Page 37

Javier flinches under my sight. He drags backward into the car’s beams, keeps shooting. I spin sideways, drop low, and slide behind another crate. A third shot ricochets overhead. Metal clangs. My mind clears.

I press close to the crate’s edge, exposing just enough to aim. Then I fire straight at Javier’s silhouette. He flinches, staggers, and retreats further into the light. Tires peel away as the sedan peels off down the dock ramp. I don’t chase. I watch the lights vanish.

Silence fills the hollow space. I stand slowly and walk to the crate where Sal had collapsed. He’s slumped against it, head at an odd angle. I kneel beside him—his chest rises and falls raggedly. His pupils are huge when he meets my gaze.

“You picked the wrong side,” I say. “She didn’t.”

He tries to nod. Lips tremble. “I—”

“Save your breath.” I tug a cargo strap from my belt—something I carry for situations like this—and wrap it tightly around his wrists. He grunts but can’t struggle free.

I swipe my palm across my mouth, tasting blood and dock grime. Then I stand, draw my pistol, and vault onto a nearby stack of crates. I look out over the dock: broken crates, slick planks, a drift of damp fish scales down to the water. Everything is calmer now, as if the gunfire never happened. The waves slap against pilings, shadowed by a moonless sky.

My breath slows. My jaw unclenches. I stare at the bound Sal. He’s alive, but he’s just as wrecked as I feel.

I slip the binder from my jacket—Chiara’s ledger, now mine. Every page a spike in a thread that leads straight to Chiara’s doorstep and beyond to Javier and the Cubans he controls.

I press my hand flat on the open binder, covering Sal’s betrayal and my duty to Chiara in the same motion. I close my eyes briefly, tucking rage down into something solid. I need my head clear.

Thunder rumbles overhead. Storm rolling in. Good. Water will hide our tracks.

I glance at Sal. He looks pale beneath the warehouse lamps. He shifts, tests his bonds. Pain fires through him. He spits a bloody curse.

“You hurt her,” I say. “She’s mine to protect.”

He chokes, voice raspy: “I—”

“You’ll face them—all of them,” I whisper. “I’ll hang this ledger in every port until that hit list is shredded.”

“Please,” he breathes. The desperation cuts deep.

I holster my weapon and raise both hands, palms open—not in surrender, but to show I’m done with threats.

“Move,” I say.

He crawls toward the warehouse gate on his knees, eyes on his hands. Each step scrapes his knees on damp planks.

Once he’s clear, I step after him, tower over him, and place a hand on his shoulder. He flinches. I press down until he’s on his feet.

I step off the dock edge, out of sight. By the time the first streetlamp flickers, I have already dragged Sal from the crates and hustled him into the back of my black sedan. The engine roars to life; Sal’s bound wrists thump against the door as it closes.

Chapter 11 – Chiara

My palms are slick on the ledger’s pages. The safe room is too small, the bulb overhead swinging just enough to cast crooked lines across the cot and shelves. I sit on the edge of the thin mattress, knees braced apart, ledger spread open on my lap. Every time I look at that entry—Falcone, Chiara – status: confirmed alive—my vision narrows, and I taste betrayal in my mouth.

I trace my finger along the inked line, the words punched into my head a thousand times over. I trusted one man. He sold me. I kissed another. He saw me. I close the binder and tuck it tightly against my ribs, as though that keeps the betrayal tucked away, too.

A low hum of electricity flickers above; the bulb sputters, then steadies. I lean forward, elbows on my knees, head bowed. My thoughts spiral: Sal’s ledger, Sal’s looped handwriting, Sal’s betrayal. I feel a wrench tighten in my gut. If I could stand, I’d tear him apart with my bare hands. I clutch a wrench—rust at the edges—from the workbench stacked near the cot. In my hand, it feels like leverage: a slab of cold metal that might give me the moment of weakness I need to end him.

The door hinges creak before I even hear footsteps. My breath catches. I don’t move my head; I just twist, wrench raised. My muscles lock.

Rocco steps inside, boots scraping the concrete just beyond the threshold. He closes the door behind him and stands silent for a moment, shoulders heavy. His gun hangs low at hisside, angled down, not pointed at me. Relief and dread slam into my chest at once. He’s not alone, but it’s not the man I want to see.

“Chiara,” he says gently, as though I might dissolve into shards if he speaks too harshly. His eyes flick to the wrench in my hand, then to the ledger pressed against my chest.

I let the wrench fall, metal thudding on the floor. The binder slips to the mattress, pages fluttering. I push to my feet, knees shaky but determined.

My eyes narrow as I rise from the cot. “Where is he?”