Heartbeat in the Crossfire

AMARA

I follow Moretti and Marco down to the basement, staying close as he instructed me to. We receive strange glances and looks of astonishment from the men we walk past. Word is spreading, but they're still shocked to see me alive.

The music from the club fades as we step into the basement, everything going completely silent. I'm assuming the basement has sound barriers so that no one can hear what goes on in this room.

I stay by the door as Moretti makes his way to the middle of the room, where a man sits tied to a chair. He looks younger than us, maybe in his late teens or early twenties.

He walks slowly, each step emanating power and control.

"What does this woman look like?" is all he asks the man. No pleasantries, no introduction.

He shifts in his chair, trying to get himself loose. "I promise I don't know anything. I'm just a delivery guy."

"Answer the question."

"She had dark hair. I think it was black, but it could've been a dark brown. Her eyes were green-ish," he says, fear in every word. "She was wearing a leather jacket with some kind of symbol on the back. Maybe she's part of a biker gang, I don't know."

"What did she say to you?"

"She told me to drop the package off here and make sure it gets to someone named Amara Valenti. She said anyone at the door would tell me that there's no Amara here, but that I had to keep pushing until they took the package."

"Did she pay you in cash?"

"Yes."

"How did she get in contact with you?"

"Through the app. Every customer has to set up a profile and provide their phone number for us to get in contact with them if there are any complications."

That man's terror is real. That much is obvious. He was just a pawn. Used, discarded, and blind to the message he'd delivered. He's not part of this world, and he doesn't know anything. I'm just grateful they didn't have to torture him to get the information.

"He's clean," Moretti murmurs under his breath. "Waste of time."

"Or proof that whoever's playing this game is two moves ahead of us," I say, my heart racing.

Moretti's gaze flickers to me, sharp with reluctant agreement. He gives a curt nod to his men. "Lock him up until we decide what to do with him."

Without another word, he turns on his heels and I follow him back upstairs. The music grows louder with every step, but the chill of the basement still clings to my skin. Moretti's steps sharpen as one of his men approaches.

"Boss," the man murmurs low, glancing at me before continuing. "We have a problem."

Moretti stops. "What kind of problem?"

"It's Vasquez. We traced the chatter about her. The initial leak came from him. He passed information to the wrong person. Claims he thought it was nothing."

Her? Does he mean me?

Silence. Cold and absolute. I feel the temperature in the air change. The weight of something ancient and dangerous uncoiling behind Moretti's stillness. He doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't blink.

"Where is he?"

"Downstairs. Holding room."

He nods once. "Bring him."

It doesn't take long. Two of Moretti's enforcers drag a wiry young man down the hall, his face battered, fear written in every line of his body. They drag him all the way to Moretti's office. Not sure what to do, I follow behind.

He falls to his knees when they release him, hands shaking. "Boss, I didn't… I swear, I didn't think it mattered," he stammers. "It was nothing. Just chatter. They offered money… small time stuff… I didn't…"

"No," Moretti says calmly, cutting him off. "You didn't think. That's the problem."

He moves slowly, deliberately, pulling off his jacket and handing it to one of the men without taking his eyes off Vasquez. My breath catches. Something cold slides down my spine. There's no rage in Moretti's expression, just precision. This isn't passion. It's policy.

"This is how wars start," Moretti murmurs. "One careless mouth, one loose thread."

He nods. The two enforcers grab Vasquez's arms. I don't even see the weapon at first. Just the dull gleam of metal as a knife flashes in Moretti's hand. Not a gun. Not something quick.

A warning.

Vasquez screams as the top of the blade cuts a shallow line across his palm, deep enough to bleed, but not deep enough to cripple. A permanent mark. A message.

"You'll live," Moretti says softly, wiping the blade clean. "But not here. Not in my house. You're done."

Vasquez sobs, clutching his hand as the men drag him away. The office smells of cold steel and fear.

I don't move. My heartbeat thunders in my ears. I look at Moretti, at the controlled violence in his eyes. Something inside me shifts. Not fear exactly. Not yet. But something sharp and wary.

"You didn't have to…" I start, my voice catching.

He meets my gaze, calm as glass. "Yes," he says simply. "I did."

And for the first time, I understand: this is what it means to survive in his world.

Everyone reconvenes in Moretti's office, along with Marco and a few more of his men. The mood is tense, men in black suits clustered around maps spread across the larger table in the office. Black Scythe hangs in the air like smoke.

"We're seriously letting her in on this?" His eyes locked on me, filled with cold disdain. "A Valenti? Since when do we trust the daughter of traitors?"

The room stills. Eyes dart in my direction and everyone stops working.

My heart pounds in my chest, but I don't flinch. Memories of my family flood the edges of my mind, but I shove them down, locking my jaw.

"If you've got something to say to me," I say evenly, "say it to me. Not around me."

A few men shift uncomfortably, exchanging glances. Moretti says nothing, and simply leans back in his chair, watching.

Marco smirks, pushing away from the table. "Fine. You're a liability. Your family's history is a stain on this city. And whatever this is." He waves a hand dismissively between me and Moretti. "It's going to get us killed."

"You think I don't know what my name means?" I ask softly, my voice low and cold. "You think I don't carry the weight of it every time I walk into a room like this?"

I let my words settle, my eyes never leaving his.

"I didn't come here to be trusted," I continue. "I came here because someone made sure I believe that all of you had a hand in my brother's kidnapping. And whether you like it or not, I'm a part of this now. So unless you're the one pulling the strings behind Black Scythe, I suggest you get the hell out of my way and do your job."

