Chapter 14 – Dario
The cold here bites harder than on the street. Concrete doesn’t forgive warmth. It eats it. The hum of the light overhead makes my temples ache, the bulb struggling against years of rust. This place used to pulse with traffic—freight, smuggled liquor, bodies passing through in hidden train cars during the winter embargoes. Now it’s just us. Us and the ghosts.
I pry open the lid of the first crate. The latch gives with a reluctant click. Viviana hovers by the doorway, arms folded, her eyes never still. Her breath clouds in front of her like smoke before a shot. She hasn’t spoken since we left.
Inside the crate: black matte cases. Slim. Sleek. Labeled with a logo long buried under fake shell companies. But I know that curve. Caldera’s mark, carved behind our eyes even when we think we’ve forgotten. My fingertips hover above it. Then I open one.
The hum starts before the lid is fully off.
A soft pulse, like breath under water. The tablet-sized device sits nestled in a foam mold, obsidian and faintly glowing at the edges. I pick it up and place it on the metal table. The steel beneath it vibrates faintly.
Viviana’s voice breaks the quiet. “That’s not a phone.”
“No.” I exhale. “Not even close.”
She moves closer, but doesn’t touch it. Her stance says curiosity, but her eyes say caution. Smart. I’d be more worried if she wasn’t learning fast.
“They called it a power redistribution prototype,” I say, staring at the device like it might twitch. “But it’s just a coffin waiting for a pulse.”
She leans in. “What does it do?”
“It doesn’t transmit. It erases. Wipes digital records, nukes surveillance, fries circuits. You plant it near a grid, flip the switch, and everything within the radius goes black. But they don’t always stay contained. You misfire one of these, you’re not just destroying cameras. You’re boiling the bastard holding it.”
She stays quiet. Her fingers tighten around her elbow like she’s grounding herself. Like if she lets go, the room might tilt and take her with it.
I close the lid on the first case. Open the next. Two more devices. Smaller, flatter, still humming.
“He plans to sell them?”
I shake my head. “No. He plans to use them. Hold cities hostage, wipe Caldera’s enemies off the map. Or worse—hand them off to some foreign bidder with a taste for blackouts.”
She circles the table slowly, eyeing the crates. “And this is just what he let slip through.”
“Imagine what he’s keeping.”
She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look away. She brushes ash off the table like it offends her. Then sets a second device down beside the first.
“They’re all the same?”
“The cores are. Casings are different. Might be tailored for different kinds of sabotage.”
She presses her palm lightly to the case—testing it. “You ever use one?”
“No. I read the specs. Ran recon. Watched what happened when they were tested in Eastern blocks. Whole districts going dark. Hospitals... rail lines. People cooking in their cars when gridlocks froze in place.”
“Then we burn the switch,” she says.
I look up. “What?”
She taps the metal casing with her finger. “You said he wants the switch. So we melt it. Break the circuitry. Smash the casing. Make sure these never hum again.”
I blink once. Twice.
Viviana Torrisi—florist, accidental courier, woman with blood still dried on her hands from a kill she never asked for—is now talking about disarming military-grade tech like it’s a vase she didn’t like the shape of.
“You know what that means, right?” I ask.
“Means we make ourselves enemies to the one man who doesn’t care what he touches to stay in power.”
I snort. “We already did that.”
Her eyes lock onto mine. “Then we might as well go all the way.”
She’s serious. It’s not adrenaline talking. Not vengeance. It’s purpose. Her voice is clear. Her stance unwavering.
My palms flatten against the table. The hum through the steel echoes through my bones.
“You ever think you were supposed to be safe?” I ask, not sure where the words come from.
“Yeah,” she says. “I also thought flowers were enough to keep nightmares out of reach.”
“They were,” I say.
She tilts her head. “Not for me.”
The way she says it—matter-of-fact, resigned—cuts deeper than anything she could’ve cried or shouted.
I walk around the table. The space between us shrinks.
“You’re not meant for this,” I tell her.
“I wasn’t. But then I was. That’s how it works, right?”
I nod. Slowly. “That’s how it works.”
We both look at the device again. Two inches of metal. A wire inside that sings when it warms up. Just enough to kill a block.
“Help me destroy them,” I say.
“Gladly,” she replies.
I go to the back wall, haul out the blowtorch. She stands beside me without needing instruction.
Together, we strip the crates open. One by one. Devices laid bare. Core wires exposed. I hand her gloves. She pulls them on, ties her hair back. The expression on her face is grim. Focused.
The torch hisses to life.
Each hum dies in screaming sparks.
The acrid scent of burning metal curls through the space. Not smoke—just something sharper, more chemical. It stings the eyes, clings to the back of the throat.
