CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Sasha
I WAIT ANXIOUSLY in the secured vehicle, tapping my fingers against my thigh as adrenaline courses through me. Tony insisted I stay protected while they mount the rescue, but sitting here feels impossible. My injured ankle throbs beneath its bandage, a dull reminder of why I'm supposed to stay put. But how can I remain here, safely tucked away, when Marco is in danger?
"Don't even think about it," Tony had warned before leaving. "Boss would kill me if anything happened to you."
The silence in the car is suffocating. Through the tinted windows, I can see the looming warehouse where Marco is being held. When sudden gunfire erupts from inside, my heart nearly stops. The decision makes itself. Protection be damned—I can't just sit by.
I quickly open the door, and I’m ready to jump out when the metallic gun on the front seat seems to be a beacon to me, more gunshots from behind make me quickly reach across and grab it before I jump out. My ankle protests with each step, but I grit my teeth against the pain and limp toward the warehouse entrance, using the chaos of the firefight as cover.
Inside, the air is thick with dust and the acrid smell of gunpowder. I stay low, navigating carefully through the maze of wooden crates and rusting machinery. Voices echo off the high ceiling—shouting, threats, the distinctive sounds of combat. I follow them, keeping to the shadows.
Then I see him.
Marco is locked in brutal combat with an older man I instantly recognize from photographs—Patrick Walsh. Father and son. The family resemblance is striking even as they try to destroy each other.
I inch closer, using a stack of pallets for cover. My breath catches as Patrick gains the upper hand, slamming Marco against a concrete wall with surprising strength for a man his age. The gun in Patrick's hand presses against Marco's temple. Even from here, I can see Marco's chest heaving, the trickle of blood from his split lip, the defiance still burning in his eyes despite his precarious position.
Those eyes suddenly lock with mine across the room—a moment of connection amid the violence. I see recognition, then alarm. He doesn't want me here, doesn't want me in danger. But I'm already raising Tony's gun, aiming at the ceiling above them. I have no idea if the gun is loaded, I close my eyes and squeeze the trigger.
The warning shot reverberates through the warehouse like a thunderclap. Patrick startles, his concentration broken just long enough. Marco seizes the moment, breaking his father's grip and twisting the gun from his hand in one fluid motion. The older man stumbles backward.
Before Patrick can find his balance, the warehouse door crashes open again, and a group of men raise their guns. I duck behind the crates as gunfire rips through the warehouse. Covering my ears, I cower.
Something touches my arm, and I scream, only to come face to face with Marco.
"Why did you come?" Marco demands of me as bullets chip away at our cover. "I told you to stay safe."
His anger doesn't mask the concern in his eyes, the fear—not for himself, but for me. I reach for his face, brushing away a smear of blood from his cheek.
“I needed to know you were safe.” My reasoning is weak now as we both huddle against the crates.
The shooting stops for a moment, and Marco glances out from behind the crate. I want to reach out and drag him back, but he’s already crawling away.
“Marco!” I shout.
It only takes a moment before he returns with his father, who’s been shot. His face white as a ghost. Several wounds in his chest bleed, drenching him in blood.
Marco holds his father as he dies, cradling the man who caused him so much pain.
The gunfire outside intensifies. Marco gently lays his father's body down and turns to me with renewed purpose.
"We need to move," he says, checking the ammunition in his weapon. "Can you walk?"
I nod, pushing myself to my feet despite the pain shooting up from my ankle. "I got in here, didn't I?"
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "That you did." He glances around the corner of the crate. "Tony and the others are holding the front, but the O'Reillys have us pinned down. There's a side exit through the loading bays. If we time it right between crates..."
"On three," Marco says, positioning himself to cover our escape. "Stay close to me."
I nod, trying to push down the fear.
The next few minutes blur into a chaotic rush of motion, sound, and fear. Marco moves with precision, creating paths where none seem to exist. I follow as best I can, my injured ankle threatening to buckle with each step.
