Page 3 of Claimed Through Deception

The shift is in full swing. I grab a rag and head toward a recently vacated booth near the back wall.

"Marco left," Sofia says, appearing beside me as I wipe down the dark wood. She sounds massively relieved. "He threw a twenty on the table and stormed out. Whatever you said to him, it worked."

"Good," I murmur, scrubbing at a sticky ring of condensation. "I was tired of looking at his face."

Sofia laughs, but the sound cuts off abruptly.

I feel it before I see it.

The temperature in the room doesn't literally drop, but the atmosphere completely shifts. It is a sudden, suffocating change in air pressure, the kind that happens seconds before a massive thunderstorm breaks. The booming bass of the jukebox is suddenly swallowed by a heavy, oppressive tension that rolls through the front doors like a thick, choking fog.

The loud, rowdy laughter at the bar dies out. The clacking of the pool balls in the corner stops dead.

I slowly straighten up, the damp rag still clutched in my hand, and look toward the entrance.

Three men have walked in.

They don't belong here. That much is immediately, violently obvious. In a room full of ripped denim, leather jackets, and cheap work boots, these men look like they stepped out of an entirely different, far more lethal world. They are dressed in immaculate, dark, bespoke suits that probably cost more than this entire building.

Beside me, Sofia inhales sharply, her fingers shooting out to dig painfully into my arm. "'Oh my ovaries," she whispers.

A few feet away, Chloe practically drops her serving tray. She immediately straightens her posture, arching her back to thrust her chest out. Her eyes flash with hungry ambition as she smooths down her hair, stepping directly into the main aisle, intentionally putting herself in their path.

"Do you know who that is?" Sofia whispers, her voice trembling with a mix of terror and awe. "Don't look, Liv. Just look at the floor."

I frown, pulling my arm out of her grip.

I don't know who these men are. I am completely oblivious to whatever dangerous royalty just graced our tacky floors. I don't know the names attached to those expensive suits or why the entire bar is suddenly holding its collective breath. To Chloe, they look like a blank check. To Sofia, they look like a ghost story.

But to me? They just look like another table to clean.

Except, my eyes are instantly drawn to the man in the center.

He is massive. At least six-foot-four, built with broad, heavy shoulders that stretch the fabric of his dark suit jacket. His hair is pitch-black, pushed back carelessly, and his jawline is a sharp, brutal angle covered in a light shadow of stubble. He exudes pure, undiluted authority. He doesn't look around the room to see who is watching him, he already knows everyone is.

He owns the space just by breathing in it.

The crowd naturally, silently parts for them. Men step back, averting their eyes, making themselves as small as possible. It is a primal display of submission.

Chloe steps right into his path, offering a practiced, sultry smile, her blouse unbuttoned dangerously low.

The man in the center doesn't even blink. He walks past her without breaking stride, looking straight through her as if she is nothing more than a piece of cheap furniture in his way. Her smile falters, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment, but he is already looking past her.

It doesn’t matter to me because they are just another customer, so I go back to cleaning my table.

2

Niccolò

Fear has a distinct scent. It smells like sour copper, stale sweat, and cheap adrenaline.

I’ve breathed it in my entire life. I’ve lived on it.

I step through the heavy wooden doors of The Neon Crow, the hinges groaning in protest. The air inside is thick, choking on the stench of spilled liquor and unwashed bodies. It’s a shithole. A breeding ground for the city’s rats. But rats always return to the dark when they think they’ve outsmarted the trap.

"Place smells like a fucking ashtray," Alessio murmurs beside me, his boots crunching over peanut shells and sticky residue on the floorboards. He adjusts the cuffs of his bespoke suit, a casual, dangerous smirk playing on his lips. My younger brother treats violence like a sport. He’s charming, volatile, and itching for a reason to ruin his knuckles tonight.

"Focus," Enzo says from my other side. His voice is a flat, icy monotone. Our Consigliere doesn't do thrill. He does math. He calculates risk and eliminates variables. "Pietro owes us three hundred grand. Don Roberto wants the ledger balanced by morning. We get the location of the cash, and we get out."