Chapter 22 – Nico
I stand over the steel table in the warehouse, its surface scratched and dented, covered in maps of Atlantic City’s docks, streets, and back routes. Blueprints for weapons—knives, guns, things we’ll need—sit stacked to one side, next to a ledger I’ve been gutting for hours. Names crossed out, alliances marked, debts erased. The Drago name’s been poison too long, twisted by my father, by Tommy, by Marco. I’m done letting it rot.
Elara’s beside me. Her eyes track my hands as I mark a route in red ink, connecting the docks to a safehouse we’ve claimed. She doesn’t speak much, but I feel her—steady, sharp, reading every move I make, every word I don’t say.
“Drago’s ours now,” I say, setting the pen down, voice firm. “Not what it was. What we make it.”
She leans forward, elbows on the table, studying the map. “Then let’s build it with better bones.”
I nod, marking another spot—a warehouse Marco’s men used to run guns. It’s ours now, or it will be.
Her fingers tap the ledger, flipping to a page I’ve circled—names of men still loyal to Marco’s shadow. “These guys,” she says, pointing. “They’re not gonna let this go.”
I meet her eyes, steady. “They try anything, they’re done. Same as the rest.”
She nods, chain shifting as she straightens. “You’re sure about this? Taking it all back?”
I lean against the table, facing her fully. “I’m sure. This name’s been dragged through blood too long. My father’s deals, Tommy’s greed, Marco’s games—it stops here. We rebuild it clean.”
Her lips curve, faint but real. “Clean’s a big word for people like us.”
“Not clean like saints,” I say, voice low. “Clean like honest. No lies, no betrayal. Just what we stand for.”
She holds my gaze, unflinching. “I’m not leaving. Not when we’ve come this far.”
I step closer, hand brushing her arm, feeling the warmth through her jacket. “Good. Because I’m not doing this without you.”
Her hand covers mine, fingers rough from fights, steady now. “You don’t have to.”
The bulb swings, light catching her face—scars, sharp eyes, the chain she never takes off. She’s not the girl I met in Tommy’s club, dancing to survive. She’s more, always was, and I see it clearer every day.
“You think Luca’s got a handle on the rest?” she asks, glancing at the ledger, voice sharp, testing.
“He’s digging,” I say, picking up a blueprint, a knife design we’ll need soon. “Found two crews already sniffing around—small players, but hungry. They’ll move soon.”
Her brow furrows, leaning in. “Which crews?”
“Rossi’s leftovers and some guy named Calvetti,” I say, pointing to a map corner where I’ve marked their turf. “They think we’re weak after Marco.”
She snorts, crossing her arms. “They’re wrong.”
“Yeah,” I say, grinning quick. “But they’ll find out the hard way.”
Her eyes flick to the map, tracing the red lines I’ve drawn. “What’s the plan? Wait for them to come?”
I shake my head, setting the blueprint down. “We don’t wait. We hit first—quiet, clean. Take their supply lines, cut their deals before they know we’re there.”
She nods, chain glinting as she shifts. “I like it. Where do I fit?”
“Where you always do,” I say, meeting her gaze. “With me. Planning, moving, finishing it.”
Her lips curve again, sharper now. “You’re getting used to this.”
“To you?” I step closer, voice low. “Yeah, I am.”
She laughs, soft, pushing off the table. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late,” I say, catching her hand, holding it firm. “You’re stuck with me now.”
Her fingers lace with mine, grip strong. “Guess I’ll survive.”
We stand like that, hands locked, maps and blueprints spread out like a battlefield. The warehouse hums around us, waves crashing outside, wind rattling the siding. I feel the weight of what’s coming—Calvetti’s crew, Rossi’s men, whoever else wants a piece of what we’ve claimed. But with Elara here, it’s not heavy. It’s ours.
“What will this look like?” she asks, voice quieter now, eyes on the map. “When it’s done, I mean. When it’s ours.”
I lean back, thinking hard. “A name people respect, not fear. A crew that’s loyal, not bought. A city we don’t have to fight every day.”
She nods, slow, like she’s seeing it too. “Sounds worth it.”
“It is,” I say, squeezing her hand. “But it’s not just the name. It’s us.”
Her eyes meet mine, steady, unflinching. “You’re saying I’m part of this now? Not just along for the ride?”
“You were never just along,” I say, voice firm. “This doesn’t work without you.”
She’s quiet for a moment, then steps closer, her shoulder brushing mine. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”
I feel that in my chest, not soft, just real. “You better not. I need someone to keep me sharp.”
She laughs, rough, nudging me with her elbow. “You’re sharp enough.”
“Not like you,” I say, grinning. “Nobody reads a room like you do.”
