Chapter 18 – Cyril
It’s not flashy inside the Vault. Nothing in here is. This place wasn’t built for comfort.
And today? I’ve got war in my fucking veins.
Alvise throws a thick file onto the table with a thud that sounds like a challenge. “New intel. Property on Pier 9 flagged last night. One of Crane’s shell companies moved in unmarked crates under the radar. Covered it with a staged inspection report—clean on paper, shady as hell underneath.”
I open the folder. Satellite images. Time-stamped logs. Street-view photos with heatmap overlays.
He wasn’t subtle.
“Jesus,” I mutter, flipping through the sheets. “It’s like the bastard wants to get caught.”
“Or he wants to make you think he does,” Aldo says, stepping out of the corner like the fucking ghost he always pretends to be. He’s been my tech guy for six years and my paranoia handler for three. “Anonymous tip came in early this morning. Said modified rifles, encrypted communications hardware, maybe some drone tech. Next shipment hits the dock tonight.”
I lean back in the chair, fingers steepled, heart calm. Too calm. That’s how I know it’s about to get violent.
“He’s finally getting sloppy,” I say, voice like ice slicing glass.
Alvise grunts in agreement. “Or he’s getting confident.”
“Same fucking thing.”
I reach for my burner and dial Morales.
He picks up on the first ring. “Boss.”
“Crane just handed us his spine,” I say. “I want it snapped publicly.”
There’s a pause. Static crackling. Then, “You want a raid? I can float a Vice sweep. Blame cartel trafficking, easy press angle. You want me to plant anything?”
I grin. “No. We don’t need to. It’s already real.”
Another pause. “Understood. I’ll loop in narcotics and arrange it to look clean. When?”
“Tonight. Dock doors roll at eleven. We hit at ten-forty.”
“Got it.”
I hang up and toss the burner onto the table. It skitters across the surface and stops like it knows it’s done.
Alvise crosses his arms. “You want backup on-site?”
“Yeah. External team. Quiet. Eyes on the cops and the building. If Morales slips, we finish it ourselves. I’m not risking the press getting wind of this shitshow unless we’re controlling the narrative.”
Alvise nods. “Gael?”
“Tell him he’s leading the ghost team. No comms once the cops show up. Visual confirmation only.”
“I’ll have them staged in the lot behind Pier 10 by nine.”
“Good.”
I rub the tension out of the back of my neck, but it doesn’t help. My body’s been a rubber band pulled tight since Enya’s voice cracked in that kitchen three nights ago.
“He lied to me, Cyril. But he also loved me. Or at least, he made me believe it. Can you understand that?”
No. I still fucking can’t.
But I can end it. And tonight, I will.
I light a cigarette and take one long drag, slow exhale. The cherry flares in the dark like a heartbeat.
“He’s been playing chess with ghosts,” I say, watching the city blur past in shades of blue and fire. “Tonight, we make him bleed.”
And God, it feels like a win.
Like every move we’ve made over the last week—every conversation in shadows, every night Enya’s eyes haunted me into staying sharp—it’s all led to this. An exposed artery. One clean strike. Done.
I flick the ash out the cracked window.
This city belongs to those who refuse to go down.
And tonight, Crane’s the one who’ll go down first.
By the time we hit Pier 9, it’s raining harder. Heavy drops hit the rooftop in metallic bursts. We’re perched on the old distillery across the street—high enough for a clean view, low enough to stay off radar. I crouch behind a rusted tank, Alvise beside me, scope pressed to his eye.
Below us, the raid begins.
Unmarked vans. Sirens kept quiet. Vice officers flood the property like cockroaches, flashlights sweeping the dark. One van backs up to the far doors. Another unit fans out near the alley access. Morales is already inside, coordinating like the lapdog he’s paid to be.
I murmur to Alvise, eyes fixed on the chaos below.
“Let’s see how your empire holds up, Crane.”
The wind kicks through the rusted skeleton of the roof. Piercing. Electric. I feel it in my teeth.
We wait.
Five minutes.
Ten.
Fifteen.
Then, a call crackles on Alvise’s private channel—coded, encrypted. One word:
“Clear.”
Another.
“Empty.”
Then another.
“Tiles?”
Alvise lowers the scope, blinking. “What the fuck?”
Before I can respond, Morales steps onto the roof, soaked through. His badge is clipped to his hip like a threat.
He doesn’t smile.
“You told me this place was hot,” he says, voice cutting. “But we found nothing.”
“What?”
“Clean shipping manifests. Valid export papers. Crates full of imported fucking pool tiles. Some Italian luxury brand. Fancy shit, actually.”
Every nerve in my body goes rigid.
“That’s impossible,” I growl. “The footage. The anonymous tip. The truck movement—”
Morales shrugs, water dripping from his coat.
“Guess you’ve been misinformed, Don.” He turns and starts walking. Then, he glances back, smirking over his shoulder. “Might wanna vet your intel before you put my badge on the line again.”
