Marco Montanari

Officers were finally wrapping up their mess, and the patrons were long gone, leaving only the silence of aftermath and the dull ache in my jaw where that fucking dipshit had landed his punches. I leaned against the bar, the ice-filled cloth against my face doing little to numb the pain or my anger.

The Alcove was a wreck—shattered glass crunched underfoot, and overturned chairs were strewn across the floor like broken promises. This wasn't just a raid; it was a goddamn performance, and Christopher Chico was the star of the show.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I pulled it out, Vito's name flashing across the screen. Tapping the button, his sharp features filled the frame on FaceTime, illuminated by the harsh fluorescent lighting of the police station.

"Marco," Vito greeted, his tone clipped. His salt-and-pepper hair was perfectly combed, his suit sharp as ever. But there was tension in his eyes, and in the background, I heard my father's unmistakable voice cutting through the din.

"Tych skurwielów," my father kept on spewing.

"Please, tell me you've got this," I muttered, adjusting the phone.

"I'm doing what I can," Vito replied, his voice low, calm.

In the background, my father's voice boomed, unmistakable even over the muffled hum of activity. "Ci skurwiele! Za kogo oni się uważają?"

"At least he's behaving," I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

Vito sighed, adjusting his tie as he glanced over his shoulder. When he looked back at me, his expression was measured, calm—the kind of calm that always made people underestimate him. "We both know how he gets. He's posturing, but nothing I can't handle. Now, what's the damage?"

I tightened my grip on the phone, my jaw clenched. "I'll live," I muttered. "The place? They're clearing out." My eyes landed on Christopher near the entrance, and my stomach turned. He was holding something that didn't belong to him.

Rebecca's phone.

My grip on the bar tightened as I watched him hand the item to an officer, who began bagging it for evidence. Christopher's gaze met mine across the room, and his smug, shit-eating grin nearly pushed me over the edge.

I forced a breath through my nose, glancing toward the stairs where the last of the officers were descending. Rebecca was still there—hiding. Hopefully not for long. "This Chico prick is clearly out for blood," I said, my tone sharper now. "I want him off the force."

"Luckily, that I can do," Vito replied evenly.

"They grabbed some things," I said, keeping my tone steady despite my chest tightening. "I need them back."

Vito let out a low breath, his words clipped but measured. "If they're bagged, they're already en route to evidence. Don't expect them to hand anything over without a fight."

"Fuck," I growled, pushing off the bar and taking a step forward as Christopher started toward the door.

"Marco," Vito said sharply. "Don't. Let the law work for you. Don't make things worse."

My chest tightened as I watched Christopher give more orders to the officer handling the evidence bags. The thought of him going through her things, of them turning on that phone, made my skin crawl. "There's a phone they took. We can't let them power it on," I said, my voice low but urgent. "You hear me? That can't happen."

"I'll ensure that doesn't happen." Vito's tone sharpened, commanding my attention. "But you need to come down to the station. If you want Chico out of your way for good, you'll have to handle this strategically. File a statement, document your injuries, and leave the rest to me."

Christopher turned back one last time, his eyes locking onto mine as that smug smirk spread across his face again. My fists curled at my sides, the ache in my jaw a constant reminder of how much I wanted to wipe that look off his face. But I stayed rooted in place, knowing he was waiting for me to snap.

"Fine," I snapped, glaring at the phone. "I'll be there."

"Good," Vito replied, his tone firm. "And Marco—"

"I know," I interrupted, my voice clipped. "Stay calm."

Vito's sharp nod was the last thing I saw before I ended the call. Shoving the phone back into my pocket, I let my gaze linger on the now-empty room. The Alcove was a wreck, but it wasn't the broken glass or overturned chairs that bothered me.

It was the gnawing feeling that the bastard was piecing it all together.