The silence cracks with tension. Marco's lips thin, his fists clench at his sides, but he doesn't speak. He doesn't dare.

And in the corner of my vision, I catch it. The faint glint of something sharp in Moretti's eyes. A flicker of amusement. Approval.

He straightens in his chair, his voice lazy but lethal as he breaks the silence.

"She's right," he murmurs. "We're past the point of trust. This is survival. And as of now, she's under my protection. Anyone who can't accept that can find the door."

Marco's jaw twitches, but he goes back to work without another word. The meeting moves on, but the shift in the room is palpable. And I know: I've just passed my first test.

Standing up to one of Moretti's men proves to him that no matter what, I am not backing from from my mission. I told him earlier: I don't answer to his men. If they have a problem with me, they can take it up with me or keep it to themselves.

Moretti sets me up in a bedroom above the club while he and his men run surveillance and try to find the woman responsible for delivering my brother's bloodied watch to me.

The watch sits in my hand, still bloodied, after I've taken a shower and got into comfortable clothes, courtesy of Moretti himself. The watch serves as a reminder of why I'm here, and why I can't leave.

Black Scythe is a ruthless operation, and if they have Lorenzo, it's only a matter of time before he's dead. If he isn't already. The thought creeps into my mind like a noose wrapping itself around my throat.

For years, I thought that my brother died the night of the fire. Now I have confirmation that he didn't, but at what cost? He's being held captive by our enemies, and now they're taunting me.

I don't expect much from Moretti aside from business; working for him, finding my brother and the people responsible for my parents' death. The man I knew him to be is long gone. He's been a Don for too long now, and any shred of that man has been wiped out.

There's a knock on my door and I get up to see who it is. One of Moretti's men stands in front of me, his expression unreadable.

"Moretti wants you in his office in ten minutes," he tells me.

"What for?"

"We have a lead."

"Okay."

He nods and heads back down the hall. I shut the door and look around the room, my heart racing. Moretti works fast. It has barely been a few hours since we got the information from the delivery guy, and he already has a lead. If I were working alone on this, it would have taken me much longer.

I survey my new bedroom, trying to find something that looks better than the sweatpants I'm wearing. The sweatpants aren't the only clothes Moretti gave to me (one of his men dropped it off), and along with it are a few skirts and t-shirts.

Quickly, I pull on a fitted t-shirt and one of the skirts. It figures that a man like Moretti would assume that all a woman wants to wear are skirts. The show of arrogance reminds me of who I'm dealing with, and that this is no place to rebuild connections or make friends.

Ten minutes later, I head down to Moretti's office. The man stationed outside lets me in, giving me a once-over before doing so. Upon entering, I notice that he's not alone. Marco is here (of course), and so are the man who came to my room and another who was with us earlier.

I walk over and take a seat at the desk, across from Moretti.

"Luca," Moretti says curtly, signaling for him to speak.

"We found her," he says, turning his laptop so we can see the image on the screen.

I lean forward in my seat, scanning the grainy image. A woman with dark hair and sharp eyes, a faint scar across her lower lip.

"Name's Isobal Vargas," Luca continues. "Low level, but connected to Black Scythe. We think she's the one who set up the delivery. Matches the description perfectly."

My hands curl into fists in my lap. "Where is she?"

"Gone," Luca tells me. "She vanished right after the hand-off. This image was taken outside of a convenience store, where she purchased a burner phone to contact our guy. Whoever's running this… they're careful."

Silence falls in the room. Moretti's fingers drum lightly on the desk before he looks to me. "We find her," he says quietly. "Fast. Before they use her to tie off loose ends."

"I want in," I say sharply. "All the way. I'm not sitting on the sidelines."

"This is ridiculous," Marco says, a laugh escaping him. "What the hell do you know about this kind of work?"

"Enough," I say, meeting his eyes. "Like I said, Marco, you don't have to trust me." I turn to Moretti. "I'm not sitting on the sidelines. Use me."

His eyes stay on mine, measured, unreadable. After a beat, he nods. "Let's get to work."

A weight in my chest lifts. Less relief, more dread. But I nod. Whatever this is becoming, there's no going back.

By the time Moretti's men disperse and the adrenaline bleeds from my veins, the exhaustion hits. I barely remember the way through the club's labyrinth of back hallways until I stand inside my new bedroom.

The space is spare, but elegant. It has its own bathroom and a huge closet. Dark wood, soft lighting and a narrow window overlook the distant city lights.

I don't mean to snoop. I really don't.

At first, I just stand there, motionless, trying to catch my breath. The night, the watch, the delivery guy, Marco's venom… it's all coiled inside my ribs. Too tight. Too loud.

But then my eyes catch something strange on the old writing desk near the far wall. A box. Simple. Wooden. Unlocked.

I hesitate. For a second, I tell myself to walk away. But my fingers move before my thoughts catch up.

I flip the lid open.

Inside are photographs. Hidden. Old. Black and white in some cases, more recent in others. Some show men in suits gathered around long tables. Some… show my father.

Not alone.

In every picture, always near him, sometimes with a hand on his shoulder, sometimes shaking hands, was a younger man with Moretti's eyes.

My skin prickles. My fingertips tremble against the fragile edges of the photos.

My father. And Dante Moretti's father. Together. Smiling.

Something cold blooms deep in my chest. This isn't random. This isn't new. Our families had been entangled long before I'd ever set foot in this club, long before I even knew Dante.

And maybe Moretti has been lying to me from the start.

My pulse roars in my ears as I slowly close the lid.

The last thing I hear before the lights of the city blur in my vision is my own heartbeat.

Steady, furious, alone.