Enzo smirked, gripping his hand tighter. “That doesn’t sound like nothing.”
“I really love you,” he blurted.
The car jerked slightly, tires biting against asphalt. The horns of passing cars blared around them as Enzo corrected the vehicle.
“You good?” Seven asked, barely hiding his grin.
Enzo glowered. “You did that on purpose.”
Seven’s mouth curved. “Maaaybe.”
Enzo waited until Seven was lost in his own thoughts before softly saying, “I love you, too, brat.”
Seven turned toward the window to hide the stupid grin spreading across his face, but Enzo brought their hands up, kissing his knuckles.
The warmth of his lips lingered against the cool night air seeping through the window. For the first time all evening, Seven felt something that wasn’t dread.
He really had struck gold with Enzo. A man who supported his career goals, knew exactly how many people he’d killed, adored his mother, fit in seamlessly with the chaos of his life, and could keep up with him in bed. He was a fucking unicorn.
Seven stayed quiet for the rest of the drive, the music a low hum in the background. His phone buzzed—a message from Felix confirming that Brioni was wired and Kevlared under her hoodie. Seven sent back a quick thumbs-up emoji, the simple motion grounding him.
When they reached the port, he guided Enzo to park a block away behind an abandoned fish market. The instant he opened the door, the air slapped him, the salt and rust thick enough to taste. It burned his nose, sharp and chemical, mixing with the faint, oily tang of seawater gone stagnant.
Most of the streetlights had died years ago, but a few still clung to life—valiant, flickering things that cast uneven pools of yellow light over the cracked concrete. The glow caught on the skeletons of old ships, their hulls eaten by corrosion, and each gust of wind made the metal groan like something alive and dying at the same time.
They used the light from Enzo’s trunk to gear up. The soft click of fasteners and Velcro broke the silence as they pulled on their vests. Seven racked the slide on his Glock 45, checked the magazine, the chamber, and the safety before holstering itat his side. He handed Enzo a weapon of his own after double-checking it out of instinct.
“Do you know how to use this?” he asked.
Enzo’s lips twitched. “I’m hardly Jesse James, but I do okay in a pinch.”
Seven watched as Enzo performed his own check, competent, careful, his movements economical in that way that came from living a life where mistakes got you killed. It was weirdly hot.
Seven wasn’t a gun person. He preferred his work up close and personal. Guns left evidence, casings, residue, noise. Knives were cleaner. He could feel the breath leave their lungs with a blade, and knew that, as long as the weapon stayed with him, he likely hadn’t left any piece of himself behind. Or maybe that was just a lie he told himself to justify the way he preferred to take someone else’s life.
The building Thomas had instructed them to use rose up from the fog like a dead leviathan, massive, silent, its windows glazed with grime and sea brine. The weak interior light bled through in patches, making it look less like a warehouse and more like a mirage, something half-born from one of his night terrors. Something about the building gave him the creeps.
When they reached the rusty spiral staircase climbing the back of the building, Seven tested the first step with his boot. It shifted with a slow, ominous squeal.
“Be careful,” he murmured. “Felix said they’re a bit wobbly.”
Enzo nodded. “Let me go up first.”
Seven opened his mouth to argue, but closed it again. They didn’t have time, and Enzo wouldn’t back down anyway. It was one of those protective, maddening things that made Seven’s chest ache and his teeth clench at the same time.
It was quarter to midnight. They still had to get comms active before Brioni’s would-be assassins arrived.
Asa was waiting at the top of the stairs, a dark silhouette against the faint warehouse light. It had taken Seven years to tell him and Avi apart. He used to rely on physical cues—the small notch in Asa’s right ear mirrored on Avi’s left—but now, he could feel who was whom just by vibes.
Asa radiated a particular brand of menace, the kind that felt like standing too close to a live wire. Avi could carve a man open with a smile, but Asa carried himself with an eerily quiet violence.
He waved them in and mouthed for quiet, guiding them along the widow’s walk that overlooked the cavernous concrete floor below. From that vantage, they had a bird’s-eye view: Brioni pacing alone in sneakers and yoga pants, oversized hoodie zipped up to her neck to hide the Kevlar beneath. Her silhouette looked smaller from above, like a dark figure on a stage waiting for the curtain to drop.
Asa led them into a shallow alcove that smelled faintly of old oil and dust. A bucket filled with rancid water and a decayed mop sat nearby, letting him know it had likely once been used for storage. The others were already there. Seven’s eyes snagged on Enzo’s face and found him watching Zane and Felix, each perched on one of Avi’s knees like spoiled royalty. The sight almost made Seven laugh; it was absurd and somehow perfectly Mulvaney.
Asa spoke in a low murmur. “We have eyes on Brioni. Her necklace is a camera.”
Zane flipped his phone so they could all see the world from Brioni’s point-of-view as she walked a small, jittery circle around the space, sneakers scuffing with each step. Seven swallowed. Seeing the world through another’s lens always made things feel closer, smaller, more intimate, and therefore, more dangerous.