Her hand slips from mine, but she stays close, leaning over the table again. “So, when do we move? Calvetti’s not gonna wait forever.”
“Soon,” I say, marking a spot on the map—a dockside stash Calvetti’s been using. “We scout for now, and then hit them once we get enough intel. Luca’s got eyes on their runners already.”
She nods, chain shifting as she studies the map. “I’m in. But we do it clean, like you said.”
“Clean as we can,” I agree, setting the pen down. “No loose ends.”
Her eyes flick to me, sharp but warm. “No loose ends.”
The warehouse feels alive, crates looming like soldiers waiting for orders. The bulb swings, light dancing across her face, and I see it—her resolve, her strength, the reason this feels possible. Marco’s gone, Vince too, but the fight’s never over. Not yet. But with Elara beside me, I’m not looking back.
A crash splinters the moment, metal screeching as the side door flies open, banging against the wall. A thug stumbles in, gun raised, face twisted with sweat and desperation. His jacket’s torn, blood staining the sleeve—Marco’s colors, faded but clear. He locks eyes with me, barrel shaking but aimed.
“Marco’s men are still out there!” he shouts, voice cracking, finger twitching on the trigger.
I don’t blink. “Then they can die out there,” I say, voice flat, grabbing my knife and closing the gap in one step. The blade slices across his chest, clean and deep, blood spraying hot across the nearest crate.
He gasps, gun wavering, but Elara’s already moving, faster than his reflex. Her fist slams into his face, bone cracking loud, like wood splitting. More blood sprays, staining her knuckles as he staggers, gun clattering to the concrete. He drops, twitching, hands clawing at nothing, then goes still, red pooling beneath him, steaming faintly in the warehouse’s chill.
We stand over him, breathing steady, not shaken, just sharper. Elara’s fist is still clenched, blood dripping from her knuckles, chain glinting against her hip. My knife’s wet, red clinging to the steel, but my grip’s firm. The warehouse hums again, different now—not just plans, but purpose, alive with what we’ve claimed.
She looks at me, eyes steady, unflinching. “They don’t know it’s already over.”
I wipe the blade on the thug’s jacket, blood smearing dark. “That’s their mistake.”
Rust isn’t what ends us. It’s what we scrape off to get to the steel beneath.
I step closer, checking the door he came through, half-expecting more. It’s quiet, just the waves outside, the wind rattling the siding. “More will come,” I say, voice low, turning back to her.
“Who was he?” she asks, crouching beside the thug, checking his pockets quick. Her knife’s out, resting on her knee, ready.
I lean down, spotting a folded paper in his jacket. I pull it out, unfolding it—names, dates, a meet set for tomorrow night at the docks. “One of Calvetti’s,” I say, showing her the scrawl. “Working with Marco’s leftovers, looks like.”
Her brow furrows, taking the paper. “They’re moving faster than we thought.”
“Yeah,” I say, standing, tucking my knife away. “They think we’re still picking up pieces.”
She rises. “So we hit them first, like you said?”
“Harder now,” I say, folding the note into my pocket. “This guy was a message. They’re testing us.”
Her lips curve, sharp and real. “They’re gonna regret that.”
I grin, feeling her fire match mine. “Damn right.”
She steps closer, wiping her knuckles on her jeans, leaving red streaks. “How many you think they’ve got? Calvetti’s crew, I mean.”
I think about Luca’s reports, the names he’s been tracking. “Ten, maybe twelve. Small, but desperate. Rossi’s men are the bigger problem—better connected, more guns.”
Her eyes narrow, studying me. “You worried?”
“Not with you here,” I say, voice steady, meaning it. “We’ve faced worse.”
She nods, chain glinting as she leans against the table. “We have. But this feels different.”
“How?” I ask, crossing my arms, watching her close.
She taps the map, finger landing on the dockside stash. “It’s not just fighting now. It’s holding something. Building it. That’s harder.”
I step beside her, looking at the map, red lines marking what’s ours. “Harder, yeah. But worth it.”
Her hand brushes mine, not planned, just natural. “You really think we can do this? Make it last?”
I turn to her, meeting her eyes. “I know we can. Not because it’s easy—because it’s us.”
Her lips curve again, softer this time. “You’re getting good at saying the right thing.”
“It’s not about saying,” I say, voice low. “It’s about doing. And I’m doing this with you.”
She’s quiet for a moment, then nods, her hand squeezing mine. “Then let’s make it count.”
I feel that in my chest, solid, real. The thug’s blood is still wet on the floor, but it’s not what drives us. It’s the maps, the plans, the name we’re rebuilding. Drago’s not my father’s anymore, not Marco’s. It’s ours, and we’re not letting it fall.