Chapter 10 – Rocco
I slip through the narrow gap between two container stacks, ledger heavy in my jacket pocket. The pages Chiara showed me weigh more than paper—they carry names, dates, payoffs, and a verdict: Sal Ferrano is a traitor. I don’t question it anymore. I only need to finish this.
The dock’s lamps are few and far between. Each one slices a rectangle of pale light across old wood planks soaked in salt and fish oil. I stick to the shadows, watching every step. My boots make no extra noise beyond the dock’s own creaks. I raise my pistol, thumb brushing the grip, and stay ready.
Ahead, Sal paces by a rusted container door, talking to a man I know: Cuban muscle with a pistol tucked in his waistband.
The thug’s lean and tall, shirt damp with sweat, nostrils flaring as he speaks.
Sal’s hand grips a duffel bag—full of cash if the ledger’s right.
I ease closer. Through a narrow crack, I hear every word.
“She’s done,” Sal says. Voice low. Tense. “Ledger says she ran. Javier gets what he paid for.”
The Cuban nods and pulls his pistol free. “You sure? No mistakes this time?”
Sal rolls the duffel toward him. “She’s gone. No race tonight. Just the payout.”
The thug’s eyes flick to the ledger in Sal’s bag. “I want proof.”
Sal glances over his shoulder. “Here.” He unzips the bag, pulls out a folded sheaf of papers. “Ledger pages. Names, amounts. Your cut’s clear.”
The thug scans a page. Taps a line with one finger. “Falcone.” His lips tighten. “She’s alive.”
“Name’s on the list.” Sal shrugs. “Paid more than once.”
The Cuban’s head snaps up. Our eyes meet for a heartbeat. Mine are calm. I step out.
“Wrong girl. Wrong plan.” My voice cuts through the night.
They spin around. Sal’s pale in the lamplight, face slack. The thug reaches for his gun. I fire before his finger pulls the trigger—one shot, center chest. He drops without a sound. The barrel clatters against the boards.
Sal stumbles backward, eyes wide. The duffel falls from his grasp, pages scattering across the dock.
I close the distance in three strides. My fingers lock around the back of his shirt.
He’s stiff, surprised. I twist his shoulder until he topples forward, chest colliding with stacked wooden crates. Boards crack under his weight.
“You sold her,” I growl. “Say it.”
He gasps, face pressed against damp wood. His voice rattles like metal. “You think this is new? You think she mattered?”
I lean in, one boot pressed against his hip. My right hand arches back and crashes into his ribs—once, twice—each blow tighter than the last. His body tenses, spasms, then shudders. I drive my knee against his stomach—three times—until he coughs up blood and collapses onto his knees, head drooping.
“To me, she mattered. Still does,” I say, breathing even.
He chokes out a laugh that’s more shock than humor. “Ferrano knew. They all knew. You were just a dog with a collar.”
The words bite. Fury surges, and I yank him upright by the scruff of his shirt, slamming him chest-first against the crates again. Wood splinters under his head. A thin line of blood trickles from his mouth. He tastes metal.
“You used her,” I hiss. “You made her bait.”
He tries to pull away, but I’m heavier, locked on him.
I step back for a moment, holstering my pistol with deliberate calm.
Then I slip my hand inside my jacket and draw Chiara’s ledger out fully.
Pages hiss as they spread across wet wood.
I check the cover—Sal Ferrano’s neat scrawl. Inside, his lies.
“Where’s the rest?” I ask. “Who else is on the list?”
He shakes his head. His eyes dart to the fallen duffel. “They took it.”
“They?” I echo.
He swallows. “Javier’s men. They hit me first. Wanted the cash. The ledger was collateral.”
I snap the ledger shut and press it against Sal’s chest. “Then explain why you wrote it. Why you sold out Chiara.”
His face twists—regret and fear colliding. “She was gone. I needed deckhands. I had to feed the crew.”
“By selling your own blood?” I step closer. “By handing over a woman who saved your life?”
He blanches. “I thought she’d never come back.”
A laugh escapes me, low and rough. “She came back.”
He closes his eyes, voice small. “I didn’t know.”
“You always knew—because you wrote it here.” I wave the ledger. “Lines and numbers. Payments.”
He looks down. “I panicked.”
“Panic is a luxury for the living,” I say. “You bury your mistakes or you pay for them.”
Sal takes a step back, knocks against the container. His hand shakes. He’s breathing hard. “Please.”
