letting out one last awful chord.
My veil is yanked back by the sudden gust as the cathedral doors explode inward, and a black-clad battalion storms in, armed and organized. Controlled violence.
Gasps, cries, a woman shrieking somewhere near the back.
I don’t scream.
I don’t move.
I stand frozen in the center aisle, hands still wrapped tight around my bouquet like it’s a weapon and not a pathetic bundle of roses.
I’d been prepared to marry a monster.
I’d shoved myself into this lace coffin, let them pin me into place and promise me away, just to keep the peace. Simply to stay alive.
But when the bullets start flying, I realize something I hadn’t been willing to admit, not even to myself.
I’d rather die than give myself to Anthony Falco.
A body drops near me, blood staining a powder-blue tux. NotAnthony. Unfortunately. That coward ran the moment the first shot rang out, vanishing into the vestry like the spineless rat he is.
I turn, twisting on instinct as arms wrap around my shoulders, my bouquet falling to the marble floor.
Hands, rough and strong, yank me back. I twist, kick, my heel connects with someone’s shin. A grunt. I try again, but this time a hand clamps over my mouth, and thick arms hold me tighter.
Then, a voice comes from behind me. Calm. Deep. Almost familiar.
“Don’t fight it, relax. You’re not meant for him.”
A hood drops over my head.
Two years Ago
Competition.Recruitment. Escape.
These are the reasons I find myself stepping into a Detroit club on a Friday night, far from the familiar streets of Chicago. Tonight isn’t about pleasure. It's about perspective. I need to see how other gentlemen’s clubs pull in their clientele, scout dancers who could shake up my rotation back home, and, more than anything, I need to breathe.
Leaving my city, even for a day or two, lifts the weight that comes with my name. Here in Detroit, the air feels different. Somehow it’s cleaner, untouched by the expectations and shadows of my world. Away from the all-seeing eyes of my city, I can exhale, clear my head, and, for a little while, be more human than machine.
Here, I’m not the Don of the Marchetti Syndicate, the man who commands empires and stirs fear. In this city, I’m just Enzo. Nothing more, nothing less. And for now, that’s exactly what I need to be.
My second in command and cousin by blood, Lars, steps out of the car first, circling around to open my door. The sleek black Mercedes idles at the entrance of Sparks, the club we chose toscope out tonight. Word of it has made its way to our circles in Chicago, and we’re here to see what sets it apart.
I adjust my black jacket, smoothing the cuffs of my crisp button-down as they peek from beneath my sleeves. The Rolex on my wrist catches the dim light as I glance at the doorman, who gives a sharp nod before holding the door open. Music hits us at once, a steady pulse vibrating through the dim entryway.
We stride toward the front desk, settle the cover charge, and request a direct route to the VIP section. The hostess barely glances up from her phone, her thumbs flying across the screen, but moments later, a server appears, seemingly conjured from the shadows.
She’s stunning, long legs balanced on stilettos that must make an eight-hour shift a nightmare. A black corset hugs her figure, her makeup is flawless, and waves of dark hair cascade over her shoulders. But it’s her smile that stands out. Effortlessly sweet, professional yet inviting.
“I’m Lauren, and I’ll be your guide to your experience here at Sparks,” she says warmly. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to your table.”
Lars flashes one of his signature smiles. “Thank you, Lauren. Lead the way.”
She guides us down a subtle ramp that skirts the main floor, the layout catching my interest. The VIP section is tucked away in a private space where it’s accessible yet distinct, offering a perfect balance of exclusivity and connection to the main floor. From here, patrons have a clear view of the central stage, yet their tables sit in deep shadows, offering just enough privacy.
