I stepped out to Ishika slowly rising, my shirt on her falling mid-thigh, firelight dancing across her skin. “I’m coming.”
“No.” I reacted out of instinct, reaching for my holster.
“If you intend dragging me into this life.” She stepped closer, chin lifted despite the vulnerability of her bare feet on the polished wood. “Then I get to see it. I don’t want fragments and half-truths. I want the whole thing.”
“This isn’t a tour. It’s fire, smoke, and men who think they can test me.”
“Last time, you pulled me away because you feared for my safety, today I want to see what happens when they push you too far,” she demanded, eyes unwavering. “I deal in blood every day, Remo, make life changing decisions, don’t reduce me to something fragile because it suits you.”
The firelight caught in her gaze, stubborn and rebellious, and I felt the same disconcerting shift I’d felt on the mountain then at the carnival. She wasn’t asking for permission, merely staking territory, like I’d done to her.
Briefly, I weighed the risk against reality that she wouldn’t retreat simply because I commanded it. “Fine.” I brushed my thumb along her jaw. “But you stay beside me, you don’t wander, you don’t intervene.”
Her mouth curved faintly. “You don’t get to decide that either.”
My lips twitched.
As she pulled on a pair of my sweats and I armed myself, the warmth of the room faded into a cold certainty. I had taken her on a date, now I was taking her into war, asking her to trade the sound of laughter for the smell of gunpowder. Somewhere between the two, I realized the lines had blurred, that accepting me meant inheriting both amusement and crossfire and that I’d never be able to offer one without the other.
sixty
. . .
Ishika– 32 years old
The closer we drove to the docks, the more I felt Remo recede. His hand remained steady on the steering wheel, his presence still warm next to me but the man who’d eaten greasy food, rode the Ferris wheel, then stood in thick steam with his forehead pressed to mine, undone by the mere fact he’d taken me on a date, slowly morphed into the cold, brutal underboss that people whispered about.
Jaw clenched, knuckles white, his focused gaze remained on the road, a rigid frown suggesting he was deep in thought. I couldn’t understand why his dress code always stayed within the margins of black and white, color wouldn’t make him any less menacing.
The dockyard loomed ahead in a sprawl of old buildings, cranes, and a multitude of containers. Thick, dark grey smoke coiled upward from somewhere beyond the shipping stacks, carrying the suffocating tang of burning plastic.
Remo slowed down before we reached the main entrance, eyes scanning the perimeter in a way that made my pulse quicken.
“Stay in the car until I open your door,” he instructed without looking at me, his voice no longer layered with warmth but honed with danger.
“I’m not porcelain.” Mildly irritated, my fingers tightened around the seatbelt as we rolled to a stop.
His head turned and the look he gave me said I should be wary of pissing him off right now. “I know exactly what you are,” he gritted. “That’s why you stay close.”
The moment Remo stepped out, men emerged from all sides as if drawn by an invisible thread. Without instruction, they formed a circle around him, their respect surprising me. He opened my door himself, guiding me out with a hand at the small of my back that somehow felt more instinctive protection than possession.
The fire was confined to one container, flames licking at warped steel while his men worked with hoses and sand to keep it from spreading, their low curses and the crackle of heat filling the night air. Voice low, Remo moved through them, yet every instruction he gave shifted bodies and attention instantly.
“Who was on watch?” He stopped beside a man with soot streaked across his face.
“Marco and Lev, sir.” Eyes lowered, he gestured toward the far end of the yard. “They swear they didn’t see anyone approach.”
Remo’s gaze flicked over the rows of containers, the dark spaces between them and the open areas. I watched the way he inhaled, slow and steady, as if scent alone could tell him what surveillance wouldn’t.
“Double the perimeter,” he instructed. “No one leaves. No one enters.”
Wrestling the drawstring on his sweats that was at least three sizes into a tight knot, I stayed where he’d positioned me, near the rear of an armored SUV, telling myself that observing wasn’tweakness. My love, much like him, hit me like a misguided missile, sudden and unpredicted. So, if I intended to stand beside him, I had to understand this world in its rawest state. Although the smoke stung my eyes and the ground vibrated faintly beneath the movement of heavy equipment somewhere in the distance, my eyes tracked him across the yard.
Suddenly, Remo stilled. A subtle tightening at the back of his neck, a quick shift in the angle of his head. “Down,” he roared, his hand shooting out to shove aside the nearest man.
The crack of the first gunshot split the air less than a heartbeat later. I dropped instinctively, the world fracturing into a strident sound of gunfire. Metal screamed as bullets struck containers. Weapons drawn the men scattered, taking cover and returning fire on their unseen target.
Remo reached me in a sprint, his arm wrapping around my waist in one swift motion, dragging me behind another SUV, pressing me low against the tire. “Stay here,” he ordered, his hand gripping my jaw briefly to force my eyes to his. “Do not move.”