“Save it.” I lean down, scoop up the first pages. I scan names—Cuban cut lines, Ferrano payouts. Then her name, Falcone, Chiara—status: confirmed alive. “You framed her death,” I say, tone flat. “You got her declared dead.”
He closes his eyes, voice barely a whisper. “It was easier.”
I rise. The dock shifts under my weight. I press the barrel of my pistol against his chest—close enough that he can feel the heat of the metal. “Easier for who?” I ask.
He chokes: “Me. My family.”
I flick my eyes to the ledger. “More lives will die if you don’t fix this.”
He swallows. “Tell me how.”
I drop my pistol but keep my hand near the grip. “By coming clean.”
His shoulders slump. “There’s no clean left.”
I pick up the scattered pages again, gathering them. “Then you make it right.”
He nods once, head down. I step back. “Get out of here. Take them with you.” He glances at the scattered papers and the empty duffel. At me. He scoops both up and disappears into darkness, carrying the ledger like a death sentence.
I don’t chase him. Instead, I hear tires screeching farther down the dock—brighter headlights carving a path through the warehouse door. Two men climb out of a sleek black sedan, pistols drawn, moving toward me. And then I see Javier emerge, tall in a dark shirt, face unreadable.
He calls out: “Damiani! Is this how Ferrano runners do business?”
I slip my pistol from its holster and crouch behind a stack of crates. The first Cuban thug opens fire—bullets strike the crate above Sal’s head, splinters raining down. I fire back, hitting him once in the shoulder. He drops to one knee, clutching the wound.
The second thug rounds the crate’s edge, pistol raised. He fires twice. One round snaps a railing at my side. The second whistles past my ear. I slide behind an oil drum and fire three quick rounds—he goes down, leg collapsing under him.
Javier flinches under my sight. He drags backward into the car’s beams, keeps shooting. I spin sideways, drop low, and slide behind another crate. A third shot ricochets overhead. Metal clangs. My mind clears.
I press close to the crate’s edge, exposing just enough to aim. Then I fire straight at Javier’s silhouette. He flinches, staggers, and retreats further into the light. Tires peel away as the sedan peels off down the dock ramp. I don’t chase. I watch the lights vanish.
Silence fills the hollow space. I stand slowly and walk to the crate where Sal had collapsed. He’s slumped against it, head at an odd angle. I kneel beside him—his chest rises and falls raggedly. His pupils are huge when he meets my gaze.
“You picked the wrong side,” I say. “She didn’t.”
He tries to nod. Lips tremble. “I—”
“Save your breath.” I tug a cargo strap from my belt—something I carry for situations like this—and wrap it tightly around his wrists. He grunts but can’t struggle free.
I swipe my palm across my mouth, tasting blood and dock grime.
Then I stand, draw my pistol, and vault onto a nearby stack of crates.
I look out over the dock: broken crates, slick planks, a drift of damp fish scales down to the water.
Everything is calmer now, as if the gunfire never happened.
The waves slap against pilings, shadowed by a moonless sky.
My breath slows. My jaw unclenches. I stare at the bound Sal. He’s alive, but he’s just as wrecked as I feel.
I slip the binder from my jacket—Chiara’s ledger, now mine. Every page a spike in a thread that leads straight to Chiara’s doorstep and beyond to Javier and the Cubans he controls.
I press my hand flat on the open binder, covering Sal’s betrayal and my duty to Chiara in the same motion. I close my eyes briefly, tucking rage down into something solid. I need my head clear.
Thunder rumbles overhead. Storm rolling in. Good. Water will hide our tracks.
I glance at Sal. He looks pale beneath the warehouse lamps. He shifts, tests his bonds. Pain fires through him. He spits a bloody curse.
“You hurt her,” I say. “She’s mine to protect.”
He chokes, voice raspy: “I—”
“You’ll face them—all of them,” I whisper. “I’ll hang this ledger in every port until that hit list is shredded.”
“Please,” he breathes. The desperation cuts deep.
I holster my weapon and raise both hands, palms open—not in surrender, but to show I’m done with threats.
“Move,” I say.
He crawls toward the warehouse gate on his knees, eyes on his hands. Each step scrapes his knees on damp planks.
Once he’s clear, I step after him, tower over him, and place a hand on his shoulder. He flinches. I press down until he’s on his feet.
I step off the dock edge, out of sight. By the time the first streetlamp flickers, I have already dragged Sal from the crates and hustled him into the back of my black sedan. The engine roars to life; Sal’s bound wrists thump against the door as it closes.