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I press the blade against his throat, not slicing—just waiting. “Who gave it?”

His lips move like he’s trying to speak, but his eyes are fogging already. He dies before the sentence forms.

I wipe the knife on my jeans and straighten.

The second one groans. I step on his chest, press the steel to his neck. “You talk, or you go the same way.”

His eyes go wide. He coughs. “We were just backup. Said you might come. That’s all.”

“Who’s ‘we’?”

“Javier. He sent a squad. Two cars. One already pulled out.”

“Why Vincent?”

“Wrong place. Didn’t know it was him.”

Bullshit.

I press harder.

“He saw a drop. They thought he was following.”

“Was he?”

The guy hesitates.

I push my knee into his ribs.

“He said nothing. Just watched. Maybe called it in.”

“So they left him as bait.”

The man nods.

I don’t kill him. Not yet. I zip-tie his hands with a loop from my belt and drag him to the edge of the dock. Sit him up against a crate.

“If you lie later, I’ll come back for the other eye.”

He whimpers and nods.

I step back to Vincent’s body. Still there. Still ruined.

“You didn’t deserve that, old man.”

I walk to the edge of the pier and stare out.

Water rolls against the rusted beams. Lights blink from ships across the way.

I don’t see the city anymore. I see her.

Clara.

Chiara.

The girl I thought was dead. The girl who’s alive and moving like none of this touches her—but it does. She’s tangled in this mess so deep I don’t know where she ends and it begins.

“You’re in this,” I mutter. “You can’t lie your way out of that.”