C2

Taryn Vescari

The underground concrete bunker below the Black Crown Lounge smelled like copper blood, sweat, and stale cigars. Every thud of leather hitting meat echoed off the bare cement walls, sending vibrations straight up through my boots.

"Get your hands up, kid!" Sergio Costanzo barked from the edge of the ring.

I held my metal serving tray tight against my chest, watching two shirtless enforcers tear into each other inside a makeshift cage constructed from heavy steel chain-link. Stuart McKenzie, an upper-tier lieutenant in our syndicate, landed a brutal hook right to the opponent's jaw. The sound of cracking bone echoed over the roar of the crowd.

The losing soldier hit the concrete hard, spitting blood onto the dusty floor. "I yield! I yield!"

Stuart stepped back, wiping blood off his knuckles, his chest heaving as the onlookers threw hundred-dollar bills toward the ring. I swallowed down the urge to gag. The Vescari District was dirty, but this was raw, unregulated syndicate bloodsport. High-stakes underground fights where fortunes changed hands in seconds.

"Taryn?" A smaller guy with thick glasses tapped my shoulder. "You Sergio's temp?"

"Joe Costanzo?" I asked, adjusting my apron.

"Yeah. Follow me," Joe said, pushing his glasses up his nose. "And keep your mouth shut. The people in this room don't like unfamiliar faces."

I followed him through the heavy throng of dark suits, silk shirts, and heavy gold chains. These weren't just low-level Vescari street enforcers. I spotted women wrapped in fur coats dripping with diamond bracelets—clothing that cost more than my entire family debt.

"Where are they from?" I whispered to Dario Lucchesi, one of the older bartenders, as I set my empty tray on the wooden counter.

Dario leaned in close, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Those are Moretti Syndicate lieutenants and their wives."

"Are you kidding me?" My blood ran cold. "Vittorio Moretti's people are inside our club?"

"It's a neutral zone for the fights, kid," Dario muttered, sliding three glasses of neat bourbon onto my tray. "They pay ten grand a table just to sit down. Keep your eyes down, deliver the drinks, and collect the cash."

I gripped the edge of the tray until my knuckles turned white. Gisella Ferraro was buried in a unmarked grave because of the Moretti family, yet here her killers were, drinking our top-shelf liquor and laughing. But as I moved through the tables, the tips flooded in. Fifties and hundreds dropped into my glass jar like paper scrap.

Suddenly, a microphone squealed, cutting through the heavy smoke. Joe stepped into the center of the cage, raising his hands.

"Alright, clear the bets!" Joe yelled. "Main event of the night! Our undefeated underground fighter... versus the Falcone family heir, Rocco Falcone!"

The crowd erupted into a deafening roar. Rocco climbed through the ropes, bare-chested and dripping confidence, throwing quick practice jabs into the air. His dark hair was slicked back, his abs cut deep, and his jaw locked in a arrogant smirk. I hated him with everything in me, but he looked lethal.

Then his opponent stepped into the ring.

The man took off his heavy black leather coat, dropping it onto the floor. He didn't jump around or pump his fists for the crowd. He just rolled his broad, tattooed shoulders and tilted his head, the thick muscles of his back flexing beneath the harsh overhead light.

My breath caught dead in my throat. My core tightened instantly, a sudden, scorching wave of heat pool deep between my thighs.

"Who is that?" I breathed out, unable to yank my eyes away from the sheer, dominant weight of his presence.

Dario leaned over the bar, his face grim. "That's Vittorio Moretti."

My pulse spiked violently against my ribs as Vittorio turned. His dark, sharp eyes swept over the blood-stained ring, cold and completely unbothered by Rocco's posturing. When his gaze drifted toward the bar, it locked straight onto mine. The dark intensity in his eyes felt like a physical touch, pulling my skin tight and making my breath hitch in my chest.

"Place your bets!" Joe screamed into the mic. "Three rounds! No rules!"

Vittorio stepped toward the center, his full height towering over Rocco. Rocco spat on the floor, smirking, "You're in Falcone territory tonight, Moretti. You don't walk out of here champion."

Vittorio didn't even blink. "Then kill me, kid."

Before the bell even finished ringing, Rocco lunged forward, throwing a vicious right hook straight for Vittorio's jaw. Vittorio dodged it by a fraction of an inch, caught Rocco by the throat with one massive hand, and slammed him back-first against the steel cage. The force of the impact shook the entire metal frame.

Rocco gasped for air, his face turning red as Vittorio leaned into his space, his dark voice carrying clearly over the screaming crowd. "You talk too much."

Vittorio drove a heavy knee straight into Rocco's ribs. The sickening crack of fracturing bone echoed through the room, and Rocco let out a strangled scream, sagging against the chain-link. Vittorio didn't let go of his throat. Instead, he pulled Rocco close, his grip suffocating.

"Tell your father Don Salvatore that his son bleeds just like any other dog," Vittorio growled softly.

Vittorio dropped Rocco's limp body onto the concrete mat like garbage. The room went dead silent for a fraction of a second before the Moretti faction burst into wild cheering. Money flooded the betting tables.

Vittorio turned away from the fallen Falcone heir, completely unbothered by the victory. His dark eyes tracked straight back to where I stood frozen against the bar. He wiped a streak of Rocco's blood off his cheek with the back of his hand, never breaking eye contact with me.

He stepped out of the cage, ignoring the bookies offering him his cut of the pot, and walked straight toward the bar. Every person in his path scrambled to get out of his way. My chest heaved, my heart hammering like a trapped bird against my ribs as his shadow fell over me.

"You," Vittorio's deep, rough voice cut through the noise, thick with raw command. "Get me a clean glass."

"I... I don't work the bar," I stammered, my voice trembling as his possessive, heavy gaze traced down my neck to where my apron tied around my waist.

Vittorio reached out, his long, calloused fingers catching my chin, forcing my face up. His touch burned like liquid fire on my cold skin.

"You do now," he whispered dark and low, his thumb pressing firmly against my bottom lip. "Fill a glass, small girl, or I take you with me back to the Palazzo tonight."