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I press my palm to the hood, steadying myself. “Guess he’s not waiting for a dinner invite.”

Rocco snaps a second magazine into his pistol. “Let’s clear the table.”

Gunfire erupts. Bullets tear into steel and concrete. I dive behind a stack of pallets, heart hammering. I unclip the pipe from behind my seat and grip it tightly.

A slug rips through the corner of the container’s metal. Shards spray across my boots. I crouch low, pipe held ready.

Rocco fires three shots in quick succession. His aim is true—two men drop where they stand. I peek around the pallets. A thug rushes me from behind a crate. I spin and bring the pipe down on his skull. The crack echoes as his body folds.

Rocco moves like a shadow. He slides behind me and fires two clean shots into another attacker. Center mass. He steps forward, eyes scanning.

My breath comes fast. I lunge out and swing the pipe again, catching a runner in the side. He goes down hard, blood spreading across his shirt.

Four bodies collapse. We duck behind a row of stacked tires. Steel spokes catch the floodlight’s edge.

Rocco leans back against the tires, raising his pistol. “They keep coming.”

I push a shell casing from the pipe’s grip. “Then we keep ending them.”

A burst of gunfire slams into the tires. Rocco stiffens. A sharp pain blooms in his upper arm. He swears low. My hand shoots out to him. He shrugs it off. “Later.”

I roll my eyes. “Stubborn prick.”

He fires back, picking off another thug advancing on our left. I drop behind a crate again, breathing steadily. Two final men break cover and rush toward us, knives in hand.

I spring up and strike one in the ribs with the pipe. His breath whooshes out. He stumbles into the fence. Rocco steps inand presses his knife to the second man’s throat. A quick slice. He sinks to his knees, eyes wide.

It’s brutal. Efficient. Just as it has to be.

We stand over the last man, breathing hard. Blood dots my cheek from a glancing blow. Sweat drips down my temples. The night is still. My pulse pounds in my ears, but beyond our clearing, no footsteps follow. The racers fled. Ferrano’s muscle car passed through here before the SUVs arrived. Now only the echo of gunfire remains.

I stare at the bodies. My pipe rests heavy in my hand. I look at Rocco.

“This isn’t just about me anymore, is it?” I ask, voice low.

He holsters his knife and gently touches my shoulder. “It’s us now.”

I knot my fingers with his. He doesn’t pull away.

We limp toward the Charger, boots scuffing gravel and dry leaves. Rocco leads, favoring his arm. The engine is quiet, waiting. We slide inside and sit, the door thudding shut.

He looks at his arm, blood seeping through his sleeve. “You drive. I’m bleeding.”

I unclip my pipe and set it on the seat beside him. I slide into the driver’s seat. “You’re still prettier than most of them.”

He grins, despite the pain. “You keep saying shit like that, I might start to believe it.”

I turn the key. The engine roars. I pull us onto the street, tires kicking up dust. Headlights sweep past. Behind us, the dock lies empty except for bodies and broken crates.

I grip the wheel tightly and glance at him. “They’ll keep coming. But I’m not running anymore. Not without a fight.”

He reaches across and squeezes my hand. We disappear into the night, hunted but together.

Chapter 20 – Rocco

Moonlight filters through grime-coated windows, casting pale rectangles across the cracked concrete floor. I lean against the jagged edge of a broken window frame, pistol drawn and ready. Outside, the parking lot sits empty, but it never stays that way for long. I study every shadow, listening for the hum of engines or the scrape of boots.

Chiara kneels on the floor behind me, pressing a fresh bandage into the cut on her leg. Her tank top is stained with sweat and dirt, but she works with steady hands, wiping away dried blood. She moves with fierce resolve, every muscle tense, refusing to give injury any excuse for rest. I watch her in the dim light, surprised at how seamlessly she’s grown into this fight.