Chapter 8 The Velvet Trap

• The taxi pulled up to Club Octana, its neon sign bathing the street in electric blue. Santino stepped out, adjusting his leather jacket, the only good thing he owned. Naples streets had taught him to blend in. Here, he stood out like a stray dog at a thoroughbred show.
• "ID." The doorman blocked his path, a mountain in a black suit.
• Santino handed over the fake passport Salvatore had sent. "I'm expected."
• The doorman's eyes flicked between the ID and Santino's face. "Wait here."
• The night air carried perfume and cigarette smoke as couples in designer clothes laughed their way past the velvet rope. Santino counted exits two visible, probably a back door through the kitchen. Old habits.
• The doorman returned with a nod. "Follow me."
• Inside, the bass pulsed through Santino's chest like a second heartbeat. Crystal chandeliers hung above a sea of wealthy women dripping diamonds, men in tailored suits drinking liquor that cost more than his monthly rent. Naples felt a lifetime away.
• Salvatore materialized from the crowd, arms spread wide. "Santino! My brother!" He embraced him, smelling of expensive cologne. "You made it."
• "Nice place." Santino kept his voice neutral, studying his childhood friend. Gone was the skinny kid who'd shared stolen bread with him. This Salvatore gleamed with success custom suit, gold watch, perfect teeth.
• "Come, come. Let me show you around." Salvatore led him through the club, nodding at patrons, shaking hands. "The bar makes five thousand a night. VIP room another twenty. And that's just what goes in the books."
• Santino noted the cameras, the security, the way certain men watched the room instead of enjoying it. "And what doesn't go in the books?"
• Salvatore's smile never reached his eyes. "That's where you come in, old friend. But first drink!"
• They settled at a private booth. A waitress appeared instantly with two crystal glasses and a bottle that Santino knew cost more than his apartment.
• "To new beginnings." Salvatore raised his glass. Santino didn't drink. "Why me? After all these years?"
• "Because you're family." Salvatore leaned forward. "And because you understand the streets like no one else. El Amore needs someone with your... particular skills."
• "El Amore." Santino had heard whispers, even in Naples. A ghost of a man who controlled half of Europe's underworld. "He's real then."
• "Very." Salvatore sipped his drink. "And very interested in you."
• "Why?"
• "Your reputation. The quiet fixer. The man who solves problems without leaving bodies."
• Santino snorted. "That's not how I remember it."
• "We all have our methods." Salvatore shrugged. "But El Amore appreciates efficiency. Clean work."
• A waiter arrived with oysters arranged like jewels on crushed ice. Santino hadn't eaten all day, but he didn't touch them.
• "Still don't trust easily." Salvatore chuckled. "Smart. You'll need that here."
• "And what exactly is 'here'? What am I walking into?"
• "Opportunity, my friend." Salvatore gestured around the club. "Look at this place. Look at me. This could be yours too."
• Santino studied the room the drugs changing hands beneath tables, the armed men disguised as waiters, the women who watched too carefully to be mere companions.
• "I didn't come to the nightclub."
• "No." Salvatore's smile faded. "You came because you're still living in your father's shadow, running street deals like a common thug when you should be ruling. Like me."
• Santino's jaw tightened. "My father"
• "Was killed like a dog in the street," Salvatore finished. "And what have you done about it? Nothing. Still scraping by while his killers grow old and rich."
• Santino's hand twitched toward the knife in his boot. "Careful."
• "The truth hurts, brother." Salvatore leaned back. "But I'm offering you a chance to be something more. El Amore can give you what you've always wanted: Power."
• "And what does he want in return?"
• "Loyalty. Service. The usual."
• "There's nothing usual about this." Santino gestured at the opulence around them. "What's the real price?" Salvatore's smile returned, cold as winter. "Let's just say your first test comes tomorrow. If you pass, you meet the man himself."
• "And if I fail?"
• "Then you were never really my friend." Salvatore stood, buttoning his jacket. "Enjoy the club. Your room is upstairs 432. Everything you need is there."
• Santino watched him disappear into the crowd, calculating. Salvatore had changed, but so had he. Whatever game was being played, he'd find its edges.
• He moved to the bar, ordered water, and scanned the room properly. Three exits, fifteen security men poorly disguised as staff, cameras in every corner except the bathroom hall.
• "Not drinking?" The bartender raised an eyebrow.
• "Not tonight."
• "Smart man." She slid him the water. "First-timers who drink here rarely remember their mistakes."
• Santino caught her meaning. "Thanks for the warning."
• He turned back to survey the dance floor, and that's when he saw her standing perfectly still amid the swaying bodies. Dark hair falling to bare shoulders, red dress like a splash of blood against pale skin. She wasn't dancing. She wasn't talking.
• She was watching him.
• Their eyes met across the room. She didn't look away. Didn't smile. Just held his gaze with an intensity that sent warning signals down his spine.
• Santino had survived Naples by knowing when he was being hunted.
• And this woman, whoever she was, was definitely hunting.