“Fuck no.”
I grit my teeth and mouthLower your fucking voice.
“How the fuck are we going to grab and go three pallets?” I whisper.
“We take ’em out,” Vito says, pointing his chin down in the direction the voices came from.
“We don’t even know how many there are.”
“And we’re not here to start a war over a pallet,” I whisper back. “Not in the middle of the day. Not without a crew.”
Vito’s eyes flash in the dark. He’s furious and thrilled at the same time, like the idea of violence is a relief.
“You’re seriously going to walk away?” he mutters.
I lean in close. “I’m seriously going to leave here alive.”
He scoffs, but he doesn’t move.
“Vito, let’s move,” I say.
“I’m not leaving without those pallets,” he says stubbornly.
“You’re going to get us killed for some locks,” I whisper.
“They’re not just locks,” Vito hisses back. “They’re leverage.”
“What’s leverage if you’re dead?” I say, keeping my voice low even as my pulse spikes.
Vito’s jaw clenches. He looks past me, down the aisle, like he can already see himself putting someone’s face through concrete.
“You go,” he says. “I’m not leaving without them.”
He walks off before I can grab him.
“Damn it,” I say, trying to keep my voice low. “Get the fuck back over here.”
But he keeps walking.
Knowing my brother will probably die if I don’t, I follow him.
Vito moves fast but not stupid-fast, shoulders tucked, head angled like he’s listening as much as he’s looking.
I trail him by two steps, close enough to grab him if I have to, far enough that we don’t silhouette as one big target.
He cuts left at the next cross-aisle without waiting for me.
“Vito,” I hiss.
He holds up a hand without looking back. Quiet. I know.
We slip between two stacks of boxed furniture, the cardboard sleeves turned inward, and the smell of new plastic hits again—faint, sharp, wrong in the dusty air.
I catch the edge of his jacket and yank once, stopping him just before he steps into an open strip of light.
He turns, eyes flashing.
I tilt my head toward the camera dome above the intersection.
