Chapter 4 Salvatore

I hadn’t slept in three days. Wolf and I had been running all over the damn state, putting out fires Juan kept lighting just to piss me off. Meetings, threats, cleanup, more threats. By the time I finally crossed back into Kansas City, all I wanted was my bed, a shower, and maybe a bottle of whiskey I didn’t have to share. But my phone buzzed before I even hit my driveway. Three clubs. Two men at each. All of them Juan’s. Trying to pull girls out the back doors like they owned the place.

So instead of sleep, I ended up at Velvet Lace the, club I used as my base of operations. The one that made the most money. The one Juan kept poking at like he was begging me to snap.

Rick met me at the back entrance, sweating like he’d run a marathon.

“Boss,” he said, out of breath. “We handled it. Security’s got the guys in holding. But, uh… you should know, we got a new girl behind the bar. She’s killing it. Customers love her.”

I didn’t give a damn about a new bartender. “Good for her,” I muttered. “Where are the men?”

“In the back room. But, uh… you might want to check the cameras later. She’s… something.”

I shot him a look. “Rick.”

He swallowed. “Right. Sorry. I’ll get the reports.”

I brushed past him and headed for my office. The hallway smelled like cheap perfume and spilled liquor, familiar, grounding, almost comforting. But my head was pounding, and my patience was gone. I needed to look over the books. I needed to figure out Juan’s angle. I needed to sleep for a week.

Instead, all I could think about was her. Sara. Eight years, and she still lived in the back of my mind like she paid rent. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her. Every time I tried to move on, something dragged me back. And tonight, Juan’s men had brought her up again, the stepsister.

I’d laughed. Told them Isolde was dead. But they’d laughed back.

“Not that one,” the guy had said. “Juan’s looking for a girl named Sara.”

I told myself it was coincidence. A common name. Nothing more. But the way he said it…The way it hit me…I couldn’t shake it.

I dropped into my chair and opened the ledger, but the numbers blurred. My mind kept drifting back to her, her laugh, her eyes, the way she used to say my name like it meant something.

“Fuck,” I muttered, rubbing my face. I grabbed my phone and called Rick.

“Yeah, boss?”

“Send someone to bring me a bottle of whiskey,” I said. “Top shelf.”

“You got it.”

I hung up and leaned back, staring at the ceiling. The club thumped faintly beneath me, the bass vibrating through the floor. I tried to focus. Tried to breathe. Tried to forget.

A knock came at the door.

“Come in,” I said, not looking up. The door opened. Footsteps. Soft. Light.A bottle clinked onto my desk.

“Just leave it,” I said.

Silence. Then....

“Yes, Sir. If that is all...”

My heart stopped. I knew that voice. I knew it in my bones. In my blood. In every part of me I’d tried to bury.

Slowly, terrified, I lifted my head. And there she was. Sara. Standing in my office. In my club. In my life again. Eight years gone. Eight years of silence. Eight years of wondering. And she was real. Breathing. Close enough to touch. She didn’t look at me. Didn’t know she’d just shattered the world I’d built without her. I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. All I could do was stare at the woman I’d never stopped loving. And whisper her name.

“Sara…What...Why...”

She didn’t answer. Just turned toward the door, trying to slip back into professionalism. I moved first, blocking her exit with my hand above her shoulder.

“You’re not walking out,” I said.

She finally looked at me, eight years of silence in her eyes. “Salvatore… please. I need to get back to work.”