Rebecca Caruso

I needed air—real, open air, not the kind that still tasted like Christopher's words, lingering in my mind like smoke from a fire I couldn't escape.

Marco hadn't stopped me when I grabbed my coat, but he'd insisted I wear a disguise—something to hide my face from the city cameras. A ridiculous suggestion, I thought at first, but knowing my father and Christopher, I didn't argue. I couldn't risk either of them spotting me, even accidentally.

Instead, I'd opted for a simple compromise: a loose hoodie and a walk around the club. But Marco tossed a ball cap and a pair of dark sunglasses into my hands before I stepped out.

"You know... just in case," he said, his lips twitching with amusement. "We get a lot of off-duty cops coming in for drinks."

I rolled my eyes but slid the cap on anyway. He wasn't wrong—the last thing I needed was someone recognizing me.

By the time I caught my reflection in on one of the TV screens, I realized I looked like Joe Goldberg from You, minus the creep factor. All I needed was a paperback novel clutched to my chest to complete the look. The thought almost made me laugh. Almost. I'd never pictured myself as someone sneaking around in broad daylight, but here I was—one step away from a full-blown incognito cliché.

Marco had stayed behind, claiming he had some calls to make. I knew him well enough by now to recognize he was trying to give me space without saying it outright.

I slipped out of the office, the door clicking shut softly behind me. The hallway was dim, lit only by the faint glow of a single overhead light. My footsteps echoed on the narrow staircase as I descended to the main level, one hand trailing along the cool metal rail.

The sound of the Alcove reached me before I stepped into view—the murmur of voices, the occasional burst of laughter, the steady thrum of music that seemed to pulse through the walls. By the time I reached the bottom of the stairs, the space had come alive.

Music spilled through the front doors, a low hum of jazz mingling with conversation. People lined up at the bar, heads tilted together, drinks in hand. There was something about it—the energy, the anonymity—that made me feel invisible, untethered.

The Alcove had always had that effect, hadn't it?

The first time I'd come here, it had felt impossibly exclusive, almost untouchable—a place where shadows and secrets thrived. But now, it felt different. Familiar. The buzz of conversation, the low light, the subtle glances exchanged between strangers—I'd learned to see it for what it was. A sanctuary for some. A stage for others. And a trap for anyone who didn't understand...

I drifted past the crowd and found a spot near the stage, tucked into a booth just far enough from the noise. A small group of local musicians had taken over, their lo-fi jazz setting the kind of mood that made the air feel softer, warmer. Saxophones murmured over the steady pulse of the bass, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I let myself sink into it.

Maybe it was the music. Or maybe it was the freedom—the feeling of my phone, powered off and silent, buried deep in my carry-on. Nothing tethered me to anything but this moment.

I didn't know what time it was or how long I'd been sitting there. It didn't matter.

"Jesteś upartą kobietą."

The voice startled me, breaking through the music and pulling me back into reality. I turned to find a man I'd seen before sliding into the booth across from me, his sharp gaze settling on me like he'd been watching for a while.

"Excuse me?" I asked, blinking at him. I couldn't remember his name, only that he was Marco's driver-slash-daredevil. And apparently, a man of unsolicited advice.

"Didn't I warn youse not to get involved?" he added, leaning back against the booth with that same knowing smirk he always seemed to wear.

I straightened, schooling my face into something calm, indifferent. "I don't know what you're talking about."

He chuckled, a low sound that carried more amusement than judgment. "Uparty i mądry," he said, "Youse remind me of someone I knew once—real stubborn girl. Things didn't end so well for her."

Before I could respond, another voice joined the conversation—low, gravelly, and laced with irritation. "You're still here?"

Angelo Montanari slid into the booth beside his friend, his presence sucking the warmth straight out of the air. He looked sharper than the last time I'd seen him—no whiskey glass in hand, no slurred words softening his edges. Just cold, sober anger simmering behind his dark eyes.

I frowned, my confusion obvious, but I didn't say anything as I took off my sunglasses.

His friend broke the silence, his tone casual but carrying that faint, dangerous edge. "You know this one?"

