Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty Two
Nico
The van is parked about a block off the warehouse, tucked into a shallow strip of shade beside an auto body shop that’s closed.
The AC is on low. The windows are up. The air inside smells like old carpet and faint cologne and the stale bite of coffee from a cup in the holder that’s been there too long.
Outside, the afternoon is bright and stupidly normal.
People drive by. A guy in a safety vest walks a dog like he’s got nowhere better to be on a Monday afternoon. Somewhere down the street, someone’s music rattles a trunk.
The warehouse sits behind a chain-link fence with black slats woven through it. The loading bay door is down. A security camera points at the driveway. Another points at the street.
They’re not amateurs.
Which is why this is pissing me off.
I keep my eyes on the bay and lean back in the seat, jaw tight.
“Tell me why the hell they’re doing this in the middle of the damn afternoon,” I say.
Vito doesn’t look at me. He’s had his eyes on the place since we pulled up.
“Antonio says they’re getting spooked,” he says. “He got intel they’re moving the shipment right after dark, so we have to hit it before then.”
“This is sloppy and impulsive,” I say. “This is the kind of shit you do.”
Vito shoots me a dirty look. “I’m not sloppy. And anyway, Antonio says this shit is—what did he say? Tri-fold. It’s valuable, we can use it, and we can keep it out of Russo hands.”
I keep my gaze on the fence, on the empty driveway, on the way the cameras don’t sweep. Fixed angles. Multiple overlapping views. Whoever set it up knows what they’re doing.
“How many crates?” I ask.
“Encrypted card readers. Panels. Control modules. But they shouldn’t be too much for us to grab and go,” Vito says.
He nods at the warehouse.
“They were supposed to install them at that new club before the weekend,” he continues. “The one that’s going to start pulling our VIPs. They like that shit. Makes them feel untouchable.”
I don’t answer, because I don’t need to. I know exactly what kind of doors those systems get bolted onto.
Doors with my VIPs behind them. I won’t let that happen.
Which means we take it before it gets where it’s going.
I stare at the loading bay.
Nothing moves.
The sun keeps shining.
It’s almost insulting.
A minute passes. Then another.
Vito shifts, restless. He’s always been like that. All heat and impulse and muscle. Where I can sit still for hours and not blink if that’s what the job requires, he burns through patience like gasoline.
He drums his fingers once against the steering wheel, then stops when I look at his hands.
“Relax,” he says, like he isn’t the one vibrating.
“I am relaxed,” I answer.
He snorts.
“Sure.”
We sit in silence long enough that the quiet starts to feel like a second layer of pressure.
My phone buzzes once in my pocket. I don’t pull it out.
It makes me think of Erica, and the look on her face when she got my message.
I force it back into a smaller corner of my mind. Later. Not here.
Not while we’re watching a warehouse for a shipment that needs to disappear.
But tonight… tonight I’ll have her all to myself. No close neighbors means she can scream and beg and plead as loud as she wants to.
Vito turns his head toward me like he’s been waiting for the silence to loosen something.
“You know your girl was all hot and bothered today, right?” he says.
I don’t move.
I keep my eyes on the warehouse.
I pull in a deep breath and let it out slowly.
Vito grins like he’s proud of himself.
“Your assistant,” he says and snorts, like calling her that is the funniest thing in the world. “She was hard up for it.”
I lift an eyebrow slowly and finally look at him.
“And how would you know that?”
Vito scoffs.
“Because I know what a horny woman looks like,” he says. “She was sitting there trying not to squirm, trying to act all professional, but her face—”
“Stop,” I say, flat.
Vito’s grin widens.
“What? I’m not insulting her,” he says. “I’m telling you. She’s got that look. Like her body’s arguing with her brain, and her body’s winning.”
He isn’t wrong.
That’s the problem.
I left her that way on purpose.
“You sat in the same room as her for five minutes,” I say, making sure to keep my voice even. “You don’t know anything about her.”
Vito shrugs like that’s irrelevant.
“I know eyes,” he says. “I know posture. I know when a woman’s trying to pretend she isn’t thinking about getting laid, but all she’s doing is thinking about getting laid. Not to mention, she’s got the world’s worst poker face.”
I can’t disagree with him on that one, so I just stare.
He laughs.
“Better get that situation sorted,” he adds, “or she’ll go looking for someone who can do her right.”
It’s meant as a joke.
My jaw tightens.
Vito catches it, of course he does, and his grin shifts into something sharper, like he likes poking the bear.
“What?” he says. “You gonna tell me you don’t care?”
I don’t answer right away.
Because I do care.
