Chapter 10 - Dominic
This is war.
But none of that matters—not the Delgados, not the shipment, not even the gun strapped to my hip—when I hear her voice.
“Dominic!”
The sound is sharp, slicing through the icy night like a blade, and I freeze.
No.
I turn, dread coiling in my gut, and find her standing behind me, shoulders squared, chin lifted in defiance, her dark eyes blazing with reckless determination.
She followed me.
I feel my pulse hammer against my ribs, a fear clawing its way up my chest.
Not for me.
For her.
I stalk forward, closing the distance between us in three strides, my fingers biting into her wrist before she can think to run.
“Are you out of your goddamn mind?” My voice is low, sharp, but there’s a crack in it I can’t control. “Do you have any idea where you are right now?”
She winces, but she doesn’t back down.
“I know exactly where I am.”
I glare at her, searching for a trace of doubt—but all I find is stubborn resolve.
“Go home, Isabella.”
She shakes her head, pulling against my grip. “No.”
My patience snaps.
“This isn’t a fucking game,” I grind out, stepping closer, my chest almost brushing hers. “You’re standing in the middle of a warzone, and you think—what? That you can just waltz in here and be safe?”
“I couldn’t let you do this alone.”
The words hit me harder than I expect, knocking the wind from my lungs.
She doesn’t waver. Her lips press together like she’s bracing for a fight, like she’s prepared to battle me on this.
A part of me knows she cares.
And that terrifies me.
I exhale slowly, dragging a hand down my face, trying to push down the anger, the frustration—the fucking fear threatening to drown me.
This is my world. Not hers.
And if I lose her to it—if she dies because of me—
No.
I can’t let that happen.
“You want to stay?” My voice is commanding, final. “Then you listen to every word I say, and you don’t fucking move unless I tell you to.”
Her throat bobs, and for the first time, I see it—the fear.
Not for herself.
For me.
She nods, and I don’t waste another second. My fingers tighten around her wrist as I pull her forward, forcing her to keep up with my strides.
If she won’t leave, then I’ll make damn sure she survives.
Charles, Jayden, Nico, and the rest of my crew disappear into the shadows as we approach the pier, their movements silent, controlled. Years of discipline and violence have sharpened them into ghosts, men who know how to slip through the darkness unseen, unheard. They don’t need orders to understand what tonight means. Their expressions are grim, carved from stone, and though none of them say it, everyone can feel the weight of what’s about to come.
The dockyard stretches wide before us, an industrial wasteland of rusted shipping containers, towering cranes, and skeletal buildings half-swallowed by the night.
Something feels off.
I don’t know what it is yet, but my instincts are sharp, honed from years of surviving betrayals and backstabs. And right now? My gut is screaming.
I tighten my grip on Isabella’s wrist. She’s been quiet since we arrived, but I don’t need to look at her to feel the way her pulse races against my palm.
She’s terrified.
Good.
The shadows shift beside me, and Charles steps forward. His sharp gaze flicks between me and Isabella before settling on me, hard as steel. He doesn’t need to say it—I already know what he’s thinking.
I wait for him to say it out loud.
“What the fuck is she doing here?” His voice is low, controlled, but there’s an unmistakable edge to it. He’s not just pissed—he’s incredulous.
I grind my teeth. “Long story.”
From the corner of my eye, I catch the quick exchange of glances between Charles and Nico. A silent conversation passing between them, one I recognize all too well.
That look.
The one that says he’s lost it.
The one that says this is reckless, even for him.
And maybe they’re right.
Maybe I have lost it.
Bringing Isabella here? Reckless.
Keeping her at my side? Suicidal.
But leaving her behind? Letting her slip away into the dark, where I can’t see her, can’t protect her?
Not a fucking chance.
Charles mutters something under his breath, but he doesn’t argue. He knows better than to waste his breath when my mind is made up.
I scan the pier, my fingers itching for the weight of my gun. The canvas in my other hand feels almost out of place, but I don’t let it go.
The painting shouldn’t matter.
But it does.
It’s not just some piece of art.
It’s a symbol.
A reminder of what was stolen from me. What I’m here to reclaim.
I take a steady breath, forcing my mind back to the task at hand. Focus.