And just like that, he disappears into the stairwell.
Alvise exhales slowly beside me. “We got played.”
No.
We got baited.
And we fucking took it.
The ride back to the estate is silent.
It’s not the kind where people are tired. This is the kind where everyone’s waiting for me to explode.
I sit in the back seat, staring out the window while the city slips past like a ghost I can’t recognize anymore. Rain smears everything in gray streaks. Blurred streetlamps. Headlights. People walking under umbrellas like they’re not all living in a world built on broken pieces and blood.
Alvise doesn’t say a word. Gael keeps his eyes forward, hands gripping the wheel a little too tightly. He knows better than to speak. They both do.
Because I’m simmering.
No. Fuck that.
I’m boiling.
By the time we pull into the circular drive of the Carfano estate, the blood on my fist has dried from when I punched the car door in frustration. I step out before the car stops moving. I need space. Walls I can punch without anyone trying to fix them.
The Vault is gloomy and quiet.
Exactly how I left it.
But it feels different now. Like the room itself knows we were outplayed.
I yank the doors shut behind me. Alvise and Gael follow, but keep their distance.
I pace—from one end of the room to the other, then back again. Boots strike the tile with each clipped step. The sound echoes off the walls like a metronome counting down to something I haven’t named yet.
“He played us,” Alvise finally says.
Wrong fucking choice of words.
“No,” I snap, spinning around so fast it makes him flinch. “He used us.”
I stalk to the glass wall, where the board is covered in names, photos, and string: Crane, Fiore, Shell Corps, maps, satellite overlays, and every piece of intel we’ve bled for.
All of it?
Fucking useless.
I grab the red marker and drag a thick, messy line through the circle around Kai’s name. My hand is slightly shaking. Fucking hell! That hasn’t happened in ages. I erase it, the whole goddamn circle. Then, I draw it again. Harder. Pressing like I want the pen to puncture the glass.
“He baited us,” I growl. “Built the stage. Cued the lights. Made sure we were watching. And then?” I throw the marker down. “He vanished. Slipped through the trapdoor like Houdini in a fucking tailored suit.”
I turn, fists clenched. My breathing’s loud now. Fast. I feel like I’m being strangled from the inside.
And then I do what I haven’t done in years.
I lose control.
My fist slams into the edge of the metal desk, bone against steel. The sound cracks through the Vault like gunfire. My knuckles split open. Blood blooms instantly, bright red against my skin.
I’m too numb to even react to the growing pain.
Alvise winces. “Cyril….”
“He knew we were watching,” I snarl. “He knew. Every fucking move. And now he’s laughing somewhere. Watching the footage. Probably sipping wine and congratulating himself on making us his fucking puppets.”
Gael, smartly, says nothing.
Alvise shifts closer, his voice quieter now, measured. “You think this was just defense?”
I shake my head slowly. Dead calm now.
“No,” I say. “This was a message.”
I drag a hand through my hair, smearing blood on my temple without meaning to.
“He’s telling us he’s not afraid anymore. That we’re not the only ones who know how to pull strings. He’s saying, ‘I see you. I see your house. I see your son. I see the woman you’re starting to give a shit about.’”
I walk back to the desk, breathing like a bull, chest heaving.
“And next time,” I say quietly, “he won’t use pool tiles.”
Alvise says nothing. There’s nothing left to say.
This isn’t a setback.
This is a humiliation.
I let him get in my head. I let him drive me to move first. And he made me look like a fool doing it.
That shit doesn’t sit with me.
And it sure as fuck doesn’t go unanswered.
I wrap my bleeding hand in a towel. White. By the time I tighten the knot, it’s half red. Feels fitting.
Then, I walk back to the glass board.
I stare at the web of strings.
Crane’s name in red.
Sora’s in black.
And at the center?
Enya.
Enya’s in green.
She’s the axis. The weak spot.
Crane knows that.
I trace a line between Kai and Enya.
I feel the storm rise up in my chest again, but this time, instead of lashing out, I let it settle.
The feed screen on the left wall blinks to life. One of the rotating night cameras on the private estate server. Upstairs. Ren’s bedroom.
Enya’s in there, kneeling by his bed, brushing curls off his forehead.
Her lips move. She’s singing. I can’t hear it, but I know the rhythm.
Ren yawns, eyes heavy. She kisses his temple.
And in that split second, I forget that I’m supposed to be made of stone. Because they’re mine now.
And that bastard put them on the board like they were just more pieces.
He already got too close. I won’t let him disappear again. Not this time.
I sit down in the leather chair, pick up my phone, and stare at the screen.
The contact glows back at me.
Daiki Tsukasa
Sora’s father.
The one man who might have answers Crane doesn’t know I need, but I don’t dial.
I stare at the name, hoping it might offer some hint, but in this world, there’s no such thing as help. Despite everything, one thing is certain: I’m not losing a war over a woman who never loved me.