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“He just murdered him,” I whisper, breath ragged.

“He’ll do worse to you if you hesitate,” Rocco replies.

I sink my teeth into my lower lip. My chain brushes his chest as we lean around the crates. My hand tightens on the ledger. Anger sharpens my vision.

“He dies next,” I say.

“Yeah,” Rocco agrees. “But not today.”

We slide through a narrow gap between two containers, bullets pinging the metal behind us. My shirt sticks to my back. My shoes skid in puddles of oil and blood.

I race down a back street lined with dumpsters and discarded crates. Rocco covers every inch with his gun, eyes jittering across shadows. I move as fast as I can, clutching the ledger to my chest.

A shout rings out: “You always run, Falcone!”

Javier’s voice carries on the wind. I don’t look back.

“And you always miss,” I call back without turning.

The alley stretches ahead—a dead end at first light. I skid to a halt against a corrugated metal door. Rocco slows beside me, gun still raised.

I lean against the wall, sliding down until I’m seated on damp concrete. He stands over me, chest rising and falling. I press my hand to my temple—there’s bruising where my arm hurt earlier. I swallow, trying to steady my breath.

“That was my last secret,” I say, voice hollow. “Sal dying…that was the last lie he told.”

Rocco lowers his weapon, but doesn’t relax. He kneels, close enough that I feel his presence anchoring me in place. He reaches out and takes the ledger from my hands, flipping through pages by touch.

“It’s ours now,” he says. His voice is firm.

I nod. “No more hiding.”

He tucks the ledger under his arm. “No more lies.”

We rise together. Behind the metal door, the city’s rumble begins—delivery trucks, distant sirens, gulls screaming as they wheel above.

I press my palm against the rough metal. It’s cold. I turn to Rocco.

“What’s next?” I ask.

He meets my gaze, lips set. “We find Javier’s drop points. We cut off his money. Then we finish him.”

I nod again. The thread of fear unravels, replaced by something sharper: purpose. I pull my chain out from under my shirt. It glints in the half-light. I let it rest against my palm, feel its cold weight.

Rocco watches. “You ready?”

I smile once. A small, fierce twist of lips. “Let’s go make him miss me.”

He holsters his gun. We step past one another, out of the alley, and onto the street. Dawn’s light is spilling over the rooftops now—gunmetal turning to steel, then to gold. We move forward into that light, ledger in hand, scars on our bodies, promise in our stride.

Chapter 14 – Rocco

I roll up to the Ferrano warehouse ten hours after dawn, Chiara beside me. Afternoon sun slants through storm-wet skylights, carving streaks across chipped concrete floors. My boots hit a puddle outside the loading bay and send ripples toward rusted rails. The place reeks of saltwater and diesel—old deals and new betrayals layered in every corner. Overhead, a single fluorescent tube buzzes, flickering once before settling into its harsh glow.

Chiara slips the battered ledger from under my arm and steps out. Rainwater clings to her hair. Her bruised arm still wears fresh tape. She breathes in shallow, like she’s bracing for what’s next. I check my pistol, then tighten the strap on my shoulder holster. My own knuckles ache from last night’s fight. My wounds throb, but adrenaline pushes me forward.

We move through an open bay door into the cavernous interior. Crates stand stacked in rows, splitting the space into narrow lanes. I hear waves slap against pilings outside. Dock workers are long gone. Their chatter and shouts have faded. All that remains is a hush charged with waiting.

At the far end, Marco Ferrano leans against a crate, arms folded. He’s dressed in a pressed shirt and slacks—more corporate tragedy than street bloodshed. He doesn’t flinch when he sees us. Instead, his grin spreads easily, smug as a gambler who’s stacked the deck.