Page 53

I lean into him. “What now?” I ask.

He touches the chain at my neck, silver against my skin. “We rebuild,” he says. “We make them pay. But we keep moving.”

I nod, head resting against his chest. “I believe that.”

We ride that quiet moment until it fractures—the distant sound of tires crunching gravel snaps my head up. A car door slams below. Footsteps sprint across the garage stairs. Voices echo.

A shout cracks through the half-light. “Traitors!”

I tighten my grip on Rocco’s hand. He stands, sheathes questions in his eyes. We’ve been found.

For a heartbeat, we hold each other. Then we step back from the roof’s edge, resolve hardening inside us. Dawn may break, but night’s shadows still hunt us.

We don’t wait or hesitate.

I pivot at the shout and drop behind the low rooftop railing. My heart hammers. The last thread of calm snaps. A lone Ferrano thug stands at the stairwell door, rifle raised. Dust drips from the vent overhead. I grip the pipe still tucked into my belt, knuckles white against the metal.

Rocco’s pistol is already in his hand. He slides left, planting one foot on the railing for balance. His eyes lock on the man. No hesitation.

The thug fires a warning shot that shreds the concrete near my boots. Chunks spray everywhere. The crack of the rifle splinters against the early light. I taste dust on my tongue. Adrenaline surges, dulling the ache in my leg.

He yells again, voice distorted by the barrel’s echo. “You think killing the boss makes you king?”

I spring up so my reply catches his attention. “No,” I shout back. “Just free!”

Rocco’s voice cuts in, calm over chaos. “On three.”

I sense his fingers count into the wind. He leans into the ladder, rifle leveled to cover our flank.

I plant both feet, buoyed by the pipe’s weight at my hip, and nod once. “Two.”

His gaze flicks to me, then back to the thug. The man’s grip on the rifle tightens. Sweat beads on his brow. The neon above flickers.

Rocco’s voice cracks the silence. “Now!”

The thug squeezes the trigger again. The sniper shot cracks. Rocco fires first—his bullet finds its mark clean between the man’s eyes. The body jerks, then slumps backward. The rifle clatters in his limp hand.

I step forward, pressing the pipe’s end into the thug’s chest until he sags against the rails. I kneel beside him, breath heavy. His lifeless stare meets mine for a heartbeat, then dulls.

Blood oozes around my boot. I wipe it on his shirt with the pipe’s blunt side. My heart pounds, but something steadies in my chest: finality.

Rocco kneels beside me. His hand slides around my waist, warm against sweat-chilled skin. He holds me there, steady, while I catch my breath.

“They’ll keep coming,” I say, voice low, echoing on my own eardrums.

He rubs my back. “Then we keep going.”

I stand, pressing my palm to the rooftop’s edge. Dawn’s light slices across the metal, casting a ghostly shimmer on the chain at my neck. “You really want this life?” I ask, eyes on the horizon.

He steps forward, hands in pockets. “Only if it’s with you.”

I return his gaze, expression open. “We’ll never be clean.”

He lifts his chin. “But we’re alive.”

I nod, head heavy with relief and dread. We step back from the railing and climb down the ladder shoulder to shoulder. Each rung tilts under our weight. My leg trembles, but I ignore it. Below, the alley yawns dark but for the neon bleed through slats above.

Rocco flicks his hand to signal “quiet.” We slip between crates at the alley’s entrance. Damp cardboard reeks of rot. A dumpster gapes open. No time to pack—we’re ghosts slipping through the city’s pulse.