Into the Fire
Nico Voss tasted blood, sharp and coppery, on his split lip as he gripped the wheel of a rusted pickup, stolen from a dive bar’s gravel lot on the edge of Miami. The city’s neon skyline bled into the rearview, a glittering cage he’d ruled for a decade. Three hours ago, he’d been in his penthouse, the clink of champagne flutes drowning out the hum of his nightclub empire. Now, his silk tie was rotting in a gas station trash can, his Armani jacket swapped for a thrift-store leather one that reeked of stale cigarettes and regret. Marco’s betrayal had torched everything—a deal gone sour, a ledger leaked to the wrong hands, and a syndicate with a bounty on Nico’s head. If he didn’t vanish, he’d be dead by dawn, another headline for the vultures to pick clean.
The highway stretched north, a black vein under a starless sky, the only sound the pickup’s rattling engine and the pulse in his ears. Port Haven, a grimy coastal speck three hours from Miami, was his last shot—a nowhere town too rough for Marco’s polished goons to bother with. His burner phone buzzed on the passenger seat, Tessa’s name flashing again. His sister, desperate to drag him back to the boardroom, to save the empire he’d built from nothing. He let it ring out. There was no empire if he was bleeding out in a ditch. His knuckles whitened, the scar on his jaw itching—a souvenir from a bar fight years ago, when he’d learned trust was a luxury he couldn’t afford.
Port Haven hit him like a fist: salt air thick with diesel, the distant wail of a ship’s horn, and the faint rot of low tide. The town was a patchwork of sagging boardwalks, flickering neon signs, and bars that smelled of spilled dreams. Nico ditched the truck behind a shuttered diner, its “Closed” sign swinging in the wind. He slung his duffel over his shoulder, pulled his cap low, and buried Nico Voss deep. Tonight, he was Nico Grey, a drifter with a fake ID and a story no one cared to hear. His boots crunched on gravel, too new for the part, and he cursed himself for not scuffing them up. Details like that could get him killed.
The Rusty Anchor squatted at the town’s edge, its pink “Open” sign buzzing like a dying insect. The bar was a dive, all sticky floors, cracked vinyl booths, and air thick with smoke and secrets. Nico had conned his way into a bartending gig over the phone—cash pay, no questions, the kind of deal that suited a man running from a bullet. He pushed through the door, the jukebox blaring a Springsteen riff, all gravel and heartache. A dozen heads turned—locals with wind-burned faces, roughnecks nursing beers, a drunk muttering to his glass. Their eyes slid over him, lingering on his clean boots and the chronograph watch he’d forgotten to ditch, a glint of his old life peeking through. He forced a smirk, playing the part, but his pulse thrummed like a warning. One slip, and Marco’s dogs would find him.
“New guy?” A woman’s voice, smoky and sharp, cut through the din. She leaned against the bar, wiping a glass with a rag dirtier than the counter. Blonde curls spilled from a loose ponytail, a lip ring catching the neon, and her eyes—hazel, sharp as a blade—said she’d seen every hustle in the book. Maggie, the other bartender, according to the guy who’d hired him.
“Nico Grey.” He dropped his duffel behind the counter, scanning the room. No suits, no city types. Safe, for now. “Boss around?”
“Out. You’re late, so you’re stuck with me.” Maggie tossed him a stained apron, her grin half-challenge, half-amusement. “Hope you’re better at pouring than you look, pretty boy.”
He caught the apron, his charm kicking in despite the knot in his gut. “I’m a quick study.” He wasn’t. He’d never poured a drink in his life—his clubs had armies of staff for that, polished pros who knew a martini from a mojito. But he’d faked bigger lies than this, talked his way into deals with men who’d slit throats for less. He tied the apron, the fabric stiff with old spills, and slid behind the bar like he belonged.
The night crawled, Nico fumbling with bottles and spilling beer while Maggie laughed and the regulars heckled. His hands, used to signing contracts worth millions, shook as he tried to mix a whiskey sour, the recipe half-remembered from a movie he’d watched in a private jet. Maggie leaned close, her lip ring glinting. “You’re holding that shaker like it’s a grenade. Relax, Grey. They’re drunks, not critics.”
“Easy for you to say,” he muttered, pouring too much whiskey and cursing under his breath. The bar’s heat pressed in, sweat prickling his neck, and he felt the weight of every stare. He wasn’t just hiding from Marco—he was hiding from himself, from the man who’d built an empire on charm and ruthlessness, only to watch it crumble.