Angelo's lip curled, the closest thing to a smile, though it held no warmth. "How could I not?" His gaze pinned me in place, dark and assessing. "Mój piękny urok. The one who knocked out Frank."

Angelo didn't stop there. He leaned back, his voice quieter now but no less cutting. "You know, Marco dragged me away from her the other night. Thought he was doing me a favor." His head tilted slightly, mock amusement flickering across his face. "It's good to see you don't scare easily. "

"Thank you?" I said, my voice coming out flatter than I intended, the word hanging awkwardly in the air.

Angelo's smile—if you could call it that—widened just enough to feel predatory. He didn't say anything, just sat there, staring at me like he was peeling back layers of skin, seeing something I didn't want him to find.

His friend flickered a glance, "She's got some grit that's for sure."

"Grit," Angelo repeated softly, like he was testing the word. He didn't sound impressed. His gaze stayed locked on me, dark and heavy, making the small booth feel claustrophobic. "Grit's only good for two things, piękny urok. Fighting or dying. Which one are you aiming for?"

I swallowed, keeping my face as neutral as possible, my pulse pounding in my throat. "I don't see why I'd need to choose."

Angelo let out a low, humorless chuckle, but it didn't soften him. "Then you're not paying attention."

My jaw tightened, the words cutting closer than I wanted to admit. "Is that supposed to be advice?"

"No. A warning," Angelo answered, his tone flat and deadly. "I know how this game plays out. I've seen it too many times. Young people like you—like my son." His eyes narrowed slightly, and his voice dipped, quieter but no less menacing. "Can get mercilessly chewed up when blindsided."

For a moment, the booth was silent again, save for the faint hum of the music and the distant murmur of laughter from the crowd. I glanced between the two of them, searching their faces for any sign of something I could hold onto, some clue about why they were here.

The Alcove's hum felt oppressive now, its anonymity suddenly suffocating. I swallowed hard, keeping my voice steady. "Blindsided by what?"

He didn't answer right away. Instead, he tilted his head, studying me like I was some kind of puzzle that didn't quite fit together. The silence stretched too long, the hum of the music somehow louder, heavier.

"Ambition," Angelo said finally, his voice soft, almost pitying.

Earl let out a small laugh, a low rumble that pulled my attention. I glanced between them, my pulse picking up. Angelo's eyes stayed cold, sharp, while Earl's grin was far too easy—like he was enjoying the conversation just a little too much.

"Maybe I'm just trying to get by," I said, my voice quieter now.

"I know what Marco sees in you, piękny urok," Angelo said, almost absently, like he was thinking aloud. "Because I see it too."

The words lingered, dark and deliberate, curling through the air like smoke. My pulse faltered, a beat too slow.

I didn't ask what he meant. I didn't dare.

His friend, silent now, just watched—his grin gone, replaced by something harder.

Angelo leaned back slowly, every movement calculated, like he'd already said more than enough. "It's only a matter of time before you see it for yourself."

I swallowed the tight knot rising in my throat, forcing myself to hold his gaze, though every instinct screamed at me to look away.

"And what is that?" I asked, my voice steadier than I felt.

His smile was thin and cold, a blade wrapped in silk. "Fire."

The word rippled through me, unraveling something I couldn't name—something that left me colder than the air around us.

Before I could respond, Angelo slid out of the booth in one smooth motion, his movements as quiet as they were deliberate. He paused, his eyes flicking to his confidante. "Chodź, Earl. Policja nas chce."

The name landed heavily in my mind. Earl.

Angelo didn't bother looking back, but his parting words clung to the air. "Stay sharp, piękny urok." There was no malice in his tone, but somehow, that made it worse.

Earl pushed himself up with a lazy stretch, his grin lingering as he cast one last glance in my direction, his eyes lingering a second too long, like he was waiting to see if I'd crack.

There was something about the way he looked at me—like I wasn't just another person to him, but a piece of something larger. Something he'd already figured out.

I hated it.

The easy grin, the deliberate pauses. They were too rehearsed, too comfortable, as though none of this was new to him. And maybe that was the problem—it wasn't.

I stayed in the booth, frozen, as they disappeared into the crowd, swallowed whole by the low hum of jazz and the press of bodies...