Her eyes flashed. “I will never enjoy anything involving you.”
The words landed harder than they should have. Something cold shifted through my chest. I stared at her for a long second before nodding once.
“Lock the door behind me,” she snapped. “Wouldn’t want your prisoner escaping.”
Prisoner. The word lingered ugly in the room between us. I almost softened. Almost said something human. Instead, I turned and walked out before I could make that mistake. I left the door unlocked.
Raincloudsgatheredoverthe city during the drive downtown, turning the city dark and metallic beneath the stormlight.
The Rolls-Royce cut silently through traffic while Sergio drove one-handed beside me. Leather creaked softly every time the car turned. Low jazz played through the speakers. Rain started tapping lightly against the windows halfway to the docks.
Neither of us spoke for several minutes. The silence wasn’t comfortable. It was heavy.
Salt crept into the air the closer we got to the water, mixing with gasoline, wet pavement, and rusted steel. Luxury faded block by block until skyscrapers gave way to warehouses, shipping cranes, and stacked cargo containers stretching toward the gray harbor. Men disappeared down here all the time. Bodies, too.
Sergio finally glanced at me. “You’re brooding.”
“I’m thinking,” I hissed.
“Right,” Sergio said. “One of your more dangerous hobbies.”
I kept my eyes on the harbor outside. Black water churned under the cloudy sky, waves slamming against concrete docks in rough, uneven rhythms.
“Drive,” I said. Sergio snorted softly but obeyed. Another long silence followed before he spoke again, quieter this time.
“You know,” he said carefully, “most men would just fuck the girl and move on.”
My gaze slid toward him slowly. “And?”
“And you look like you’re trying very hard not to let her go,” he muttered.
The city noise faded behind us as the car rolled deeper into dock territory. Rain streaked the windows. My jaw locked hard enough to ache. Sergio exhaled under his breath when I didn’t answer.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered finally. “You’re fucking whipped.”
Thankfully, we finally arrived, so there was no need to defend myself.
The warehouse sat at the edge of the docks like a rotting corpse left out for the tide to reclaim. Rust bled down the corrugated metal walls in ugly orange streaks. Rain hammered the roof in violent bursts, echoing over the black harbor while cargo cranes loomed overhead like skeletal monsters against the storm-dark sky. Saltwater, gasoline, cigar smoke, and rotting fish soaked the air thick enough to taste.
The kind of place men came to bury problems. Or create them.
I stepped out of the Rolls-Royce slowly, cold rain speckling my black coat and dampening the dark hair at my temples. Something already felt wrong. No guards outside. No obvious surveillance. No men stationed around the loading bays. Which meant whoever arranged this wanted privacy more than protection.
Sergio noticed it too. I saw it in the subtle way his hand drifted closer to the gun beneath his jacket.
“You expecting trouble?” he asked quietly.
“No.” One word. Sharp enough to tighten the air between us.
Water splashed beneath our shoes as we crossed the cracked concrete toward the warehouse entrance. The giant metal door was already partially open, yellow industrial light spilling across the rain-slick pavement.
An invitation. A trap. Same thing.
I stepped inside anyway. The smell hit first. Cheap whiskey. Damp wood. Gun oil. Cigars. Then I saw them. And for the first time in a very long while, genuine shock stopped me cold.
Santino and Angelo sat in the middle of the warehouse beside Angelo Ventura, Chiara’s father, like they belonged there together.
Interesting. Very fucking interesting.