More than I should.
More than I planned to.
And I don’t like admitting that out loud, even to my brother.
I look back at the loading bay.
“Won’t be hard to find someone either,” he continues, because he really doesn’t know when to shut the fuck up.
“I mean, the body on her…” He whistles. “I thought you were nuts spending 70K on some virgin broad. I still think you’re nuts, but I could see paying that much to be the first to smash her—”
“Vito, shut the fuck up,” I snap.
He widens his eyes, still messing with me. “I thought you didn’t care,” he says, faking a shocked reaction. “I mean, if you really don’t care, I think we had a little some-some going on, me and her. I could take care of that for you.”
I turn my head slowly.
Vito is grinning, like he’s proud of himself for finally getting a reaction out of me.
“You didn’t,” I say, very calmly.
Vito lifts a shoulder.
“Relax,” he says. “I’m kidding.”
I stare at him for another beat.
Then I look back at the warehouse.
Because if I keep looking at his face, I’m going to do something I’ll regret later. Something I’ve never done because of a woman.
That doesn’t mean I can’t threaten.
“If you ever talk about her like that again,” I say, voice low, “I’ll rearrange your teeth.”
Vito’s grin fades into something annoyed.
“Jesus, Nico.”
“Not joking,” I say.
A beat.
Then he clicks his tongue and leans back in his seat, like I’m the one being unreasonable when he’s joking about fucking my woman.
“Fine,” he mutters. “Touchy.”
I let it sit there.
Let him feel it.
Because this isn’t a game.
Not with her.
Not with what she means to me, even if I’m not saying that part out loud.
“You know I wouldn’t do that, so fucking relax,” he says tightly.
I do know he wouldn’t do that. Vito may joke, and make stupid ass remarks, he may be an impulsive ass, but he’s as loyal as they come. He’d saw off his own tongue before going after someone he knew I cared about.
When I don’t answer, he shifts his gaze back to the warehouse and squints.
“Still nothing,” he says.
My eyes track the fence line again, the bay door, the empty driveway.
“Good,” I say. “Let’s go.”
I open the door and get out of Vito’s car.
The heat of the sun bears down on us immediately.
My shoes hit the pavement without the usual crunch or scrape. I place my feet deliberately.
Vito gets out on his side and mirrors me.
We move down the block on the side with the most cover. A row of parked cars. A dumpster. A fenced-in storage area with stacked pallets.
We cut through the space between buildings, where the smell changes from sun-baked asphalt to old garbage and motor oil.
Vito pulls a set of black gloves out of his pocket and tugs them on as we walk. I already have mine on.
I keep my shoulders loose and my head up, like I’m just another guy walking down an alley.
But my eyes are working.
Cameras. Angles. Blind spots.
I saw the fixed camera at the front gate. I didn’t see what’s on the side.
That doesn’t mean it isn’t there.
We reach the fence line behind the warehouse, where the slats don’t run all the way around.
The rear is more utilitarian. Less polished. Still protected.
There’s another camera here, mounted high on the corner. It points down toward the back door and the loading ramp.
I nod once at it.
Vito follows my gaze.
“So?” he whispers.
“So we don’t go in that way.”
He exhales hard through his nose, irritated.
“No shit.”
I ignore him.
We move along the fence until we find the service access, where the chain-link meets an old brick wall that belongs to the neighboring building.
A narrow gap in a dead corner. No camera.
At least none I can see.
I crouch and test the lock on the service gate.
It’s newer than the fence, but not one of the new ones in the crates we’re here for.
I glance up, and Vito is already pulling out a small pouch of tools.
I keep my body between him and the alley, back to the wall, eyes on the corner and the rooftop line above us. Ears open. Every distant car door, every muffled voice, every footstep that doesn’t belong.
The pick clicks once.
Twice.
The lock gives with a soft, satisfying snap.
Vito eases it off without letting it clang against the chain.
We slide through the gate and pull it shut behind us, leaving it sitting the way it was—closed, quiet, looking untouched.
The back door is twenty feet ahead, metal and scuffed, a small keypad mounted beside it.
Vito leans in, eyes on the numbers.
“Alarm?” he whispers.
“Maybe,” I say. “Assume yes.”
He nods, all business now, and we move in tight to the wall, staying out of the camera’s cone as much as we can.
I pull my phone out just long enough to check the live view from the camera angle I can access—one of ours, across the street, pointed at the front.
No movement. No vehicles.
I put the phone away and crouch by the keypad.
Vito’s impatience is a physical thing beside me, but he holds it in.
It takes me two minutes to get the panel open and pull the cover.