CHAPTER NINETEEN
Marco
THE HOUSE IS quiet when we return from the charity event. I dismiss the security team, keeping only the perimeter guards in place. After the tension of the evening, I need space, silence, room to think.
As soon as we enter, Sasha kicks off her heels, sighing with relief. The sight of her—still elegant in that emerald dress, but with her hair starting to come loose and her feet now bare—does something to my chest that I don't care to examine too closely.
"Thank God that's over," she says, stretching her arms above her head.
I watch her movements, mesmerized. For years, I've forced myself to stay away from her. Sasha Gillespie has always been a forbidden temptation—too good, too pure for someone like me. But tonight, seeing her on my arm, feeling her body against mine as we danced, her scent surrounding me—it's broken something loose inside me that I've kept chained for too long.
"You were convincing," I tell her, my voice rougher than intended as I remove my jacket and loosen my tie. "Even the senator's wife commented on how we couldn't take our eyes off each other."
She gives me a wry smile that sends heat crawling up my spine. "You sound surprised."
"I am," I admit, moving to the bar to pour a much-needed whiskey. "I didn't expect you to play the part so…thoroughly."
Her cheeks flush, and I'm captivated by the color spreading across her skin. I remember how she leaned into me throughout the evening, her fingers brushing my arm, her body pressed against mine as we danced. It felt too real, too close to what I've imagined for years.
"You said to make it convincing," she reminds me.
I take a slow sip of my drink, not breaking eye contact. "And you did. Spectacularly."
She turns away, but not before I catch the slight hitch in her breath. "I should change," she says, heading for the stairs. "Get out of this dress."
The image her words conjure is almost my undoing. I've wanted Sasha Gillespie since the first moment I saw her—seventeen years old, too young, too innocent, but with a fire in her that called to something primal in me. I kept my distance then, knowing I would only destroy her. I've kept my distance ever since, watching from afar as she built her life away from Ireland, away from me.
Until now.
"Sasha." Her name feels right on my tongue.
She pauses, her hand on the banister, and looks back at me.
"Thank you," I say, meaning it more than she knows. "For tonight."
Her expression softens, just slightly. "I kept my end of the bargain. That's all."
I study her, wondering if she really believes that, if she truly doesn't feel the pull between us that's been there for years. "Get some rest. I have to go out again, but I'll be back before dawn."
Her eyes widen slightly. "More work?"
I nod.
"Be careful," she says softly, and the genuine concern in her voice catches me off guard.
Something tight uncurls in my chest. "Lock your door," I reply. "Don't open it for anyone but me."
She nods, and for a moment, we simply look at each other, the air between us charged with unspoken tension. Then she turns and heads upstairs, the emerald dress flowing behind her like a shadow.
I stand there for a long moment, fighting the urge to follow her. The anonymous caller's warning echoes in my mind: "Tonight." The shipment can't wait, no matter how much I might want to stay.
I check my gun, call Tony to confirm the teams are in position, and head out into the night.
I arrive to find Lucas and his men already in position, taking cover behind shipping containers. The night is thick with fog rolling in from the water, visibility reduced to mere meters—perfect conditions for an ambush.
"Three teams," I tell Lucas as I crouch beside him, checking my weapon. "I want eyes on every approach before we move on the shipment."
“I’ve been trying to call you,” Lucas remarks as he double-checks hisgun.
“I had a senator to sway,” I answer.
He nods, face grim in the dim light. Whatever else he was going to say dies on his tongue and reverts back to the problem at hand. " Tony's men are covering the north side, mine are on the west. Your crew just arrived at the east entrance."
I scan the area; the hairs on the back of my neck are standing up. Something feels off. The docks are too quiet; the usual ambient sounds of water lapping against the piers and distant machinery are replaced by an unnatural stillness.
"It's a setup," I murmur, more to myself than to Lucas.
He turns to me, brow furrowed. "What?" I’m about to explain to him about the anonymous call, but before I can respond, the night erupts in gunfire. Muzzle flashes illuminate the fog in strobing bursts, bullets tearing into the container above our heads.
"Down!" I shout, pushing Lucas to the ground as the air around us becomes a hailstorm of lead.
