Chapter 10 – Nico
The warehouse creaks like it remembers better days.
Salt clings to every bolt and corner. It sticks to my tongue, seeps into my jacket. The metal stinks—old oil, blood dried months ago, rust from crates we should’ve burned.
I stand over the steel table, both hands flat on either side of a pile of paper that should’ve been ash.
Forged records.
Time stamps. Call logs. Photos.
All fake.
All Vince.
He didn’t even bother to hide the quality. It’s just clean enough to trick someone who wants to be fooled. The handwriting is familiar—his. The ink’s too fresh. The text messages are too exact. The kind of precision that comes from someone who doesn’t know how real people talk.
But the names?
Mine. Hers. Marco’s.
Those land like punches, even if I know they’re hollow.
Elara doesn’t pace. Doesn’t fidget.
She stands on the other side of the table, arms crossed, her eyes fixed on me like she’s not sure whether to say something or let me say it first.
The last time we stood this close, I had my hand between her thighs.
Now?
Now we’re trying to figure out if a man I’ve known for years just tried to turn her into a traitor.
“He’s trying to pin this on you,” I say.
My voice is steady. It has to be.
“Falsified logs. Meeting times you never had. Calls you didn’t make.”
Her jaw doesn’t move. Her fingers flex.
“Then he picked the wrong bitch to corner.”
I nod once.
“He wants me doubting you. Wants the Brotherhood to fracture.”
“Let him try,” she says. “I don’t break that easy.”
We hold each other’s stare.
The paper rustles between us, caught in the draft from the busted window above.
She picks up one of the sheets. Reads it.
Her eyes narrow.
“Marco’s name here,” she says. “This location. I was never near this address.”
“I know.”
“He’s betting you won’t ask.”
“He’s betting I’ll flinch.”
She tosses the page back onto the table.
I feel her fury more than I see it. Like standing next to a fuse that’s already lit.
Then the warehouse door bangs open.
Boots on concrete. Fast.
Luca.
He skids to a stop just outside the makeshift walls of stacked crates. His shirt’s half unbuttoned, one sleeve torn. His chest heaves.
“Boss,” he says. “Just came from the docks. Vince was with Marco.”
I straighten.
Luca steps closer, urgency vibrating off him.
“I saw the money change hands. Thick envelope. Vince handed him something. Marco smiled like he already won.”
“You sure?”
“Sure enough to bury him.”
I don’t breathe for a full second.
Then I reach for the knife on the table.
My hand closes around the handle like it belongs there.
It does.
“Vince always wanted the Brotherhood for himself,” I say.
Elara watches me. Still. Steady.
“He thought rot could be shaped into a throne,” I continue. “He forgot what I am.” I turn to Luca. “Get the car. We need to move.”
He nods, bolts for the door.
________________________________________
The truck’s parked just beyond the bay door. It’s running—engine humming steady under the night—but the space between us and it feels like a goddamn stretch of open battlefield.
I glance left.
Elara scans the angles as we move. Her chain sways low. Her hands don’t twitch.
She’s not nervous.
She’s ready.
I open my mouth to say something—don’t know what—but then the back gate clatters.
Fast.
Too fast.
I spin.
A man rushes through the open side bay—one of Marco’s.
I recognize the vest before I register the face. Patchwork camo. Mismatched boots. The kind of guy you pay in small bills and promises.
He’s got a pistol up. Already mid-shout.
“Drago!”
Wrong name. Wrong night.
I move before he can aim.
My blade’s in hand. I cover the distance in three steps.
He starts to swing the gun toward me.
Doesn’t finish.
I slam into him shoulder first. His shot goes wide—metal ping ricochets off a crate behind me.
I twist.
Slash.
The knife slices through his neck like rope.
Blood bursts forward.
He makes a sound—gurgled, pitiful—and collapses backward against a crate. The wood splinters, then groans as his body slides down to the floor.
Red spreads quick. Thicker than oil. Warmer.
The smell hits just as his fingers twitch.
I step back. Wipe the blade on his shirt.
Elara’s still behind me. Close.
I glance over.
She’s watching.
Jaw tight. Hands loose. Body still.
Her voice is steady. “That didn’t even shake you.”
I don’t look at the body again.
“I’ve had worse interruptions.”
I catch her eyes again.
“You sure about this?” she asks. “About me?”
It’s not soft. Not vulnerable. Just direct.
I nod once. “If I wasn’t, he’d still be breathing.”
That hangs between us.
She doesn’t nod.
She doesn’t smile.
She just exhales—like that was the answer she expected. The one she needed.
I sheathe the blade again.
“Let’s move.”
We head for the truck. Elara gets in without waiting for the door to open fully. She climbs into the passenger seat like she’s done it before.
I take the wheel.
We drive.
The warehouse disappears behind us. Crates. Blood. Bodies.
Still warm in the dirt.
We don’t talk right away.
The city flies past—empty blocks, busted neon, late-night fog catching in the alleys like ghosts too tired to haunt.
She finally breaks the silence. Her voice low.
“He yelled your name.”
“Most of them do.”
“You ever think about what it means?”
“What?”
“That they all think you’re the last name they’ll ever say.”
I glance at her.
Her eyes stay on the road ahead.
“No,” I say. “But maybe they’re not wrong.”
She’s quiet a second.
Then says, “It’s a weird kind of loyalty.”
“What is?”
“Mine.”
Her head tilts toward the window, but her hand rests on the middle console. Close to mine.
“I don’t follow people,” she says. “Not really. But I’m in this. With you.”
I don’t answer right away.
Because I feel it.
It’s not just partnership.
It’s pressure.
Because loyalty from someone like her isn’t a gift. It’s a loaded gun she hands over without blinking, trusting you not to point it back.
I reach over.
Wrap my fingers around hers.
She lets me.
No twitch. No pull away.
“Elara,” I say.
She turns.
Face open. Clear.
No shield.
No mask.
“Yeah?” she replies.
“Nico,” I say.
Her mouth curls, barely. A smirk. A real one.
Her thumb brushes mine once.
That’s it.
But it says everything.
We don’t speak for a while.
The truck hums beneath us, tires eating up the road. Her hand stays in mine, warm, steady. I feel the calluses on her fingers, the strength in her grip. It’s not soft, but it’s real. Like her.
“You ever think about getting out?” she asks, voice quiet.
“Out of what?”
“This.” She gestures at the city blurring past. “The blood. The names. All of it.”
I keep my eyes on the road. “Tried once. Didn’t stick.”
“Why not?”
“People like me don’t get clean slates.”
She’s quiet, but her thumb moves again, brushing my knuckles. Slow. Deliberate.
“Maybe you don’t need a clean slate,” she says. “Maybe you just need someone who doesn’t care about the stains.”
I glance at her.
Her eyes meet mine, unflinching.
“That you?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer. Just squeezes my hand once, then lets go. Her fingers linger on the console, close but not touching.
The city keeps moving past us.
I feel her next to me, solid, present.
Not just a partner.
Not just a risk.
Something more.
Something I don’t have a name for yet.
We don’t speak for the rest of the drive.
We don’t need to.
This isn’t just about taking Vince down.
It’s about what we build after.
If we make it.
If she stays.
If I can hold onto what this is becoming.