Stolen Things.

Luca’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Not from the cold night air that slapped against his face as he hurried down the back alleys behind The Velvet Rope, but from the raw, buzzing confusion still crawling under his skin. Every step sent a dull throb through his body—new aches layered over the old bruises from the warehouse beating. He could still feel Vittorio’s hands on him: firm, sure, almost gentle in places that made Luca’s stomach twist with something he refused to name. Shame? Anger? A flicker of unwanted heat he shoved down so deep it might never come back up?

He didn’t know. He didn’t want to know.

“Stupid,” he muttered under his breath, dodging a puddle that reflected the neon glow of a distant bar sign. “Fucking idiot. You weren’t supposed to feel anything.”

The wallet and watch were heavy in his hoodie pocket. The flash drive—small, sleek, black, with no markings—he’d grabbed on pure instinct when his fingers had brushed it inside the wallet. Why? He couldn’t say. Maybe because it looked expensive. Maybe because taking something that personal felt like reclaiming a piece of himself after what had just happened upstairs. Or maybe because, deep down, the part of Luca that had survived on the streets for thirteen years knew that powerful men guarded their secrets more fiercely than their money.

He slipped into the familiar shadows of the night market—a loose network of stalls and backroom deals that operated in the underbelly of the city, where questions were bad for business. His usual contact, a wiry guy named Sal with a gold tooth and a perpetual nervous twitch, met him behind a closed laundromat.

Sal whistled low when Luca laid out the watch and wallet on the rickety table. “Nice haul, kid. Russo’s taste?”

Luca’s jaw tightened. “Didn’t ask for a name.”

Sal chuckled, turning the watch over in his hands. “Smart. This’ll fetch a good price. Wallet too—leather’s real. Cash inside?”

“Keep what you need for your cut,” Luca said, voice flat. He didn’t mention the flash drive still tucked deep in his jeans. Some instinct told him not to. “Just get me the money quick.”

The transaction was fast, dirty, and familiar. Sal counted out a thick wad of bills—enough to make Luca’s chest loosen just a fraction. Not life-changing, but enough to breathe. He shoved the cash into his pocket and disappeared back into the night before Sal could ask any more questions.

The loan sharks’ office was a dingy storefront masquerading as a check-cashing place on the edge of the South Side. Luca had been there too many times, heart in his throat, watching men with dead eyes tally up the interest that kept growing like mold. Tonight, though, he walked in with his head higher.

The man behind the desk—thick-necked, tattooed knuckles, a scar across his cheek that looked like it had been carved with a dull knife—was named Tommy. He looked up, surprised.

“Moretti. Didn’t expect you so soon after that last warning.”

Luca pulled out the stack of cash and slid it across the counter. “This covers the next three months. Tell your boss the interest is dropping, or I’ll find another way.”

Tommy counted it slowly, eyebrows raised. “Where’d a street rat like you get this kind of green?”

“None of your business.” Luca’s voice was steady, but inside, something fragile was blooming. Hope. Real, stupid hope. For the first time in years, the crushing weight on his chest felt a little lighter. He pictured Nico’s face—those wide eyes lighting up when Luca told him they could afford groceries that weren’t expired, maybe even new shoes for school. No more late-night whispers about running away. No more flinches at every loud noise that might be gunfire.

If he kept the job at The Velvet Rope—just the drink-serving part, he told himself—he could chip away at the rest. Legit work. Slow and steady. Nico could stay in school. They could be… normal. Or as close to normal as two orphaned brothers scraping by in this city ever got.

Tommy pocketed the money with a grunt. “Don’t get cocky, kid. Debt’s still there. But yeah… this buys you time.”

Luca stepped out into the street feeling almost light-headed. The night smelled like rain and fried food from a nearby cart. He even caught himself smiling—a small, crooked thing that pulled at his split lip. “We’re gonna make it, Nico,” he whispered to no one. “I swear.”

He was three blocks from home, cutting through the narrow passage between a closed auto shop and an abandoned lot, when the world turned sideways.

They came out of nowhere. Five men, dressed in black tactical gear that made them blend into the shadows like they belonged there. No faces he recognized. No warnings. Just the sudden rush of footsteps and hands grabbing him from behind.

Luca reacted on instinct—elbow back, heel stomping down, twisting like a feral cat. He landed a solid hit to one guy’s jaw, heard the satisfying crack, but the others were too many, too coordinated. A fist slammed into his already bruised ribs. Another hand clamped over his mouth before he could shout. He tasted leather and panic.

“Got him,” one of them grunted.

Luca thrashed, heart slamming against his ribs so hard it hurt. “Get the fuck off me—!”

A sharp prick in his neck. Cold. Then fire spreading through his veins.

The world tilted. Colors blurred. His legs gave out even as his mind screamed at them to run.

As darkness rushed in, he thought of Nico asleep on the couch, one arm dangling off like always. He thought of the flash drive burning a hole in his pocket. He thought of Vittorio Russo’s dark eyes and the way his voice had sounded when he’d said “you” like it was both a command and a promise.

Then nothing.

Just the echo of distant traffic and the cold press of asphalt against his cheek.

Vittorio Russo didn’t sleep much. Never had. Old habits from nights when closing your eyes could mean waking up dead.

He’d left The Velvet Rope an hour after the boy—Luca, the new pretty thing with the haunted eyes and the body that still carried the marks of someone else’s violence. Vittorio had lingered in the private room for a few minutes, savoring the lingering scent of the kid’s skin, the way he’d trembled but hadn’t broken. There was something there. Something raw and untouched beneath the street toughness. Vittorio liked raw things. He liked breaking them open and seeing what spilled out.

But when he reached for his watch to check the time—gone.

Wallet—gone.

And the flash drive he always kept tucked in the inner lining of the wallet, encrypted and containing names, accounts, routes that could topple half the city’s underworld if they fell into the wrong hands—also gone.

Rage, cold and precise, settled in his chest like a blade sliding home.

He didn’t shout. He didn’t smash anything. Vittorio Russo didn’t need to. He simply stood, buttoned his shirt with steady fingers, and made two phone calls.

“Find the new boy from tonight. Luca Moretti. South Side. He has something of mine. Bring him to me. Alive.”

He paused, eyes narrowing at the empty space where his watch had been.

“And tell the men… if he’s damaged what’s on that drive, I’ll make sure he regrets every breath he’s ever taken.”

Outside, the city lights blurred past the tinted windows of his black SUV as it peeled away from the curb. Vittorio leaned back, fingers drumming once against his knee. The boy had fire. That much was clear from the way he’d stolen without hesitation. But fire could be useful… or it could burn everything down.

Vittorio intended to find out which.

Miles away, in the back of a windowless van, Luca’s unconscious body jolted with every pothole. The flash drive remained hidden in his pocket, a small black rectangle that now carried the weight of both their futures.

Neither of them knew it yet, but the chain had already been forged.

And it was tightening fast.