We scramble for better cover, the concrete scraping my palms as I army-crawl behind a low concrete barrier.
"Tony!" I yell into my radio. "Status!"
His voice comes back, nearly drowned out by gunfire. "Pinned down on the north side! They've got us flanked!"
I curse, calculating our options. The shipment is sitting in a warehouse on the east side of the docks—exactly where the heaviest fire is coming from.
"Lucas, hold position," I order. "I'm taking my team around to flank them."
His hand shoots out, grabbing my arm. "That's suicide, Marco."
"Got a better idea?" I challenge, already signaling to my men.
Five of my most trusted guys gather around me, faces tense but determined. I outline a quick plan—we'll use the maze of shipping containers to circle behind our attackers, taking them by surprise.
"On my mark," I say, checking my gun one last time. "Three, two, one—move!"
We burst from cover, sprinting between containers, using the fog as concealment. The sound of gunfire intensifies, bullets ricocheting off metal with deafening pings. One of my men goes down immediately, a shot to the leg, but two others drag him back to safety.
I press forward, trusting my instincts more than my vision in the treacherous fog. A shadow materializes to my right—I fire twice, dropping the figure before they can raise their weapon. Another appears ahead, and I take them down with a clean headshot.
We're making progress, working our way through the labyrinth of containers, when a grenade lands six feet ahead of me.
"Grenade!" I shout, diving backward.
The explosion rocks the ground, sending shrapnel flying. Pain slices across my forehead, warm blood immediately running into my eyes. I wipe it away, disoriented but still moving.
“We’ll draw fire to the north perimeter.” Tony’s voice crackles over the radio.
“Good,” I shout back, the fire is drawn away, and we move again. Single shots are fired, and Ricco, who's been with us since the beginning, takes a shot to the throat; young Mateo, barely twenty-two, catches a burst to the chest. Good men, loyal men.
I fight with cold precision, each shot calculated, each movement deliberate. This isn't my first firefight, but it might be the most personal. Someone set us up, someone with intimate knowledge of our operations, and they'll pay for every drop of blood spilled tonight.
Finally, we reach the warehouse. I kick in the side door, weapon raised, expecting more resistance. Instead, we find the shipment intact—crates of high-grade military weapons, exactly where our anonymous caller said they would be.
"Clear!" I call, motioning for my men to secure the perimeter.
Tony joins me inside, breathing hard, blood seeping from a cut on his arm. "Jesus Christ," he gasps, surveying the weapons. "They're all here. Why go through all this trouble just to leave the prize behind?"
It's a good question, one that gnaws at me as we quickly inventory the shipment. Nothing seems to be missing, nothing tampered with. This was no ordinary hijacking attempt.
"It was a test," I conclude, realization dawning. "Or a message."
Tony watches as I inspect one of the rifles. "From who?"
"That's what we need to find out. Any survivors? I ask, not hearing any more gunshots.
Tony shakes his head. “None so far.”
I focus on what’s in front of me, and we work quickly, loading the weapons into our vans that were stationed on the east side of the docks, as the men are loading them, I take a moment to check on the wounded—several men with various injuries, but all will live. The dead we wrap respectfully, to be given proper burials. Even in our world, we honor our fallen.
I catch my reflection in a puddle of rainwater—blood streaking down from a cut above my eyebrow that bleeds like a motherfucker but is otherwise minor. My suit is ruined, torn, and stained beyond salvation.
"Who the fuck set us up?" Tony asks, lighting a cigarette with shaking hands.
I wipe blood from my face, surveying the carnage around us. "Three guesses, and the first two don't count."
Tony's expression darkens. "Your father?"
"Working theory," I say, though I'm not entirely convinced. My father's brutal, but he's never been wasteful with his resources. Losing good men just to teach me a lesson seems extreme, even for him.
"We need to move the shipment," I tell him. "Split it up, different locations."
He nods, already barking orders into his phone.
I check my watch—almost four in the morning. Dawn will break soon. "I'm heading back. Call me when everything's secure."
Tony gives me a knowing look."Be careful, Marco," he says.
“You too.” I fire back over my shoulder.