Chapter 9 – Viviana
The lake smells like rust and ice.
The wind is a little harsh along the docks like a live thing, wrapping around rusted barrels and rotting rope piles, making every shape feel uncertain. The cold slides under my coat like a thief. It finds ribs, spine, anywhere it can sink in
My hand stays deep in my coat pocket, wrapped around the handle of the knife Dario handed me twenty minutes ago.
“You don’t stab to wound,” he said. “You stab to finish. Don’t wait.”
Now I walk alone, each step steady over groaning wooden planks. Wind whistles past the shipping containers stacked like tombstones. The only light comes from a dim floodlight blinking near the loading ramp, flickering like it’s second-guessing itself.
Behind me, I know Dario’s there—out of sight but close. We planned this. Mapped it twice. But I’m the bait.
Three steps past the last crate. That’s the signal. If I don’t say the word in time, Dario comes in hard.
That was my idea.
After last night, I woke up different. Not gentler. Not more broken. The opposite. I kept thinking about the way he touched me—careful, reverent, like I mattered. Like I wasn’t just surviving, but alive. It should’ve softened me.
It sharpened me.
That kind of tenderness doesn’t belong in this world unless you’re ready to fight to keep it.
A muffled step behind me.
Then a second.
My pace slows.
Another echo. Closer.
I don’t turn. I let the sound follow me.
“Pretty night for a walk,” a voice calls out.
Male. Calm. Too amused.
I stop walking and turn toward it.
He’s standing under the edge of a lamppost, hood up, sleeves too long. Boots muddy, face shadowed. He steps out farther, just enough for me to see the shape of his grin. Too easy.
“Midnight stroll, huh?” he says. “A little late for florals and lace.”
I don’t speak.
He squints at me through the mist. “You were at the dock.”
I say nothing.
“You’re not Caldera,” he continues. “But Corradino wants you gone.”
I back up a step, toward the rusted container we marked earlier. A little more. Let him follow. Let him think he’s in control.
He moves closer.
“Pretty thing like you doesn’t belong here,” he says.
“You’re right,” I reply.
He tilts his head. That second of confusion is all I need.
I draw the knife from my coat and step in hard.
It goes deep, right under his ribs. My hand shakes when I twist it, but I don’t pull back. He gasps—a wet, guttural sound. His arms flail, reaching for me, but he’s already folding.
His breath gurgles against my neck. I shove him off the blade and he drops. Just drops. Not a word. Blood pools fast.
I step away, my chest heaving.
My fingers burn where they gripped the handle too tight. He’s choking now. Wet and slow. Trying to crawl but not going anywhere.
A part of me watches like I’m outside my body.
He would’ve killed me. There’s no question. I know that now in my bones.
But I didn’t wait.
Dario steps from behind the container like a ghost. His coat’s zipped high, gloves tucked in one hand. His eyes flick from the body to me. Then stay on me.
“You timed it perfectly,” he says.
I wipe the knife on the guy’s hoodie and hand it to him.
He takes it without a word, wraps it in a cloth, tucks it away. Then he offers me his gloves.
“You’re shaking,” he says.
I hadn’t noticed.
I slide the gloves on. My fingers don’t stop trembling right away, but they feel less raw. My mouth tastes like iron.
I meet his eyes.
“I didn’t think I could do it,” I say. “But when I saw his eyes… I didn’t hesitate.”
“That’s the part that matters,” Dario replies.
His voice is low. Not proud, not cold. Just grounded. Real.
I crouch beside the body. His hoodie’s soaked now. His breath comes in short, broken sounds. He’s not dead yet, but he’s on the edge.
For a moment, I want to look into his face. To see what killing looks like when it’s mine.
But I don’t.
“Help me up,” I say.
Dario reaches out and pulls me to my feet.
My knees don’t buckle.
He studies me again, slower this time. “Still with me?”
I nod.
I hear the same question behind the words: Is this the point of no return?
It is.
The dock groans again, but this time it’s not the wind.
It’s steps—fast, sharp, closing in.
“Viviana!” Dario’s voice cuts through the space, sharp and instinctive.
I spin.
Another man charges out of the haze behind the shipping container. Taller than the first. Broader. And faster.
His blade flashes as he lunges toward me.
I stumble back a step, my foot hitting the body behind me. My hands go up, but he’s not aiming for me—
He’s aiming for Dario.
Dario meets him halfway. They collide hard—shoulder into gut—and Dario drives him back with a grunt. The man swings, the knife slicing across Dario’s sleeve. I hear fabric tear, then flesh. A hiss escapes Dario’s mouth, but he doesn’t stop.
