Chapter2
1405 Words
Matteo Lucero didn’t believe in luck. Only timing. And his was running razor-thin.
He sat in the back of a blacked-out SUV as it slid through Manhattan’s midnight traffic, his eyes on the folder in his lap. Inside: one name, one mission, one problem.
Eliya Sloane.
Age: 31.
Occupation: Nightclub owner, Manhattan.
Alias: Former logistics ghost for the Ortega cartel.
Presumed dead: Five years.
Actual status: Hiding in plain sight.
Objective: Extract or eliminate. No questions. No delays.
The order came straight from the top. His uncle, Vincenzo Lucero—the man who rebuilt their empire with blood and paranoia—had spoken only once.
“She knows where it is. If she talks, we lose it all.”
No explanation. No clarification. Just a name, and a shadow from Matteo’s past.
He closed the folder and looked out the window as Velvet Trigger came into view.
Neon script. Velvet rope. A red glow like sin bottled and sold. It didn’t fit her. Not the girl he remembered. But then again, maybe that was the point.
He wasn’t supposed to feel anything. Not hesitation. Not curiosity. Especially not recognition. But the moment he saw her walk across that balcony, lit by low light and danger, it hit him.
She hadn’t changed. Not really.
Same presence. Same storm under the surface.
But this time, he wasn’t watching from a distance. This time, he was the one sent to put her in chains—or a coffin.
He adjusted his cuffs. No tie. Just a steel-grey suit and a gun tucked in his waistband. He didn’t need flash. He needed precision.
He stepped out of the SUV.
Walked through the velvet rope without being stopped.
And entered her kingdom.
—
He’d watched her for exactly seven minutes before she moved toward him. Her walk was controlled. Sharp. A woman who’d spent too long looking over her shoulder and still knew how to weaponize grace.
She slid into the booth opposite him without asking. She didn’t need to.
“I don’t like being watched,” she said.
He told her his name. Watched the flicker in her eyes when it landed.
Lucero.
Yeah. She knew.
Good.
He listed what they had on her—old cartel ties, the fire, the missing ledger. He didn’t expect her to confess, and she didn’t disappoint.
“You’ve got the wrong woman,” she said. Lie number one.
“I run a club,” she continued, that same icy calm. Lie number two.
When she stood and warned him to leave in pieces, he didn’t flinch. Just watched the sway of a woman who knew exactly how dangerous she used to be—and probably still was.
He waited until the club started to empty before he moved again.
He could’ve forced her out. Thrown her in the SUV. Done it dirty.
But Matteo didn’t like mess. He preferred control. Preferred clarity.
So he knocked on her office door. And when she opened it, gun drawn, he saw it—just for a second. The fear. Not of him. But of the past.
He didn’t lie.
He told her the Luceros were done waiting.
She raised her gun anyway.
Then chaos hit.
Gunfire downstairs.
A name screamed: Eliya Sloane.
Matteo knew instantly—they weren’t his men. Wrong guns, wrong posture, no discipline. Sloppy cartel thugs. Ortega remnants, maybe. Desperate, late, and loud.
He ran after the one who escaped, caught him in the alley, and got the truth: the ghosts of her past weren’t buried. They were clawing out.
She shot the man in cold blood without flinching.
Then turned to him, gun still warm.
“Go where?” she snapped.
“They’ll send more,” he said. “Every night after.”
“I don’t run.”
He stepped closer. “You do now.”
—
Now, back in the SUV, she sat beside him. Arms crossed. Jaw locked. A wildcat in leather, trapped but not tamed.
“You think I’m just gonna come quietly?” she asked.
“No. But you will come.”
“I could’ve disappeared.”
“You had five years to do that. Didn’t work out so well.”
She stared at him.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“I’m doing my job.”
“And if I don’t give you what you want?”
He looked at her, eyes unreadable.
“Then someone less polite comes next.”
She snorted. “Polite? You threatened me.”
“I haven’t even started.”
Her laugh was humorless. “Right. Big bad Lucero soldier. You do everything Daddy tells you?”
He turned toward her sharply. “Don’t talk about things you don’t understand.”
“I understand plenty,” she said, leaning in. “I’ve buried men like you.”
“I’m not like them.”
“Prove it.”
Silence.
Then she looked away, muttering, “You shouldn’t have come.”
And he almost said it.
“Neither should you have stayed alive.”
But something in her eyes stopped him.
This wasn’t a target. Not anymore. This was someone who had once known what it meant to run, to hide, to kill to survive. Just like him.
He spoke softer now. “You know what they’re looking for.”
She didn’t answer.
“You kept it, didn’t you?”
Still, silence.
Then she asked, “What’s in it?”
Matteo shook his head. “They don’t tell soldiers what’s in the vault. Only what it’s worth.”
“And?”
“Enough to burn everything down.”
She looked out the window. Her voice was flat. “Then maybe it should.”
—
They didn’t go to any warehouse or safehouse. Matteo didn’t trust anyone—not even the Luceros. He drove her to a nondescript building in Queens. Top floor. Rented in cash. No names on the lease.
Inside, the apartment was minimal: concrete floors, steel counters, blackout shades. No color. No warmth. Just survival.
Eliya looked around and smirked. “You always bring your dates here?”
“You’re not a date.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
He locked the door behind her.
“Sit. Talk.”
“No,” she said. “You want something from me, you're gonna earn it.”
He raised an eyebrow. “How?”
“You tell me what this is really about.”
“I already did.”
“No. You told me orders. I want truth.”
Matteo exhaled. Sat on the counter.
“The Luceros lost something. Years ago. Right around the time you vanished. The fire? The warehouse? That wasn’t just a cover—it was a heist. And you were the only one who didn’t die.”
“So naturally, I’m guilty.”
“No one’s innocent. Not in this life.”
She crossed her arms. “And what was taken?”
“I told you. They don’t say.”
“But they sent you,” she said slowly, watching him. “Which means it wasn’t just a job. It was personal.”
His jaw tightened. Just for a second.
Eliya noticed.
“You know what it is, don’t you?”
“No.”
“But you knew someone who did.”
He didn’t answer.
She leaned forward, her voice softer now. “Who did I remind you of, Matteo?”
His eyes flashed. “Don’t push.”
“You look at me like you’ve seen a ghost.”
He stood. Abrupt. Voice sharp. “You’ll stay here tonight. I’ll bring food. Clothes.”
“I’m not your prisoner.”
“No. You’re bait.”
She froze.
And he added, “You just haven’t realized it yet.”
—
That night, he lay on the floor, gun beside him. Couldn’t sleep. The room was cold. Quiet. But his mind was louder than ever.
Five years ago, his younger brother, Luca, had died in the warehouse fire.
Official report said: accident. Unofficial truth? Luca was on a mission—tracking something stolen from the Luceros. Something encrypted. Something dangerous.
He never made it out.
Matteo found only ashes.
But now—Eliya’s name. Her face. Her past. It was all connected.
Maybe she didn’t kill Luca. Maybe she didn’t even know him.
But someone had sent her into that warehouse.
And Matteo had a sinking feeling she wasn’t running from the Luceros.
She was running from the truth.
- Writer
