Chapter 12 – Nico
The door shuts behind us.
Not hard, not loud—just final.
The club’s chaos is miles behind now, even if I still taste the adrenaline on my tongue. Elara walks in like she owns the damn floor, barefoot, blood on her thigh, stage glitter still clinging to her neck like it belongs there.
I don’t look at her yet.
I look at the desk.
The old one—scratched, burned at the edge, dented from a fight I won before I had real power.
It’s covered in paper now. Evidence.
Not guesses. Not whispers.
Proof.
I sit behind it.
The bulb above buzzes like a warning that’s lost patience.
The desk creaks under the pressure of printed transaction logs, copied transfer receipts, paper envelopes still heavy with cash. Vince didn’t try to hide it.
That’s what makes it worse.
He got comfortable.
He thought no one would check.
That I wouldn’t check.
Across from me, Elara drops into the chair like she’s ready for another round—not tired, just locked in. Her knees spread slightly, robe still open over her chest, that chain swinging as she leans forward. Not for seduction.
For the truth.
She watches me flip the next page.
Marco’s name appears six times on the fourth line. Wire transfers. Weekly. Disguised under shell business names. All registered to addresses we used last year for runs Vince called “dead leads.”
They weren’t.
I lift another slip. A withdrawal tagged to Vince’s second cousin—guy we buried three months ago. Which means someone’s using dead men to mask cash.
That takes nerve.
That takes arrogance.
“He’s not just talking,” I say finally. “He’s taking payments.”
Elara shifts. “From Marco?”
I nod once.
“Every name, every route we mapped. He sold them.”
Her face doesn’t twist.
Her hands do.
Her fingers curl around the edge of the desk like she’s holding back from flipping it.
“The bastard’s worse than I thought.”
“He’s not sloppy. He’s systematic. This started months ago. Maybe even while you were still under Tommy’s thumb.”
She straightens. That lands. Not personally—strategically.
“He’s always been the one stirring shit from the edges,” she says. “Always smiling like he’s doing you a favor.”
“He almost pulled it off.”
“Not anymore.”
Footsteps in the hall.
Quick. Familiar.
Luca enters, jacket streaked with rain.
He doesn’t knock. Just tosses a file on the desk.
“This just came in from the south docks. Ledger’s stamped with Vince’s old crew.”
I flip it open. Scan fast.
It’s hand-written. Sloppy but clear. Each entry lines up with dates we ran decoys. Vince always said they went quiet.
They didn’t.
They were intercepted.
Because he told Marco exactly where to look.
I toss the folder back on the desk.
“It’s enough,” I say. “We end it tonight.”
Before I can reach for the blade lying beside the ledgers—my father’s knife, old steel, darkened by time—Elara moves.
She grabs it.
Her fingers wrap around the hilt like it belongs there.
And maybe it does.
“Then what are we waiting for?” she asks.
I stare at her.
There’s blood dried under her nails.
Her lip is chapped where she bit it during the fight earlier. And she’s still the most dangerous presence in this room.
She doesn’t need permission, I think. Doesn’t need reassurance.
She’s already in it.
With me.
That’s not something I take lightly.
I nod once.
“Let’s go.”
Elara stands, knife still in hand. Her robe shifts, barely covering her. She doesn’t care. Her eyes are on me, steady, like she’s already three steps ahead.
Luca clears his throat. “You sure about this? Vince has people. Marco’s crew isn’t small.”
I don’t look at him. “They’re not ready for us.”
Elara’s lips twitch. Not a smile, but close. “They’re not ready for me.”
Luca exhales, sharp. “You’re both insane.”
“Maybe,” I say. “But we’re right.”
I push the chair back, stand. The papers stay where they are. No need to carry them. The truth’s burned into me now.
Elara steps closer. Her fingers brush the desk, then my arm. Not soft. Deliberate.
“Where’s he at?” she asks.
“South docks,” Luca says. “Got word he’s meeting Marco tonight. Midnight.”
I glance at the clock. It’s past four. We’re late, but not too late.
“We move fast,” I say. “No stops.”
Elara nods. “No mistakes.”
Luca shifts, uneasy. “You’re walking into a trap.”
“Then we spring it,” I say.
Elara’s eyes meet mine. There’s no doubt there. No hesitation. Just fire.
“I’m driving,” she says.
I raise an eyebrow. “You sure?”
“You’ll see.” She turns, heads for the door. The knife’s still in her hand, like an extension of her.
Luca mutters something under his breath, but he follows.
I grab my jacket from the chair. The weight of it feels right. Like armor.
“Vince doesn’t walk away from this,” I say, more to myself than them.
“He won’t,” Elara calls back, already at the door.
I believe her.
