Chapter 16 – Nico
The alley’s blood is still on my boots. Two bodies down before sunrise, and now we’re here, in the casino’s gut, where deals go to die. Marco’s been circling closer, his moves bolder since the docks. Tonight’s not a coincidence. He knows we’re coming for him. I can feel it in the way the city’s holding its breath.
I stand across from one of his thugs, a broad guy with a scarred lip and eyes too small for his face. He’s got two shadows behind him—muscle, not brains—leaning against the steel table like they’re here for a poker game. They’re not. The room’s too quiet for that, the kind of quiet that comes before a blade finds a throat.
Elara’s nearby, to my left. She doesn’t stand like she’s waiting for permission. Her boots are planted, chain swinging at her hip, eyes sharp enough to cut through the neon haze. She’s not posturing. She’s ready. That’s enough to make the thug shift his weight, his smirk faltering for half a second.
He clears his throat, trying to fill the space. “This is from Marco. His last warning.”
I don’t blink. My hand’s already near the blade in my jacket. “Then he should’ve picked a better messenger.”
The thug’s lips twist, like he’s got something clever to say. He doesn’t get the chance. I move, fast and clean, closing the gap in one step. My blade’s out, steel catching the red light as it arcs across his throat. The cut’s deep, precise. Blood sprays, hot and wet, hitting the table and the floor. His hands claw at his neck, useless, as his knees buckle. He collapses, guts spilling where my second slash catches him low. The message he carried dies with him, pooling in red on the concrete.
The two shadows jerk back, hands fumbling for weapons. Too slow. I’m already on the first, driving my blade into his side, twisting until he gasps and drops. The second swings a fist, wild, missing me by inches. Elara moves then, her knife flashing as she buries it in his chest. He staggers, eyes wide, then falls, his weight cracking a chair.
The room’s still again. Just the rain outside and the faint clatter of chips upstairs. I wipe my blade on the thug’s jacket, blood smearing dark. Elara doesn’t blink. Just nods, her knife still in hand, steady as ever.
“Clean work,” she says, voice low, like she’s stating a fact.
I sheath the blade, eyes on the door. “Messy enough to send the message back.”
She steps over the first body, chain brushing her hip. “He’s next.”
I meet her gaze. “Yeah. And he knows it now.”
She doesn’t need orders. Doesn’t need protecting. She moves with me, not behind.
I glance at the bodies, then back at her. “You saw his face. He thought he had us.”
She snorts, wiping her knife on her sleeve. “He thought wrong.”
I nod, checking the door again. Marco’s close—too close. This wasn’t just a warning. It was a test. And we passed it in blood.
“Why send three?” Elara asks, crouching to check the thug’s pockets. “He’s desperate.”
“Or cocky.” I lean against the table, watching her work. “Marco’s not stupid. He’s baiting us.”
She pulls a folded paper from the thug’s jacket, unfolds it fast. Her eyes scan, then narrow. “Meeting. Tonight. Pier seven.”
I step closer, looking over her shoulder. The paper’s scribbled with times, names—Marco’s, a few others. “They’re moving fast.”
“Too fast.” She stands, crumpling the paper. “They know we’re onto them.”
I take the paper from her, scanning it again. “This is their last play. They’re cornered.”
“Good.” Her voice is sharp, like she’s already seeing the fight. “Cornered means sloppy.”
I fold the paper, tuck it into my jacket. “Or dangerous.”
She tilts her head, chain catching the light. “You scared?”
I meet her eyes, steady. “You’re here. I’m not scared of anything.”
Her lips twitch, not quite a smile. “Smooth talker.”
“Truth talker.”
I step toward the door, Elara matching my pace. Luca’s waiting outside with the car, but before my hand hits the handle, the door slams open, wood splintering against the frame. A thug bursts in—younger than the last, louder, dumber. His eyes are wild, knife already raised, mouth open before he’s fully in the room.
“Drago! You’re fucking dead!” he yells, charging straight at me.
“Not today,” I say, voice calm, already spinning to meet him.
My fist moves faster than his blade, driving into his face with a crack that echoes off the steel tables. Bone gives way—nose, cheek, something shatters. He staggers, blood pouring from his face, but he’s still swinging, knife cutting air.
