Page 139 of Rosetti Family New York
Rafe flanks my left, jaw tight. Emilio follows behind, hands loose near his sidearm. Matteo, two steps behind him. All Rosetti men. All armed. None relaxed.
“This was your idea,” Rafe mutters under his breath.
“It was their invitation,” I correct. “I just said yes.”
“Same thing,” he says. “If we die here.”
I don’t answer. I scan everything. Balcony seats. Stage rigging. The long velvet aisle splitting rows.
Two Albanian men stand near center stage, dressed like diplomats. No visible weapons. Adrian Dushku is seated in the front row, casual, like he’s watching a rehearsal. His legs crossed. His smirk surgical.
Heat rises behind my eyes, but I keep my face neutral.
“Domenico,” Adrian says, rising slowly. “You made it.”
“Our last peace treaty didn’t go so well,” I say, forcing my thoughts not to linger on Besiana, “but we’re willing to hear what else you have to offer.”
“No peace talks tonight,” he says, smiling. “Just closure.”
That’s when I hear it—the soft click of a bolt sliding home. Not near us. Above us.
The balcony.
I glance up—subtle, a fraction of a second—and I see the reflection off a scope, half-shielded by the curtain. Another shadow shifts near the stage lights.
They came armed. They came ready. And they think we’re here to die.
“Rafe,” I say, voice low. “Back door?”
“Blocked.”
Of course it is.
Adrian spreads his arms like a host at a gala. “Please. Sit. We’ve prepared everything.”
I step forward, slow, deliberate, into the light cast by the dusty chandeliers.
“You always did like theatrics,” I say.
“And you always liked pretending you were different from the rest of us,” he replies, tone cool. “But you’re not, Domenico. You’re just better dressed.”
My fingers flex at my sides.
“So,” I say. “Is this the part where you talk us to death?”
That’s when the spotlight snaps on—blinding, hot—and the first shot rings out.
It misses me by an inch. Hits the stage wall behind.
The second bullet grazes my ear before I even hear the shot. Dust explodes around me, and my instincts kick in.
“Rafe—” I shout.
He’s already moving, looking for an exit.
Emilio pulls out his Glock. Matteo flips a row of chairs for cover. Gunfire erupts from the balcony, deafening in the dome of the theater.
I tackle Adrian to the floor—not to save him, but to pin him. My knee drives into his chest as chaos swells around us.