Shoving away the surge of frustration, I headed toward the stairs. Each step creaked underfoot, the sound echoing in the stillness. At the landing, I caught my reflection in a polished panel of mirror. My face looked worse than I thought—bruised, swollen, streaked with dried blood. The sight stopped me for a moment. I let out a slow breath, dragging a hand down my face, the coolness of my fingers against the heat of the swelling grounding me.

The faint whir of the scanner broke the silence as I pressed my palm against it the scanner. A soft beep followed, and the hidden door hissed open, revealing the dimly lit armory.

"Hey, you," I called softly, stepping inside.

Rebecca was in the corner, arms crossed tightly over her chest, eyes hard. She didn't speak, just gave me a look that could've cut through steel.

"Jesus," she said, her voice low, trembling at the edges like she wasn't sure whether to punch me or cry. "What happened?"

I shrugged, leaning against the doorframe as if it didn't matter. "Ran into a fist. Or three. You know how pigs get."

She didn't laugh.

Instead, she crossed the room in a few long strides, her hands reaching up, but only to gently cup my face. Her touch was cold against the heat of my skin, a surprising tenderness in the way her fingers brushed over the bruises.

"You're an idiot," she said quietly, her words threaded with something sharp—anger, maybe, or worry. It was hard to tell with the swelling.

I caught her wrists, gently pulling her hands away but not letting go. "I'm fine," I said, my voice steady, even as my body screamed otherwise. 

Her voice stopped me, sharp but laced with guilt. "Chris was here, wasn't he?"

I sighed, my grip loosening as her words hung between us. "He found your phone..."

Her eyes widened, a flash of panic breaking through her calm. She stepped back, her hands curling into fists at her sides as she started to pace. "Shit," she muttered, the word carrying all the weight of realization.

"It was dead," I added quickly, trying to steady her rising tension. "So, that buys us some time."

Rebecca stopped pacing, her body taut with energy, like she was ready to either run or fight. "How much ?" she demanded, her voice razor-sharp.

"Not enough," I admitted, meeting her gaze head-on.

Rebecca stopped, her movements jerking to a halt as she turned toward me, her expression unreadable. "He did this to you, didn't he?" She was already weighing the options, not rushing to conclusions but keeping her distance—like she always did.

"Don't," I interrupted, stepping closer. "It's not your fault. They would have been here one way or another. I pay my monthly dues to Fight Club—this, this is normal."

Her gaze softened, the fire dimming just enough to reveal something else—guilt. "How could you be so calm?"

Calm? She thought this was calm? My stomach churned with every possible way this could blow up, every scenario where the phone got powered on, where Christopher got his way. Got her. But I couldn't let my kitten see that. Calm wasn't a state of mind; it was a weapon. A mask to hide the cracks forming under the weight of everything that could go wrong.

"Rebecca—" I sighed, the exhaustion creeping into my voice. I wasn't sure what I wanted to say—what I could say to make her understand.

She stepped closer, cutting me off before I could finish, her hand briefly resting on my chest. The touch was light, tentative, but steady. Her warmth seeped through my shirt, grounding me in a way I didn't realize I needed.

"Can it be disabled?" she asked, her voice soft but unyielding. "My phone. Wiped clean of everything?"

"Not remotely," I said, my tone grim. "Not without triggering alarms. eSIMs ruined anonymity—it would have to be tethered and rerouted before the MNO notices. My lawyer's working on a workaround, but it won't be easy. "

Rebecca's lips pressed into a thin line, her mind clearly working. "What if I get a new one? Set up call forwarding or something?"

I could feel her tension, the battle between panic and determination warring inside her. It was the same fire that had drawn me to her in the first place—the fierce, unrelenting spirit that refused to back down, even when the odds were stacked against her.

I shook my head, my voice cutting through it all. "The second they power on that phone, they'll trace it back to you. There's no easy way out."

She stopped pacing, her eyes sharp and calculating now, the panic giving way to something colder, sharper. "There's always a way," she said, more to herself than to me.