Page 47

I stop ten feet away. Chiara halts beside me. The ledger’s weight tugs at my side. I tuck my chin, then nod once.

He pushes off the crate. Steps forward with purpose. “I figured it’d be you,” he says. Voice smooth, no tremor. “Never knew how to let things go.”

I keep my face calm, but inside, everything clicks into place. Ten years with Ferrano, and he’s been cutting off pieces the whole time. First Luca. Then her. Now I’ve got the knife.

I draw the ledger out from under my jacket and hold it up before him. The pages fan wide, edges curling. “You skimmed us for years,” I say. “Paid the Cubans out of our pockets.”

He shrugs. “Business expenses.”

I stop a step from Marco, letting Chiara speak first. Her voice is sharp, cold as steel on bone.

“You had Luca killed—my brother, Rocco’s partner. You buried him and told everyone I was dead,” she spits, eyes blazing.

Marco’s smug grin falters. He rubs the side of his neck, glancing away for a beat. “Luca was reckless,” he says. “He endangered the operation. And you—” He pauses, as if weighing the words. “You were nothing but baggage.”

It stings harder now, the full weight of what he’s saying: Marco not only ordered Chiara’s brother slain but used Luca’s death to erase her.

Rage boils in my gut. My hand tightens around the ledger. “She’s not baggage,” I warn, voice low. “She’s standing right here. And you’re done.”

Marco steps closer, confident I won’t draw. His smirk fades. “She’s your problem now.”

Chiara steps forward, leaning into the space between us. Her eyes hold his, ice and fire. “You burned my life.”

He tilts his head back. “It was necessary.” He sounds bored, like he’s discussing construction delays.

I inhale and let it out in a slow hiss. I mean to keep control, but betrayal is a blade in my chest. I set the ledger down on a nearby crate, then draw my pistol from the holster. Its weight settles in my hand, solid and final.

“Wrong move,” I say, finger brushing the trigger guard.

Marco’s eyes flick to the pistol, then back at me. He opens his mouth, probably to argue, but he only gets out half a breath before two men step out from behind stacked boxes. They’re tall, lean—they move like trained animals. One holds a shotgun, the other a pistol.

Chiara slides to my side. “I got the one on the right,” she says, her voice calm. Her chain glints against her shirt.

Marco inhales, shoulders tightening. He raises his hand as if to call them back. “You don’t want this war,” he warns.

I squeeze the trigger. The pistol bark echoes off steel walls. The man on the right jerks, dropping his gun. He collapses, blood blooming across his shirt. His partner takes the shot as a cue. He fires his shotgun, pellets tearing into concrete crates. Splinters fly like shrapnel.

I duck behind a crate, my hip absorbing the round’s backdraft. Wood splinters along my shoulder. I fire again, driving the thug backward. My aim connects with his forearm. He howls, dropping the shotgun and stumbling onto his knees.

Chiara leaps into action. She grabs a length of pipe from the floor, metal cold under her palm, and swings. Her blow lands on the second man’s knee. He collapses with a fractured scream, sliding on a slick of oil. She jams her heel into his back, pushing him face-first into the ground.

I move fast. I burst from cover, tackling the first thug beside the crate. We crash to the floor. His pistol skitters away. I wrench his arm behind him, forcing his face into rough concrete. He grunts, wedged under my weight. I drive my knife into his ribs—just enough to end it. He gurgles once, rattles, then stays still.

In the chaos, Marco bolts. He sprints toward the far door, voice high. “You’ll regret this!”

I rise, chest hammering, and sprint after him. Chiara crosses behind me, blood on her knuckles. She beats the second thug across the back with the pipe until he stops twitching.

I kick the crate lid off the hinges to block the exit, but Marco ducks under the edge. I clear the obstruction and race after him into the docks beyond. He’s halfway across a wet platform when I catch sight of him. I level my pistol, but he’s fast.

He dives behind a forklift, spray-painted and scarred, its engine long since gone cold. I reach the corner and huff outa breath. Fuel drums and tangled ropes crowd the space. He’s weaving through obstacles, desperate. I sprint in after him.

“Rocco!” Chiara’s voice calls from behind, steady and close. She holds her pipe ready.

I edge forward, pistol raised. Marco leans around the forklift, eyes wide. I squeeze the trigger. A single shot cracks from my gun. He stiffens, head snapping back. Then his knees buckle. I don’t wait for him to fall.

Chiara steps up beside me, breathing hard. Marco lies on the deck, clutching his chest. His silk shirt blooms dark red. He gasps, life leaving him in quick, ragged bursts.

He tries to speak, but words sputter out. His eyes lock on mine. His last breath—hoarse, hollow—fades before he hits the ground. I holster my weapon.