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That backroom in the garage—her eyes weren’t hiding greed. They were shielding panic. Every word she said, every breath she took, was measured like she was bracing for someone to blow the door in.

I’ve seen women fake innocence. She wasn’t faking. She was adapting. Fast. Brutal. Efficient.

But then, why the street race?

Why throw herself into the spotlight?

That’s what doesn’t make sense.

Unless she’s bait.

Unless she’s trying to draw someone out.

Unless she knows more than she’s saying.

I grit my teeth and reach for the knife in the crate near the couch. Slide it into the sheath on my side. The sidearm follows—checked, chambered, and clean.

I hear the knock before the door swings open.

“Rocco.”

It’s one of our runners. Thin frame, sweat down the sides of his neck. He’s got a gash near his elbow and a limp that wasn’t there yesterday.

“You gotta go. Docks.”

“What happened?”

“Cubans hit one of ours. Vincent. They left him like trash.”

I don’t react. Just stare.

“Shot through the chest. They dumped him on the pallets.”

“Alive?”

He hesitates. “Not when we found him.”

I nod once, grab my jacket from the back of the chair, and head for the door.

No orders. No permission.

Just movement.

The safehouse closes behind me like a vault. I don’t plan to come back tonight.

The docks are twenty minutes out, depending on the traffic. I don’t take the main road. I take the side cuts through Little Haiti, push past red lights, ignore the horns. The streets stink of fried meat and seawater. Neon signs blur past the windshield.

I think about Vincent.

He wasn’t top-tier. But he didn’t fold. He took orders clean. Moved shipments quietly. Kept his head down.

This wasn’t random. This was marked.

I take the last turn near the cargo stacks and kill the lights. The wind’s sharp out here. Cuts through the sweat on my back.

Two of our guys are waiting near the gates. One smokes. The other grips a crowbar like it makes a difference.

They don’t speak as I approach. Just nod once.