“You always do this,” he mutters.
“And, look, we’re still alive,” I say.
He exhales hard, but he doesn’t argue.
We move along the row, checking the next two pallets the same way—small cut, quick look, reseal.
Same contents.
Enough for a full install. Enough to cripple the other side and boost our own business at the same time.
I tuck the blade back in my pocket and glance at Vito.
“We’re taking all three,” I whisper.
Vito grins.
Finally.
“Now you’re speaking my language.”
I look past him, down the long aisle we came through. And I listen again.
That same metallic tick. Closer this time.
A faint shift of something heavy. A foot? A tool? A pallet jack wheel?
My body goes still. I hold up my hand.
Vito freezes mid-breath. We both listen. The sound stops.
Then, somewhere deeper in the warehouse, a soft scrape answers.
That’s not the building settling. Or the buzzing lights. It’s intentional.
Something moving on purpose.
I look at Vito. His grin is gone now.
Because now we’re officially on a clock.
Chapter Thirty Three
Erica
The grocery bags rustle in my trunk every time I hit a bump, like they’re trying to talk me out of this.
I keep both hands on the steering wheel anyway.
It was a stupid idea.
It was also the first idea I’ve had in days that wasn’t fear or shame or work or my dad’s meds schedule.
So I ran with it.
I’m not some domestic goddess. I’m not the kind of woman who wears an apron and sings while she cooks. But I’ve made a roast before, a good one. The kind that fills a house with a warm, rich smell and makes people slow down and sit and eat a comfy, cozy meal.
It’s not elegant, but it’s simple. Hard to mess up.
