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My gaze lands on Dee, our weapons inspector. He’s short but stocky, with tattoos snaking up his arms and around his neck. “Dee, inspect every weapon we’re taking. I don’t want a single jam out there.”

Dee nods, already moving toward the rows of firearms lined up on the workbenches.

The room erupts into organized chaos as my men spring into action, packing up equipment and double-checking their gear. Ken grabs a rifle, slinging it casually over his shoulder as he heads toward the vehicles.

“Think we’ll find out who’s behind this mess?” he asks, not bothering to look back.

“We will,” Luca answers, his voice firm. “One way or another.”

As the preparations continue, I step out and head back to the main house. I make a quick breakfast in the kitchen, though my appetite is nonexistent.

The entire time, I fight to keep my thoughts away from Aria—and the Rossis altogether.

There’s too much happening right now, and the stakes couldn’t be higher. I need to clear my head.

The day passes in a flash; before I know it, it’s time to leave.

My black SUV waits near the gate, flanked by two smaller trucks. The team accompanying us is larger than I expected. I watch them curiously as they work with precision, tossing the final crates of weapons and supplies into the vehicles.

Ken hops into the passenger seat of the SUV, his signature grin firmly in place. “They’re just hyped that you’re coming along for a pickup—it has been a while.”

Luca moves to take the driver’s seat, but I stop him with a gesture. “I’ll drive.”

His eyes widen slightly, but he steps back without protest. I slide into the seat, adjust it, and grip the wheel.

Luca climbs into the backseat with Ken, who leans over to whisper something. Whatever he says earns him a swift punch in the gut, and he lets out a muffled laugh.

Their banter lightens the tension by a fraction, loosening the knot in my stomach.

Behind me, the rest of the team files into the trucks, engines rumbling to life and breaking the stillness of the night.

My hands tighten on the wheel as unease settles over me.

I never feel uneasy.

But tonight, something feels off.

If there’s the slightest chance that the same people who intercepted Marco’s shipment are behind the theft of mine, then we’re staring down one big fucking problem.

Nobody speaks again as we drive to the docks. The silence is thick, the tension palpable. I go over the plan in my head on a loop: pick up this shipment, monitor the route where the last one disappeared. Simple.

But nothing ever stays simple.

When we arrive, the first thing I notice is the eerie stillness. The docks are usually quiet, but this silence feels…wrong.

It could just be my nerves. Or maybe it’s not. Either way, it does nothing to settle the weight in my chest.

I step out of the car, my boots crunching against the gravel. My men follow, the muted sound of their movements blending with the faint lapping of waves against the harbor.

I take three deep breaths, letting the salty tang of the sea and the cool night air seep into my lungs.

By the third breath, I’m ready.

“Let’s go,” I say, my voice low but firm.

A thin dockworker greets us at the entrance, his forehead glistening with sweat despite the chill in the air. He’s skittish, his movements jerky, his eyes darting like a cornered animal.

Something’s off.