“Fan out,” I order, my voice cutting through the silence. “I want eyes on every entrance, every possible ambush point. We’re not walking into this blind.”
Nico nods once, then vanishes into the maze of shipping containers, moving like a shadow. Jayden takes position near the water, keeping his line of sight clear.
But Charles doesn’t move.
He lingers, his presence heavy beside me. I don’t need to look at him to know what’s coming next.
Doubt.
He exhales sharply, then speaks. “Dom…” His tone is lower now, careful. “What if Adrian was lying?”
“He wasn’t.”
“You sound sure.”
“I am.”
Charles lets out a slow breath, his fingers flexing at his sides. “And if this is a fucking trap?”
I keep my eyes on the pier, on the darkness ahead, on the unseen danger waiting in the shadows.
“Then we fight our way out.”
The moment we step onto the pier, the night detonates around us.
Gunfire rips through the dead air, a deafening cacophony of violence. Bullets slice through the air with a deadly whine, ricocheting off rusted metal and splintering wood. The world becomes chaos, a battleground carved from darkness and fire.
I move on instinct.
I yank Isabella against me, my grip iron-tight as I spin us behind a stack of shipping crates just as a spray of bullets tears through the air where we had just stood. The wooden crates shudder under the assault, sharp splinters exploding outward as rounds punch through the fragile barrier.
“Stay down!” My voice is a snarl, rough and unyielding as I shove her lower behind the cover.
Her breathing is ragged, coming in short, uneven gasps, but she doesn’t scream. Her fingers clutch at the sleeve of my jacket, nails digging into the fabric.
She’s terrified.
But she doesn’t run.
Goddamn it, Isabella.
I pull my gun, the weight of it an extension of my fury, and shift just enough to return fire.
The night is a war zone.
The crack of gunfire slashes through the air, punctuated by sharp cries of pain as bullets find their marks. Bodies drop. Blood pools on concrete. My men engage without hesitation, their shots precise, efficient—trained for moments like this. But we’re outnumbered.
And I should have fucking known.
A figure moves in the shadows, the flash of gunmetal catching my eye. Too fast. Too close.
“Isabella!”
A gunman emerges from behind the stacked crates, his aim locking onto her.
She doesn’t see him.
But I do.
I don’t think—I move.
I lunge forward, my body reacting before my mind even registers the action.
The gunshot explodes into the night, a sharp, brutal crack that makes my ears ring.
Isabella cries out, stumbling back. Blood.
A thin, dark line streaks across her arm, staining the sleeve of her dress.
Not fatal.
But I see red.
A deep, consuming rage coils inside me, snapping tight, white-hot and lethal.
The man who shot her dies before he even hits the ground.
I pull the trigger once, twice—his skull snaps back, a spray of crimson painting the concrete behind him. He collapses, twitching, his fingers still reflexively squeezing the trigger of his gun as his life drains away.
But I’m not done.
I advance, my steps cautious, my pulse hammering like war drums.
Another enemy rounds the corner—I don’t give him a chance.
I fire. The bullet punches through his throat. He chokes, gurgling, clutching at the gaping wound as he crumples.
The scent of gunpowder and blood fills the air, sharp and metallic, an acrid perfume of war.
More gunmen spill into the pier.
They’re coming fast, weapons drawn, muzzles flashing as they fire. My men return fire with practiced precision, the sharp cracks of their guns blending into the night’s relentless chaos.
I reload in a blur, the magazine sliding into place with a satisfying click.
Isabella presses herself against the crate, her chest rising and falling in quick, uneven breaths. Her wide eyes shift to me, fear and horror flickering in their depths.
I don’t have time to deal with that now.
A round shatters the crate beside me, wood splintering just inches from Isabella’s head.
Enough.
I rise, pivoting smoothly, lining up my next shot.
One squeeze of the trigger—a bullet rips through another attacker’s knee, sending him screaming to the ground.
I stalk forward, closing the distance before he can reach for his fallen weapon. My boot slams down on his wrist, bones snapping under my weight. His scream gurgles in his throat as I aim downward.
I don’t hesitate.
One shot.
His body jerks. Then, nothing.
But the fight isn’t over.
Pain explodes in my side—hot, sharp, and all-consuming.
The gunshot registers a second too late, a brutal crack that echoes through the chaos. I don’t see where it came from, don’t even process the movement before the impact slams into me, knocking the air from my lungs.