Elara’s on him before he can recover. Her elbow slams into his ribs, hard and precise. There’s a snap, sharp and wet, like a branch breaking. He gasps, doubling over, blood coughing from his mouth in a spray that hits the floor.
He’s done, but I don’t leave chances. My blade’s out, slashing across his chest in one clean motion. The cut’s deep, splitting skin and muscle. He collapses, knees hitting concrete, then face, blood pooling fast. The room smells like hot metal, sharp and thick, mixing with the cigar smoke.
Elara doesn’t step back. She stands steady, knife in hand, eyes locked on the body like she’s memorizing it. Her breathing’s even, chain swaying slightly. She’s not shaken. She’s in it, same as me. Our eyes meet, and she grins—small, sharp, real.
“You always this graceful under pressure?” she asks, voice dry.
“Only when it counts.”
I grip her arm, firm but not rough. “Elara.”
She meets my gaze, unflinching. “Nico.”
We hold that for a second, the room heavy with blood and neon. Violence is our language now, and we’re fluent. She doesn’t need me to lead her. She’s right here, step for step.
“Why’d he come alone?” she asks, nodding at the body. “Dumb move.”
I glance at the door, then back at her. “Not alone. Backup’s close.”
She raises an eyebrow, stepping over the thug’s arm. “How many?”
“Enough to keep us moving.” I check the door, hand on my blade. “Pier’s still the target. This was a distraction.”
“Then we don’t get distracted.” Her voice is sharp, eyes burning. “We hit them now.”
I step closer, voice low. “You sure you’re ready for what’s waiting?”
She tilts her head, chain catching the light. “You think I’d be here if I wasn’t?”
I grin, quick and rare. “Fair point.”
She moves to the door, pausing to glance back. “You trust me to lead this?”
“More than anyone.” I follow, boots sticking slightly in the blood. “You’ve earned it.”
Her lips twitch, not quite a smile. “Keep up, then.”
“Try me,” I say, matching her pace.
We’re almost at the door when she stops, turning to face me. “What’s Marco expecting? Us to run?”
“He’s expecting us to hesitate. He’s wrong.”
“Damn right.” She checks her knife, then looks at me.
“Luca’s got the car. We’re five minutes from the pier.”
“He better not be late,” she says, following. “I’m not in the mood to wait.”
I open the door, rain hitting my face. Luca’s there, leaning against the car, jacket soaked. He straightens, eyeing the blood on us.
“Another one?” he asks, voice dry.
“Handled,” I say, sliding into the passenger seat.
Elara takes the driver’s side, keys in hand. “We’re going to Pier seven. Fast.”
Luca climbs in the back.
She smirks, pulling out. The tires hiss on wet pavement, rain blurring the neon. The city’s watching us move. I check my blade, still warm from the thug’s blood. Elara’s hand’s steady on the wheel, eyes sharp, like she’s already seeing the pier.
“How many you think they’ve got?” she asks, voice calm.
“Ten, maybe more.” I lean back, watching the street. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Numbers never do.” She glances at me. “Just us.”
“Just us,” I say, feeling the truth of it.
Luca snorts from the back.
“Pier’s close,” I say. “We go in hard.”
“Hard’s my favorite,” she says, voice low.
I check the paper from the first thug, names and times burned into my head. “They won’t expect us this soon.”
“Let them be surprised.” Her grin’s sharp now. “Makes it easier.”
I nod, hand on my blade. “We end this tonight.”
“No other way,” she says, eyes on the road.
The car cuts through the rain, the casino’s neon fading behind us. Marco is waiting, thinking he’s set the trap. He’s wrong. This room was his move, and we turned it into ours.
The pier’s shadow looms ahead, cutting through the gray rain. I feel the weight of the fight, the blood, the city. We’re not just hunting now. We’re claiming.
“Ready?” I ask, voice low.
“Born ready,” she says, pulling the car to a stop.
I grin, stepping out into the rain. She’s right behind me, knife ready, chain glinting. Marco doesn’t know what’s coming.
But he will.