He grabs the guy’s wrist, twists.
The blade clatters to the dock.
Dario slams his forehead into the attacker’s nose—once, twice.
There’s a snap. Wet and final.
The man reels, blood spurting from the bridge of his nose, his legs buckling.
Dario grabs the back of his neck and jerks it sideways.
There’s a crack that echoes louder than the lake wind.
The man collapses like string’s been cut from his bones.
Dead.
No sound. No twitch. Just blood seeping into the wood beneath his cheek.
I stare at the body. At Dario’s bloodied knuckles. At the blade lying inches from my boot.
And then I look at my hands.
Still stained from the first kill. My palm hurts from gripping the knife too tight.
I can’t feel my legs.
Then the ground is moving, tilting, disappearing from under me.
I drop.
Dario’s arms catch me just before my knees crash down.
He lowers me gently, his hand firm against my back.
My chest heaves. I curl in on myself, braced against the sick pounding behind my ribs.
He crouches beside me. Doesn’t speak. Just stays close.
I bury my face against his coat. It’s cold, damp from fog, and smells faintly of smoke and sweat. Familiar, in a strange way. The last familiar thing left.
My throat tightens, and then the tears start.
Not pretty ones. Not delicate streaks down my cheek.
These are ugly. Raw.
But I don’t sob. I just tremble. The release comes from somewhere deep. It’s not sadness. Not grief.
It’s change.
When I speak, my voice scrapes the inside of my throat.
“I killed someone.”
Dario’s hand tightens slightly on my shoulder. “You survived.”
“I didn’t feel wrong. I thought I would. But I didn’t.”
He pulls back just enough to see my face. There’s no judgment in his eyes. Just knowing.
“Then you’re not innocent anymore,” he says.
My breath catches again—but I don’t cry harder.
That sentence hits like truth, not punishment.
He’s not condemning me. He’s telling me what’s already happened.
I nod slowly.
“I don’t feel broken,” I whisper. “Just… different.”
His voice is softer now. “There’s no going back.”
My hands are still shaking. I stare at them, stained red. Then I press them flat against my thighs to make them stop.
“I’m not going back,” I say.
His eyes flick to mine, and something settles between us. A line drawn, a choice made. And not just survival this time.
Something more.
We sit there on the edge of the dock for what feels like minutes, maybe more. The wind keeps brushing past us, like smoke from a dying fire. The two bodies lie still behind us, blurred into shadows.
I glance at Dario’s arm. The gash on his sleeve is wide and soaking through.
“You’re bleeding,” I say.
He shrugs. “It’s shallow.”
“Let me see.”
“I’ve had worse.”
I roll my eyes, pushing up to my feet. “You’re bleeding. Don’t be stupid.”
He smirks faintly but obeys.
I peel back the fabric and wince. It’s deep enough to need stitching.
“Where’s your van?”
“Back near the rocks. Three hundred yards.”
I help him up.
We walk, slow and quiet. My legs are steady again, but my pulse hasn’t calmed.
Every creak of the dock sounds louder now. Every shift in the wind could be another body.
I don’t scan behind me.
Because I’m done being prey.
When we reach the van, he opens the back and pulls out a small first-aid kit.
I force him to sit. He watches me as I disinfect the wound, as I thread the needle. I haven’t done this before, but I’ve watched enough ER dramas and stitched enough floral foam to know tension and threading.
He winces only once.
“Not bad,” he says.
I don’t smile.
I press a clean bandage into place and tape it.
Then I sit beside him.
His breath is steady now. He watches me for a long time before speaking.
“You don’t look like someone who’s falling apart.”
“I’m not.”
“You didn’t scream.”
“You taught me not to.”
His mouth lifts at the corner, but it’s not a smirk. More like... respect.
I rest my head against the cold metal wall of the van. He sits with his elbows on his knees, fingers laced, watching the sky.
“What happens now?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer right away.
Finally, he says, “You decide.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you’re not just reacting anymore. You’ve stepped in. You’re in this now. I can’t pull you out, and I won’t lie and say I’ll keep you clean.”
I nod.
“Then I stay,” I say.
“You sure?”
I turn to him.
“I killed for this. I bled for this. I’m not walking away.”
His jaw flexes, but he nods once. Approval, quiet and hard-earned.
We sit in silence for a long time.
Then he speaks again.
“We take out the drop. We sabotage the shipment Corradino’s expecting. We make him bleed where it hurts.”
“And then?” I ask.
“Then we hunt him down.”
My throat tightens, but not with fear.
With resolve.
I lean back against the van wall again and close my eyes.
My hands are still stained.
But now, they’re mine.