Page 78 of His Assistant

We go inside.

The club is dark. Green lamps throw weak light across the bar. I shove Tomasso forward.

“If Marco or Sofia are hurt,” I say quietly, “you’ll be the one to pay for it.”

Tomasso says nothing.

Gunfire erupts at the front of the building. The sound tears through the club, sharp and controlled. Men shout. Chairs scrape. Someone runs across the floor above us. The building comes to life all at once.

Two men round the hall ahead of us with guns drawn. I shoot the first one before he finishes raising his weapon. Bradley takes the second. Tomasso flinches so hard he almost trips.

“Keep moving,” I tell him.

He does. We reach a locked door near the back hall. Tomasso hesitates. I press the gun to his side. “Open it.”

“I don’t have the code.”

I lean close enough that he can feel my breath. “Don’t fucking lie to me, cousin.”

He types four numbers. The light turns red.

Bradley grabs the back of his neck and slams his face toward the keypad, stopping an inch before impact.

“Again,” he says.

Tomasso types with shaking fingers. This time, it turns green. The lock releases.

Behind the door is a private room with a long table, a crystal decanter, and Sofia.

She sits in a chair near the wall, pale and shaking, one hand curled over her stomach. A man stands several feet from her, gun drawn toward the front of the building, distracted by the noise.

For one second, she looks at me like she doesn’t trust what she is seeing. Then her face crumples.

I shoot the guard before he can turn.

Sofia flinches, but she doesn’t scream.

I cross the room fast, leaving Tomasso with Bradley. “Are you hurt?”

She shakes her head. Tears spill over anyway.

“Did they touch you?”

“No.” Her voice cracks. “Not like that. Dominic, my dad. They took him out. They were hurting him.”

“I’ll find him,” I promise her.

I reach for her, and she grabs my shirt with both hands, like she’s been holding herself together by force and can’t do it anymore. I pull her against me and let myself have one moment of comfort. Her body shakes against mine, and I press my mouth to her hair because I need to feel her breathing.

The relief is so violent it almost bends me in half. Then a voice cuts through the room.

“How touching.”

I turn with Sofia still partly behind me. Enzo Calderone stands in the doorway across the room, two men flanking him. His suit is still neat. His face is calm. He looks more irritated than afraid.

Calderone looks at Tomasso and smiles faintly. “You brought him.”

Tomasso lifts his chin. “He followed me.”