For a second I just stand there, my hand still braced on the handle, my jaw clenched tight enough to crack. Part of me wants to go back in, crawl under the sheets, pretend I can have her without the rest of it bleeding in.
“Cross,” I mutter into the line.
“Pier. Ten minutes.” Click.
She never bothers with pleasantries. I pocket my phone and move. The clubhouse is quiet, shadows stretching long across the scarred wood floors. My foot steps thud steady against the boards, but my head’s a mess. By the time I hit the common room, even the quiet hum of the fridge seems too loud. I push through the door and into the night air. The cool hits hard, freshagainst my skin, grounding me. I can’t ignore her no matter how badly I want to.
My car is still right where I left it but it's coated in days worth of dust and grime. I’ve been too busy holding my own private vigil for Katana to wake up to give a damn about anything else.
I lean against the driver’s side, shove one hand into my pocket, and fish out the half-crushed pack of smokes I left there. It’s been four days since I touched one. My lighter scrapes my fingertips as I strike it, the flame snapping to life and catching the end of the cigarette. Smoke scorches down my throat on the first drag, bitter heat clawing at my chest.
The cigarette burns low between my fingers, smoke curling in the damp Atlantic air. It doesn’t do a damn thing to calm the churn in my chest. I flick the butt, sparks skittering across the gravel, and slide inside. The engine turns over smoothly, headlights sweeping across the lot, catching on the row of bikes.
It feels wrong leaving Katana behind like this but if Sable’s calling me to the pier, it isn’t for nothing.
The drive is short, streets near-deserted, just the ocean wind rattling loose signs and the thrum of tires on cracked asphalt. My jaw’s locked tight enough to ache, and the silence in the car leaves too much space for memories. The steering wheel hums under my grip, city lights smearing into neon streaks through the windshield. The night outside blurs, but my mind sharpens on one image I can’t shake- Sable’s face the first time we met.
And just like that, I’m there again.
The city stinks of rain and piss, steam rising off the grates like the streets are bleeding with me. Rain hammers down hard enough to sting, soaking me through. I used to believe loyalty meant something. I used to think Serrano’s empire was untouchable. But now I know better.
Two months ago, my brother bled out in an alley after a job went bad, everything changed. I was on my knees in the filth,holding him while he choked on his own blood. Victor stood there, watching. He didn’t move, didn’t help. Just lit a cigarette and said, “That’s the cost, Cross.”
That was the moment I stopped being his soldier and started planning his ruin.
Now the rain’s still falling, and I find Sable waiting in a back lot behind a shuttered building, trench coat collar pulled high, an umbrella she doesn’t offer me tilted against the downpour. Her heels are planted in oil-slick puddles like the grime of New York City can’t touch her. She doesn’t look like a fed, not the kind they send to play nice. She looks like someone who’s seen enough bodies dropped to stop keeping count.
“You’re late,” she says. No greeting. No warmth.
“Traffic,” I lie.
“I understand you have something for me.” No small talk, just straight to business. “If your lead pans out, you’ll get your clean slate, Cross. But your debt isn’t wiped clean. Not completely.”
I light a cigarette with shaking hands, ash falling into the puddles at my feet, smoke curling between us like a wall. Her eyes narrow, searching mine for an ulterior motive.
“Andris Serrano is moving product tonight. Brooklyn warehouse, off Kent. Two truck loads. Guard rotation every hour. You get there before two, you’ll have him gift-wrapped.”
“Why now?” she asks, tone flat, but there’s something in her eyes, the first crack in that hard mask.
I feel the rain in my hair and the ache behind my ribs. The truth is bitter in my throat, but I force the words out. “Because Victor Serrano let my brother die in an alley like a stray. Because I’m done bleeding for a man who sees us as expendable.”
For the first time, she really looks at me like she sees me. Not Serrano’s enforcer, not another pawn. Just a man who wants blood any way he can get it.
“We’ll take it from here,” Sable says finally. “But remember, Cross. When I call, you answer. You still owe me.”
I laugh without humor, turning back into the rain. “Story of my fucking life.”
A siren in the distance snaps me back. The steering wheel’s in my hands again, the city stretching out in front of me.
By the time the old pier comes into view, my jaw’s tight enough to ache. The place looks the same as always. Half rotten, boards warped by storms, a busted lamppost stuttering light like it’s got a bad conscience.
Sable’s waiting there, her hands in the pockets of a belted coat, her hair pulled back so tight it gives me a headache just looking at it. She’s still as stone, eyes fixed like she’s been watching me since I turned onto the street.
I kill the engine, step out, my shoes hitting wood that groans under my added weight. The brine stings sharp in my nose, the taste of salt thick enough to chew. I don’t hurry. It’s bad enough she’s got me out here, I’m not giving her that.
“I assume we have you to thank,” she says when I’m close enough, her voice clipped with irritation. “Recovered stolen goods. A handful of arrests pulled from the blood bath. And the victims we dragged out of that hellhole.”
The words land sharp. I keep my face stone, but they cut deep. Alicia barely made it. Katana almost bled out in my arms. My jaw flexes. I stop a foot away, shoving my hands in my pockets.