Then the door swung open, and the air shifted, like the moment before a storm breaks. She walked in, all purpose and edge, her boots hitting the floor with a rhythm that drowned out the jukebox. Leather jacket, ripped jeans, auburn hair spilling from a messy bun, catching the neon’s pink glow. Tattoos snaked up her arm—a rose tangled with a snake, bold and alive, curling toward her collarbone. Her green eyes locked on Nico, sharp as a blade sizing up a target. She slid onto a stool, leaning forward, and the bar seemed to shrink, the noise fading to a hum. Every nerve in Nico’s body woke up.
“Whiskey. Neat,” she said, her voice low, a dare wrapped in velvet. Her fingers tapped the counter, a silver ring—scratched, worn—glinting under the lights.
Nico’s pulse kicked, but he kept his grin easy, leaning on the bar to hide the shake in his hands. “Bad day, or is that scowl permanent?” He poured, slow and deliberate, sliding the glass across, his fingers brushing hers for a split second. Her skin was warm, a spark against his, and he swore the air crackled.
“Rough life.” Her lips twitched, almost a smile, but those eyes didn’t soften, like she could see the lie stitched into his skin. “You’re new. And you don’t fit.”
He leaned closer, catching a whiff of jasmine and ink, a mix that hit him harder than the whiskey. “Nico Grey. Just a guy pouring drinks, sweetheart.” Sweetheart? Christ, I’m rusty. His old charm felt like a borrowed suit, too tight in this grimy bar. “And you are?”
“Riley Kane.” She sipped, slow, her gaze never leaving him, like she was peeling back his layers one by one. “You’re no bartender. Hands too soft, and that watch—” She nodded at the chronograph peeking from his sleeve, a careless slip that made his stomach lurch. “Not cheap.”
His gut clenched, but he laughed it off, tugging his sleeve down. “Pawn shop special. Good eye.” He nodded at her tattoos, steering her away from the crack in his cover. “You ink those yourself?”
Her fingers traced the snake on her arm, a flicker of pride softening her edges. “Maybe. You want art, you gotta earn it.” She leaned in, her breath close enough to stir the air, and Nico’s blood ran hot, his mind flashing to places it shouldn’t—her hands, her ink, the way she’d look under different lights.
The jukebox flipped to a slow, gritty blues track, all slide guitar and longing, and the bar’s hum faded. Riley’s stare was a challenge, a spark waiting to ignite. He could’ve stayed there, trading barbs, letting her unravel him, but a shadow moved at the edge of his vision. A man in a cheap suit, leaning against a booth, eyes locked on Nico. Marco’s kind—lean, cold, the kind who carried a knife and a grudge. Nico’s heart slammed against his ribs, but he kept his grin fixed, pouring a beer for a regular to cover the panic.
“Another round?” he asked Riley, voice steady despite the sweat on his neck.
She tilted her head, catching his flinch, her eyes narrowing like she could smell the trouble on him. “Trouble’s your shadow, isn’t it?” she murmured, tossing back her whiskey. Her ring clinked against the glass, a small sound that cut through him like a warning.“
More than you know,” he said, his grin tight, wanting her closer despite the danger. The suit stood, slipping out the door, and Nico’s breath caught. He’d come to Port Haven to hide, but that man’s stare said he’d been found.
Maggie slapped a bar rag on the counter, breaking the spell. “Grey, you gonna flirt or work? We got a line.” She jerked her head toward a rowdy group of fishermen waving empty bottles, their laughter rough as sandpaper.
Riley smirked, sliding a crumpled bill under her glass. “Don’t spill my next one, rookie.” She stood, her jacket creaking, and walked out, the door swinging shut behind her. The ghost of her scent—jasmine, ink, defiance—lingered, pulling at Nico like a hook.
He forced his eyes to the bar, wiping it down, but his mind was on her. On the suit. On the life he’d left in flames. Maggie leaned close, her voice low. “Careful with that one, Grey. Riley’s trouble, and not the fun kind.”
“Seems like my type,” he said, half-joking, but his gut twisted. Outside, the suit lit a cigarette under a lamppost, the flare of his lighter catching Nico’s eye through the bar’s grimy window. Port Haven wasn’t safe. Riley wasn’t safe. And as Nico’s fingers tightened on the rag, he knew he’d burn for her anyway—unless Marco’s knife found him first.
