Chapter 3 Rise of a Silent Flame

Ava hadn't slept.

The sun had risen and set again, but her mind was still caught in that alley, in the shower, on his skin, on his blood.

The bar buzzed like nothing had happened.

Neon lights blinked lazily in the windows, casting flickering colors across the sticky floor. The bass from the speakers rattled the walls with a relentless rhythm, pounding through the haze of smoke and chatter. It was a regular Friday night-at least on the surface.

But Ava felt it in her bones.

Something was off.

She moved behind the counter like usual-cleaning smudged glasses, filling orders with practiced hands, and tuning out the chaos around her-but her eyes drifted constantly to the darkened VIP booth in the back corner.

Nico's booth.

Empty.

Again.

He hadn't come in last night. And he wasn't here tonight.

For a man who never missed three days in a row, especially not after getting ambushed in his own territory, the silence was louder than any bullet.

She caught it first in fragments-low voices from the far end of the bar, men with rough hands and tighter eyes than usual. They leaned close, speaking just above the noise, as if wary of who might overhear.

"Word is the ambush wasn't random."

"No shit," the second man replied. "No one takes a shot at DeLuca unless they want a war."

"Or unless someone inside wants him gone."

Ava froze mid-pour.

She didn't mean to. Her hand trembled slightly, and the rum splashed too high in the glass. The cold liquid stung her skin for a moment.

She moved to the register, pretending to busy herself, but her ears stayed sharp. She angled slightly, just enough to keep them in her peripheral vision.

"His crew's been laying low. Real quiet," one said. "Something's wrong. He's not showing face."

"Heard he got hit worse than they're lettin' on. Might be dead already."

"No body's turned up."

"Doesn't mean anything. That family buries problems deeper than concrete."

Ava's pulse quickened.

Missing?

Not a whisper. Not a trace.

And now the streets were starting to talk.

She moved to the back counter and wiped it down, hand tightening around the rag until her knuckles turned white. Her stomach twisted painfully.

She shouldn't care. Shouldn't feel anything.

She'd met him once.

He was a criminal, dangerous and cold-blooded. If he'd disappeared, it meant he'd finally played too close to the fire.

But her gut said otherwise.

Nico DeLuca wasn't the kind of man who vanished.

He was the kind who made other people vanish.

The door chimed as a new group came in, their laughter loud and careless. Ava barely noticed. Her head swam with possibilities, racing with questions she didn't want to ask aloud.

Could he really be dead?

Was the ambush meant to finish him off?

And if so... why had she been spared?

She had been in that alley. She had helped him. That made her a witness-or worse, a loose end.

Unless he'd kept it quiet.

Unless no one knew she'd been there.

A chill ran down her spine.

"Ava."

She jumped.

It was Marlo-the club's owner. Bald, always smelling like mint gum and desperation. He leaned over the counter, eyes narrowed, his face carved with worry lines that hadn't been there before.

"You okay?"

"Fine," she said too fast, her voice cracking slightly.

"You sure? You look pale."

"Maybe stop shining a flashlight in my face every time I blink, and I'll be peachy."

He snorted.

"You hear anything?"

"Hear what?"

"About DeLuca."

She kept her face unreadable, even though her heart hammered against her ribs like a warning drum.

"Isn't that above my pay grade?"

Marlo hesitated, then lowered his voice.

"They're sayin' he's dead. Some hit gone bad. Rival crew maybe. East End boys, probably. But no one's seen him."

"Then maybe he's not dead."

"Or maybe he's just dead enough it doesn't matter."

She didn't respond.

Marlo grunted, nodded, and stepped back.

"You let me know if anything weird happens, yeah?"

"Sure."

He left her alone after that, but the tension stayed. Heavy. Unrelenting. Like a storm cloud settling just out of sight.

She closed the bar that night with a strange weight pressing on her chest. She told herself it was paranoia, that she was getting too caught up in something that had nothing to do with her.

But as she locked the front doors and turned off the lights, she could still hear their voices from earlier.

He might be dead already...

She walked home faster than usual, eyes checking over her shoulder more than once. The city felt darker. Emptier. Even the streetlamps buzzed differently, flickering uncertainly like hesitant signals in the night.

When she got inside her apartment, she bolted the door and went straight to the drawer.

She stared at it for a full minute.

Then she pulled it open and took out the black card.

It was still there, cold and perfect. No name. Just a number.

Ava held it in her hand, thumb brushing over the embossed digits, tracing the smooth edges like it was a talisman.

She didn't know why she'd kept it. She told herself it meant nothing.

But tonight...

Tonight it felt like the only proof he'd ever existed.

She stared at it until the city finally fell asleep, and even then, the questions didn't stop.