I feel the painting slip from my grasp, hitting the ground with a dull slap.
I stagger, my vision tilting, and then—I go down.
The hard concrete meets me with a vicious force, the rough surface tearing at my palms as I brace myself. My breath hitches, pain radiating outward like fire licking through my veins. It’s deep. Too deep. My body protests, every nerve screaming as I try to push up.
I can’t.
My head spins, the world a blur of shadows and distorted light. My fingers twitch, searching for stability, for something—anything—to ground me.
Then, red blooms.
It spreads slowly at first, then faster—a dark stain seeping through the fabric, mixing with the deep blues and grays of Isabella’s strokes. My blood.
The irony isn’t lost on me. A painting meant to reclaim my past, now drenched in the proof of my mortality.
The world tilts again, my vision warping, darkening at the edges, but through the haze, I see her.
Isabella.
She’s there, dropping to her knees beside me, her movements frantic, her breaths uneven. The moment her hands press against my side, a white-hot bolt of pain lances through me, stealing what little breath I have left.
“Stay with me,” she begs, her voice cracking, breaking—desperate.
Her fingers tremble as she applies pressure, but it’s not enough. I feel the warmth of my own blood seeping through my clothes, sticky and unrelenting. It pools beneath me, soaking into the concrete, and for the first time, I truly feel the weight of it.
I try to speak.
To tell her it’s okay.
To tell her to run.
But the words die in my throat, swallowed by the raw agony tearing through my body.
My fingers twitch, weakly reaching for her, but I can’t lift my arm. My strength is draining, slipping away as fast as the blood spilling from my side.
But worse than the pain—worse than the choking, unbearable sensation of my own body betraying me—is the sound of her crying.
That is what truly guts me.
Not the bullet. Not the fall. Her.
Her sobs shake against the chaos, sharp and ragged. Her hands, usually steady, tremble violently as she presses harder against my wound.
“Charles!” Her voice is raw, a scream edged in panic. “Help! He’s—he’s hit!”
Footsteps pound against the concrete. A shadow looms over me—Charles. I hear the way he curses under his breath, a string of expletives filled with anger and panic.
“Fuck,” he mutters, dropping beside me. His hands replace Isabella’s, pressing down hard—too hard. My body jerks at the pressure, a fresh wave of agony burning through my gut.
“Shit—hold on, Dom.” His voice is gruff, strained, but beneath it, there’s urgency. Charles doesn’t panic—he never panics. But I hear the anxiety in his voice.
I blink slowly, my vision swimming, and I know what he sees. I know what’s happening. The blood. The way my breathing is growing shallower. The way my body feels heavier with every passing second.
I try to focus, to pull myself back, but everything is slipping.
The world around me blurs at the edges. Sounds come in and out—gunfire still rings in the distance, shouts, curses, footsteps.
But the only sound that matters—the only thing anchoring me to this reality—is Isabella.
Her voice, breaking apart.
Her hands, shaking against my skin.
Her warmth, desperate and real.
And for the first time in my life, I don’t feel like the unshakable force I’ve always been.
I feel human.
I feel mortal.
I’ve been shot before.
More times than I can count. I’ve walked away from it every time.
But this—this is different.
This time, I’m not just thinking about myself.
This time, I’m praying.
I don’t know who I’m praying to, don’t even know if I believe in that kind of thing.
But I do it anyway.
I pray that I survive this.
Not for me.
For her.
Because if I don’t make it—if I leave her alone in this world, in my world—I know she’ll never be the same.
I can’t let that happen.
A sharp gust of wind blows through the pier, cold and biting, sending a fresh chill down my spine. Or maybe—maybe it’s just me.
Maybe I’m already fading.
I exhale, my breath shaky, weak. My body is sinking, exhaustion pressing harder, dragging me under.
I barely feel it when Isabella cups my face, her touch soft, trembling.
“I’m here,” she whispers, her voice fierce through the tears. “Don’t close your eyes. Look at me!”
I want to answer her. Want to promise her I won’t.
But the darkness comes too fast.
My body feels distant now, a numb, floating thing. The sounds muffle. The burden of responsibility lifts.
The last thing I see— the last thing I focus on—is her.
Then—darkness.