"Rafe, the shipment at the north warehouse. The Irish are sniffing around the perimeter. We need you there. Now."
"Shit," I mutter, shoving the phone into my pocket. "I'm ten minutes out. Have Dante secure the loading bays?"
I turn to look at Gia. The delivery can wait, but the warehouse can’t. And I’m not leaving her here. Not after the chatter we’ve been hearing about O’Rourke retaliation.
"I have to go," I say, my voice rougher than I intended. "Get in the car."
She blinks, startled. "What? Why? I can stay here with Luca."
"Luca is coming with me. I’m not leaving you here with a skeleton crew when the O’Rourkes are moving. Move your ass, Gia. You can wait in the SUV. I won’t be long."
"I’m not a suitcase, Rafael," she snaps, her stubbornness flaring. "I don't just get packed for trips."
"Today you do. Get in the car before I put you there myself."
She glares at me—that beautiful, defiant heat I’ve started to crave—but she climbs into the back of the armored Cadillac. I slide into the driver's seat, my knuckles white on the wheel. The drive to the industrial district is a blurred streak of grey asphalt and unspoken tension.
I can feel her watching the back of my head. I can taste her scent—that jasmine and amber that now smells like a regret.
Don't look at her. Don't think about the way her skin felt. Focus on the job.
We pull into the warehouse yard. It’s a fortress of corrugated steel and concrete. Brotherhood soldiers are everywhere, rifles slung low, eyes scanning the surrounding rooftops. It’s heavy security, routine for a high-value hand-off, but the air feels... thin. Electric.
"Stay in the car," I command, checking my sidearm. "The doors are reinforced. Don't open them for anyone but me or Luca. Do you understand?"
Gia rolls her eyes, leaning back against the leather. "Yes, jailer. I understand. Go do your 'Butcher' things."
I huff a breath that might have been a laugh in a different life and climb out. I’m halfway to the loading dock, heading toward the foreman, when I realize my pocket feels light.
Damn it. I left my phone on the center console. In this business, being unreachable for five minutes is a goddamn suicide mission. I growl a curse and pivot, heading back toward the black SUV.
I see her before I reach it.
Gia has opened the door. She’s stepping out, my phone in her hand, her hair catching the oily light of the industrial yard. She sees me and starts to walk forward, a small, frustrated frown on her face.
"You forgot this, it’s ringing," she calls out.
"Gia, get back in the?—"
The world shatters.
A high-pitched crack echoes from the roof of the cold-storage building three hundred yards away. It’s the distinct, whip-like snap of a high-velocity rifle.
Sniper.
"Get down!" I roar, but the yard is already erupting into chaos.
More gunfire follows—rapid, staccato bursts from the treeline. M24s. The O'Rourkes. They didn't just sniff the perimeter; they dug a goddamn hole and waited.
Gia freezes. It’s only for a heartbeat, but in a firefight, a heartbeat is an eternity. She stands there in the middle of the open concrete, the phone still clutched in her hand, her eyes wide as a Brotherhood soldier ten feet away is spun around by a round to the shoulder.
"Gia! Move!"
I’m sprinting. My boots are slamming into the gravel, my heart a hammer against my ribs. I don't think about cover. I don't think about drawing my own weapon. All I see is the girl in the white dress standing in a hail of lead.
I reach her just as a bullet pings off the concrete at her heels, sending sparks flying. I wrap my arm around her waist and tackle her, our bodies slamming into the side of the SUV.
"Stay low! Stay behind the wheel!" I yell over the cacophony of returning fire.