The hallway’s dark, but her silhouette cuts through it. Barefoot, blood-stained, unbroken.
She’s not just with me.
She’s leading.
And I’m not stepping back.
“Car is waiting outside. Clean plates,” Luca says.
“Good,” I reply.
Elara glances back. “You trust me with this?”
I meet her eyes. “I trust you with everything.”
Her mouth shifts, just enough. Not a smile. A promise.
Then the back door crashes open.
Loud.
Hard enough to shake the frame.
I pivot instantly.
Boots hit the wood. A man barrels in—broad chest, shaved head, gun already halfway up. He’s yelling before his body finishes the entrance.
“Traitor!”
That word again.
That fucking word.
Everyone’s using it tonight like they know what loyalty means.
He doesn’t get the rest out.
I’m already moving.
The blade is in my hand before his foot finishes landing.
The gun’s rising—he’s aiming wrong, too wide, thinking I’ll flinch.
I don’t.
I close the space in two steps, turn with my shoulder, and drive the blade under his ribs.
It hits solid. I twist upward.
The crunch is thick—bone separating, cartilage snapping open. He makes a noise like someone gut-punched a bag of gravel.
He stumbles. My hand jerks back with the knife.
Blood pours out of him in a wave—black-red under the hallway lights.
He hits the floor, arms twitching once, then goes limp.
The gun clatters across the tiles.
I stay standing over him.
Elara hasn’t moved.
She watches the entire thing, her stance still tight, legs planted, that chain still swinging slightly from her chest like it’s counting the beats of war.
I glance at her.
She nods once.
Not approval. Not awe.
Expectation.
She knew I’d do it.
She would’ve done the same if I hadn’t moved first.
I wipe the blade across the thug’s shirt. The blood smears, thick and dark. His mouth is half-open, but there’s no breath coming through it.
“Traitor,” I repeat, voice flat. “That word’s getting thrown around too much tonight.”
I flick my eyes toward Elara.
She tilts her head, stepping over the man’s foot without a blink.
“You good?” she asks, dry.
“Better now.”
Her eyes meet mine again.
They don’t move away.
Not from the blood.
Not from the body.
Not from the truth of what just happened.
That’s what sets her apart.
She watches the blood run like she’s seen worse.
That’s what makes her dangerous.
That’s why I trust her.
“Elara,” I say.
She grins. Small. Tight. But it reaches her eyes.
“Nico.”
We stand like that for a second—longer than we should.
The office is quiet again. The blood finishes pooling near the threshold.
I look down at the body once more.
This isn’t cleanup.
This is groundwork.
This is the shift Vince never saw coming.
She’s standing beside me.
I step back, blade still in hand. Elara moves with me, her grip on her knife steady. The hallway feels tighter now, like the walls know what’s coming.
“You think he was alone?” she asks, voice low.
I shake my head. “Vince doesn’t send one guy. There’s more.”
She nods, like it’s just another fact. “Then we find them.”
Her confidence isn’t loud. It’s sharp. Like the edge of her blade.
“You’re sure about this?” I ask. Not doubt. Just checking.
Her eyes lock on mine. “You’re not doing this without me.”
I nod. “Wouldn’t want to.”
Her grin returns, sharper this time. “Good answer.”
Footsteps echo from the stairwell. Luca’s voice cuts through, urgent but steady. “We need to move.”
I glance at Elara. “You still driving?”
“Damn right.” She turns, heading for the stairs, knife still out.
I follow, blade in hand. The blood on the floor stays behind, but the weight of it doesn’t.
Luca’s waiting at the bottom, jacket soaked from the rain. “You two are gonna get us killed.”
“Maybe,” I say. “But not tonight.”
Elara doesn’t look back. “Not ever.”
We hit the exit. The rain’s heavier now, slapping the pavement outside. The neon’s brighter, cutting through the wet dark.
Elara’s steps don’t falter. Barefoot, blood-stained, she moves like she owns the night.
I’m right beside her.
“Vince doesn’t see us coming,” I say, voice low.
She glances at me, eyes sharp. “He won’t see anything after tonight.”
I believe her.
The car is parked under a broken streetlight. Luca tosses me a key.
I catch it. “Elara’s driving.”
Luca snorts. “Yeah, yeah.”
She grabs the key from my hand, already moving to the driver’s side. “Let’s make this quick.”
I slide into the passenger seat. She’s in before I’m settled, knife resting on her thigh.
The engine starts with a low growl. Rain streaks the windshield.
She pulls out. The tires hiss on the wet pavement.
The city blurs past—empty streets, flickering signs, rain turning the world to glass.
We don’t talk.
We don’t need to.
Vince’s time is up.
And we’re the ones collecting.
This isn’t cleanup.
It’s groundwork.