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I lean back against him, letting the warmth of his body support me. “You’d do that? Host my friends?”

His chuckle vibrates through my back. “Love, I’ll do anything for you. Besides, they’re good for you. You light up around them.” His hands slide down to my waist, pulling me closer. “I want to see more of that.”

The sincerity in his voice makes my chest tight. This is a side of Zeke I never expected—thoughtful, observant, wanting to nurture the connections that make me happy. It’s dangerous how sweet he can be, how easily he can make me forget who he is, what he does.

Then my captain’s orders cross my mind. He made it clear he didn’t want me returning to the club. But Zeke said it’s a private room. No one has to know we’re there.

Maybe, just for one night, I can let myself have this. Let myself believe in the possibility of blending our worlds, of finding joy in the midst of chaos.

“Okay,” I say softly. “Let’s do it.”

Chapter 16

In the Shadows

Ezekiel

Ilean against the bar’s polished mahogany surface, my fingers absently tracing the rim of my whiskey glass as I survey the pulsing crowd before me. The bass thrums through the floorboards, a steady heartbeat matching the rhythm of bodies moving on the dance floor. Even from this elevated vantage point, I catch the mingled scents of perfume, sweat, and desire.

My muscles remain coiled tight despite the familiar environment of Club Velvet Petal. Years of running this place have taught me to read the subtle shifts in energy—the way conversations flow, the movement patterns of the crowd, the positioning of my security team. Tonight, something feels off. Maybe it’s the way that guy in the corner keeps checking his phone, or how that group by the DJ booth seems too interested in the back hallway.

The whiskey burn slides down my throat as I take another sip. My one and only drink for the night. Unlike the intoxicated masses below, I need my mind sharp. Clear. Ready. My brother Sebastian is working the floor tonight, moving through the crowd with practiced ease, but his eyes keep darting to the exits. He feels it too.

A flash of movement catches my attention—one of our newer bartenders fumbling with a bottle. The glass doesn’t break, but the near-miss sets my teeth on edge. Everything has to be perfect, controlled. It’s the way I run my business. Broken liquor bottles are for other bars, not mine.

My phone buzzes against my thigh. Another security update from Eli about the precinct surveillance. I don’t check it yet. It reminds me of all the threads I’m trying to keep under control. The club. The vigilante operation. Eve’s safety. The brewing war with the Columbus families that’s sucking me back into mafia activities I’ve fought so hard to escape. Each one a potential bomb with a short fuse, and I’m the one holding all the matches.

The whiskey burns, but not enough to chase away the memories that hit me like a freight train. Eve. Always Eve.

Last night, watching her sleep beside me, I realized how fucked I truly am. The sight of her peaceful face, the trust she shows even after everything—it does things to me. Makes me want to be better. Makes me want to burn the world down to keep her safe. Both impulses war inside me, leaving me raw and exposed in ways I haven’t felt since I was that scared kid in foster care.

I take another sip, letting the alcohol ground me in the present. But even the familiar burn of whiskey can’t drown out the echo of her moans, the way she submitted to me, the perfect arch of her back as she came apart under my hands. Christ, I’m already hard just thinking about it.

I never stopped wanting her. Never stopped needing her. Never stopped … Fuck. The realization settles heavy in my chest, uncomfortable and terrifying in its intensity.

A shadow falls across the bar, and I glance up to find Micah’s hulking frame blocking out the pulsing lights. His expression makes my muscles tense. His usual stoic demeanor has cracked, revealing an urgency I don’t see in his expression often.

“Boss.” His voice is low, barely audible over the music. “We need to talk. Now.”

I set down my glass and follow him to my office, that nagging sense of wrongness from earlier intensifying with each step. Once inside, Micah closes the door, shutting out the thrum of the club.

“Salvador’s dead.” The words are like ice water on my warm skin. “Found floating in the East River an hour ago. One of our guys in New York just called it in.”

My stomach drops as the implications cascade through my mind. Salvador was our most reliable contact in New York, our early warning system for any moves Nicolo might make.

“How?” The word comes out harsh.

“Two in the head, execution style. But first,” Micah’s jaw clenches, “they worked him over good. Broken fingers, cigarette burns. They wanted information.”

The whiskey turns sour in my gut. Salvador knew everything—our operations, our safeguards, our weaknesses. And there’s only one person who would go to such lengths to get that information.

“Nicolo.” The name tastes like ash on my tongue.

Micah nods grimly. “Has to be. Question is, what did Salvador tell them before the end?”

I brace my hands against my desk, the polished wood cool under my palms. Salvador was tough, loyal to the bone. But everyone breaks eventually. And if he talked …

“He wouldn’t.” The muscles in my jaw tighten as Salvador’s fate sinks in. My old friend, tortured and executed like a fucking animal. The rage building inside me is familiar—a dark companion I’ve known since childhood. But I can’t let it control me. Not now. Not when there’s so much at stake.