Page 27 of Defying Love

His absence was a silent scream in the chaos, a void where once I felt certain he would stand. And so I waited, we all waited, suspended between the violence of reality and the whisper of a promise that Dominic Gambino might just be our savior in the darkness.

A girl beside me, her mascara bleeding down her face like the trails of some twisted harlequin, clutched my hand with a viselike grip. Her nails dug into my skin, anchoring herself to something solid, anything real amid the nightmare.

"Everyone here has one chance!" The leader’s voice cut through the panic, each syllable a hammer striking the walls of our makeshift sanctuary. His words hung heavy in the air, laden with an ultimatum that promised violence. "Spill it now, or we start making examples out of you pretty things—one by one."

In the stifling closeness, a shiver rippled through the group. The threat loomed over us, a guillotine waiting to drop. Whispers of pleas and prayers tangled in a cacophony of despair, but none dared to voice the truth that could save or condemn us all.

Each woman seemed to shrink smaller, wishing themselves invisible, knowing full well that invisibility was a luxury none of us could afford. With each passing heartbeat, the likelihood of bloodshed grew more palpable, as if the grim specter of death itself hovered just above our heads.

For a moment, time itself seemed to pause, the question hanging unanswered amid the collective terror. Confess to involvement with Dominic? But at what cost? And who among us would pay the price of silence?

"Time's ticking," growled one of the men, his finger caressing the trigger with a lover's touch. "Tick-tock, ladies."

As the seconds ticked away, the room seemed to shrink, the walls closing in on us with the suffocating certainty of a tomb. One of the women whimpered, her eyes meeting mine in a silent plea for salvation.

"Please," she mouthed, the word a ghostly whisper lost in the cacophony of our collective dread.

There was a crack in the facade of our captors' confidence—an impatient tap of a foot, a glance exchanged, a weapon brandished with more bravado than before. They were waiting for the dam to break, for one of us to crumble beneath the unbearable pressure and spill the secret that would either damn or deliver us.

I swallowed hard, my throat dry as dust, my lips parting ever so slightly as if poised on the precipice of confession. Would I be the voice that shattered the silence? Could I bear the burden of being the catalyst for catastrophe or salvation?

A shadow passed over the club's windows, fleeting and formless, but enough to stoke the embers of hope within me. Was it Dominic, come to shield us from harm? Or was it simply the cruel trick of a mind teetering on the edge of despair?

Chapter Eighteen

Dominic

From my vantage point, I watched as chaos erupted below. The pulsating lights, which once bathed the dancers in a kaleidoscope of colors, now illuminated faces twisted in terror. Glass shattered, the sound piercing through the desperate shouts. Patrons scrambled for cover, their earlier euphoria drowned by the sudden onslaught of fear.

I stood motionless, a dark sentinel amid the turmoil, eyes mapping the unfolding disaster. Staff members, accustomed to handling rowdy drunks or the occasional brawl, were ill-equipped for this invasion. They darted about, trying to herd the patrons to safety, but their efforts only added to the disarray. A woman’s scream knifed through, her heels clicking frantically against the floor as she fled from an unseen threat.

It didn’t take long for me to discern the nature of the disturbance. I caught sight of armed figures weaving through the crowd—sharks in a sea of frantic fish. My enemies had breached my club. As the heir of a mafia dynasty, danger was a constant shadow, but one I never allowed to darken my doorstep. Until now.

With a predator’s grace, I reached inside my jacket, fingers closing around the familiar weight of my gun. I drew it from its holster, the metal cold and reassuring in my hand. My thumb flicked off the safety with an almost imperceptible click, a sound lost amid the bedlam but loud as thunder in my own ears.

My pulse remained steady, a counterpoint to the erratic heartbeats echoing around me. I checked the chamber, ensuring it was fully loaded. Not a single muscle trembled as I mentally prepared for the bloodshed to come. There was no room for hesitation; my wife, Alexa, was somewhere in that panicked crowd. I would carve my way through hell to reach her.

Eyes narrowed, I scanned the room below, every fiber of my being honed for combat. My mind was a weapon as deadly as the gun in my hand, calculating trajectories and escape routes, turning the chaotic club into a tactical landscape. I was a man molded by the merciless teachings of my father, a man who understood that love and war were entangled in a vicious dance.

Tonight, I would lead.

I took out my phone and put it to my ear before the first scream finished echoing off the club's vaulted ceiling. "Lock it down," I commanded. "Eyes sharp for Alexa. No one gets in or out until I say."

"Understood, boss.”

My men knew the gravity of the situation without further explanation—a testament to the grim education I imparted upon them. As the line clicked off, a symphony of chaos played below. I surveyed the battleground, my gaze a blade slicing through the pandemonium, cutting away the irrelevant to focus solely on the mission at hand.

The heavy thud of boots announced the arrival of the enforcers. They poured into the club like a vengeful storm, faces set in hard lines, weapons drawn. Patrons who had been frozen by fear were now diving for cover.

Gunshots shattered the blare of music, the flashes from the barrels brief illuminations in the low light. I watched, detached yet entirely present, as my men engaged the infiltrators. Each discharge, a potential end. Each body that hit the floor, a message written in blood—this was Gambino territory.

A dark satisfaction curled in my chest as I watched an enemy crumple under the precise fire of my soldiers. Their training held, their shots true. But there was no time for pride; this was only the beginning of retribution.

I stepped over a fallen chair, movements deliberate, unaffected by the screams and the scent of gunpowder. The tightness in my jaw was the only sign of the fury raging within. Someone would pay dearly for bringing this war to my doorstep, for daring to threaten what was mine.

"Stay down!" I commanded, voice slicing through as I passed two men trying to rise. They dropped instantly, obedience an instinctive response to the authority woven into my timbre.

I maneuvered past a toppled roulette table, chips scattered like fallen dreams, gaze darting from shadow to shadow. The scent of sweat and spilled cocktails mingled with the iron tang of blood—an olfactory marker of the night's descent into hell.

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