Page 35

The ledger waits. Open. Exposed. And now I know exactly where to look.

Page 47.

The Cuban drop schedules. Lined up with Sal’s “errands.” Tracked against Cuban cash pickups logged on burner bank entries.

I flip through the rest—hands steadier now. Faster. I don’t need shock anymore. I need fuel.

Javier’s name shows up in initials. Three times.

Ferrano entries, redacted. Not Marco’s writing.

But someone close to him.

The kind of names that only surface when you dig deep enough to get killed.

“You want answers?” I say aloud, flipping another page. “Start with the ones they tried to bury.”

Chapter 10 – Rocco

I slip through the narrow gap between two container stacks, ledger heavy in my jacket pocket. The pages Chiara showed me weigh more than paper—they carry names, dates, payoffs, and a verdict: Sal Ferrano is a traitor. I don’t question it anymore. I only need to finish this.

The dock’s lamps are few and far between. Each one slices a rectangle of pale light across old wood planks soaked in salt and fish oil. I stick to the shadows, watching every step. My boots make no extra noise beyond the dock’s own creaks. I raise my pistol, thumb brushing the grip, and stay ready.

Ahead, Sal paces by a rusted container door, talking to a man I know: Cuban muscle with a pistol tucked in his waistband. The thug’s lean and tall, shirt damp with sweat, nostrils flaring as he speaks. Sal’s hand grips a duffel bag—full of cash if the ledger’s right. I ease closer. Through a narrow crack, I hear every word.

“She’s done,” Sal says. Voice low. Tense. “Ledger says she ran. Javier gets what he paid for.”

The Cuban nods and pulls his pistol free. “You sure? No mistakes this time?”

Sal rolls the duffel toward him. “She’s gone. No race tonight. Just the payout.”

The thug’s eyes flick to the ledger in Sal’s bag. “I want proof.”

Sal glances over his shoulder. “Here.” He unzips the bag, pulls out a folded sheaf of papers. “Ledger pages. Names, amounts. Your cut’s clear.”

The thug scans a page. Taps a line with one finger. “Falcone.” His lips tighten. “She’s alive.”

“Name’s on the list.” Sal shrugs. “Paid more than once.”

The Cuban’s head snaps up. Our eyes meet for a heartbeat. Mine are calm. I step out.

“Wrong girl. Wrong plan.” My voice cuts through the night.

They spin around. Sal’s pale in the lamplight, face slack. The thug reaches for his gun. I fire before his finger pulls the trigger—one shot, center chest. He drops without a sound. The barrel clatters against the boards.

Sal stumbles backward, eyes wide. The duffel falls from his grasp, pages scattering across the dock. I close the distance in three strides. My fingers lock around the back of his shirt. He’s stiff, surprised. I twist his shoulder until he topples forward, chest colliding with stacked wooden crates. Boards crack under his weight.

“You sold her,” I growl. “Say it.”

He gasps, face pressed against damp wood. His voice rattles like metal. “You think this is new? You think she mattered?”

I lean in, one boot pressed against his hip. My right hand arches back and crashes into his ribs—once, twice—each blow tighter than the last. His body tenses, spasms, then shudders. I drive my knee against his stomach—three times—until he coughs up blood and collapses onto his knees, head drooping.

“To me, she mattered. Still does,” I say, breathing even.

He chokes out a laugh that’s more shock than humor. “Ferrano knew. They all knew. You were just a dog with a collar.”

The words bite. Fury surges, and I yank him upright by the scruff of his shirt, slamming him chest-first against the crates again. Wood splinters under his head. A thin line of blood trickles from his mouth. He tastes metal.