Vito’s grin flashes again.
“Go,” he mouths.
We move back to the stairs.
And somewhere below us, that pallet jack squeaks again—close enough that my pulse spikes.
Vito starts down anyway. Too fast.
“Slow,” I hiss.
He ignores me.
He drops the last few steps like he’s made of springs, boots hitting concrete with a soft thud that still feels too loud to me.
“Vito,” I whisper, urgency turning hot.
He’s already moving toward the pallets.
I’m down a second after him, landing light, but my heart is already hammering because he’s moving like we’re home free.
Vito reaches the first pallet jack, grabs the handle, and pulls slowly.
The wheels squeal.
Just once.
But it’s enough.
I feel it in my bones—sound carries in a warehouse.
“Not that one,” I snap quietly.
Vito freezes for half a second, eyes cutting to me like he’s deciding whether he’s going to listen.
He does.
Barely.
He lets the handle ease back down and slides his grip to the second pallet jack—newer wheels, less grit, less scream.
“Better?” he mouths.
“Better,” I mouth back. “Now lift before you pull.”
He jacks the forks up a fraction, moving slowly. The hydraulics give a soft sigh instead of a squeal.
I glance down the aisle.
Nothing.
“Go,” I mouth.
Vito pulls the jack back a foot, slow and controlled, which isn’t a pace he can sustain for long.
The pallet shifts with a soft scrape.
My teeth grind.