We're almost to the loading bay doors when a bullet whizzes past my ear, close enough that I feel its heat. Marco pulls me down behind a forklift as return fire peppers our position.
"I think that's Deckie O'Reilly himself," Marco mutters, peering cautiously around our cover. "Looks like he decided to personally oversee our execution."
“Come on out, Marco.” A voice, which I assume is Deckie’s, sails through the air.
Marco glances left and right before looking at me.
“Don’t follow me.” His words are almost a growl that shocks me. I don’t realize what he is going to do before he rises with his hands up.
Noooo.
“Didn’t take you for a coward, Deckie.” Marco’s voice holds a note of laughter in it.
Laughter low and throaty echo’s around the quiet space. No more gunfire.
“Let’s do this man to man. No guns, just me and you?” Marco suggests.
Another laugh.
“Let’s not.” Deckie’s words tighten around my throat, and I peer out. Deckie has his gun raised, pointed at Marco’s chest. I clamp my hands across my mouth to stop the scream that demands release.
The sharp crack of a gunshot echoes through the warehouse. Deckie drops instantly, a bullet neatly placed in his head. In the stunned silence that follows, someone shouts.
“Get down, Marco.”
Marco immediately ducks and races back to me. He lands with a loud thud beside me as more gunfire resumes. He drags me into his chest.
“It’s going to be okay; my brother is here.”
I want to ask if he means Damien? But I don’t. We stay huddled until the gunfire stops.
"Boss!" Tony's voice rings from the warehouse entrance. "It’s over. The area is secure."
Marco doesn't respond immediately; he looks at me, relief evident in his expression before he rises and helps me up, too.
Tony approaches cautiously, visibly surprised to see me standing beside Marco. "She should've stayed hidden," he mutters.
Marco cuts him off sharply. "Yes, she should have.”
I want to defend Tony, but another man walks toward Marco.
Marco embraces him. “James, thank you.”
I watch as the brothers embrace, their silhouettes merging into one against the harsh overhead lights of the warehouse. My breath catches in my throat. The metallic scent of blood hangs in the air, making my stomach turn.
"Come on," James says.
Marco pauses and looks at me. “James, this is Sasha, Sasha, my brother James.”
I take James’s outstretched hand and notice how he doesn’t look like his brothers, and then I remember from when I was younger that he was adopted.
“Lovely to meet you,” I say and smile even as we stand in the middle of carnage.
“You, too.” James lets my hand go and pats Marco on the arm.
“Let’s get out of here.”
I follow them as they navigate through the warehouse, stepping carefully around the fallen bodies. Each face we pass tells a story that ended too soon. I try not to look, but my eyes betray me. These were people once. Now they're just...obstacles on the concrete floor.
The brothers stop suddenly, and I nearly bump into them. Their father lies before us, his body still and unfamiliar in death. The silence between them feels crushing.
"We could have helped him," James says, his voice breaking with hurt. The words hang in the air, heavy with regret and possibilities that will never be realized.
Footsteps echo from the far end of the warehouse. I tense up, but it's only Damien, the third brother, his face grim as he approaches. No words are exchanged as the three brothers bend down in unison. They lift their father with gentle hands, cradling him as they might have done in life. His limbs hang loose, head lolling back unnaturally.
I stand frozen, an outsider witnessing their private grief, unable to look away as they carry him to the waiting van. They place him in the back, movements deliberate and careful, as if he might still feel pain.
My heart hammers against my ribs. This night will never leave me. The images are burned into my memory—the bodies, the brothers, their silent coordination in handling their father's corpse.
A warm hand slips into mine, startling me. Marco's fingers intertwine with my own, anchoring me to the present. His face is etched with exhaustion, but his eyes hold steady as they meet mine.
"It's over," he says softly, giving my hand a gentle squeeze. "Let's go home."
I nod, unable to find words. Home sounds impossible, distant—a concept belonging to a different world than this one of blood and warehouse lights and dead fathers. But I hold onto Marco's hand like a lifeline as we turn away from the scene, taking the first step toward whatever "home" might mean after tonight.