We work in tandem. Hands slick with sweat and oil. Gloved fingers working screws loose, pliers biting wire. The last case cracks like bone.
When it’s done, the crates are empty. The table scorched. And our breaths, sharp and shallow, hang in the cold again.
Viviana turns her head. “You okay?”
“No,” I answer. “But I’m better than I was yesterday.”
She reaches out, brushes a flake of black casing from my cheek. Her thumb lingers.
“You still think I’m not meant for this?” she asks.
I meet her eyes. “No. I think you’re built for more than even you know.”
Her breath hitches, and for a second, her mask slips. Not weakness. Just the truth peeking through.
“Then let’s make it count,” she says. “reduce everything he built to ashes.”
I nod.
The train depot feels heavier now—but clearer.
All that’s left is fire.
The blueprint is spread wide across the crate between us. It’s been folded and refolded so many times that the creases have turned soft, almost worn through. I trace the edge of the train line with my knuckle. A junction near South Canal Street. Abandoned, disconnected from the modern grid. Forgotten by everyone except Caldera.
Viviana leans over the map, her hair tied back, sleeves rolled. Her eyes cut sharp in the dim light, narrowing on the markings I scratched in black ink an hour ago. She doesn’t ask me to explain. She already knows what each line means.
“They’ll stash the prototype in the second crate from the back,” I say. “Taller one. Marked as expired lithium batteries. They do that when they want the inspectors to look the other way.”
She drags her finger across the page. “We intercept here. Before the drop truck exits the tunnel?”
I nod. “Exactly. We rig our shell inside that crate before it leaves the yard.”
Her eyes flick up to mine. “And if they notice the swap?”
“They won’t.” I reach behind me and pull the duffel from the corner. “Because this isn’t a swap. It’s a burial.”
I unzip the bag. Inside: a dead unit, the same shape, same markings, hollowed out and filled with a timed charge. Enough to torch the container without killing anyone. But it’ll send a message loud enough for Corradino to feel it in his teeth.
Viviana says nothing. She just stares.
“It’s not elegant,” I add. “But it gets the job done.”
She lifts the decoy device. It’s heavier than it should be. Dead metal and dry wires.
“This could end it?” she asks.
“It could start something else,” I reply.
Her gaze lingers on the crate for a long moment. Then she sets the device back down. “Then we move.”
I reach for the real unit on the bench, the one still faintly humming in its protective casing. I power it down. The whine dies slowly, like a machine gasping for its last breath. A thin curl of warmth escapes from the vents. The box clicks shut, sealed. It won’t open again.
We stand still.
The room feels hollow without that sound. Like we’ve silenced the heartbeat of a monster.
I watch her closely. She’s not shaking. She’s not pacing. Her hands are steady as she folds the blueprint again, sliding it back into its weatherproof sleeve.
“This is betrayal,” I say.
“Then it’s about time,” she replies.
I pull the old Caldera route map from beneath the bench. Spread it flat. A spider web of black ink, shipment lines, contact zones. Some of these routes I helped carve with my own blood. Some took lives. Some left me more dead than alive.
“This map is Caldera,” I say, my voice quiet.
Viviana walks to my side. “Then burn it.”
I flick open the matchbook. Strike the strip. Flame catches.
I hold the match an inch above the paper. The corner of the map curls and darkens. The edges start to smoke.
“I walked these lines with Massimo,” I murmur. “I thought they’d get us out.”
She steps closer. “They buried him instead.”
I drop the match.
The flames lick upward fast. The ink melts. Routes vanish in a wash of black. The paper twists, shrivels, cracks. A line that once meant life now means nothing.
“I’m going to make them bleed for him,” I say.
She looks at me, calm, measured. “And for me?”
My voice is low. “For both of you.”
The fire dies to ash in the steel tray.
We say nothing for a long time.
Then she walks back to the bench and locks the decoy into the transport case. The last of the blueprint tucked inside, scorched at the edges. The new plan. Our plan.
“I’ll take the north side,” she says. “You’ll have to climb to the east crate and plant it.”
“You trust me to do it right?”
She meets my eyes. “No. I trust you not to die trying.”
I almost smile. Almost.
She throws on her coat, black and fitted. The same one she wore the night her shop burned. There’s a new tear at the cuff, threadbare and angry. She doesn’t fix it.
I sling the duffel over my shoulder and pull the door open.
Wind slices in. Sharp. I can feel morning not far off.
We stand at the threshold for a moment—between everything we were and everything we’ll have to become to finish this.
“You sure?” I ask.
She turns to me. “No. But I’m not turning back.”
That’s the truth of it. Not courage. Not certainty. Just clarity.
We leave without another word.
Beneath our boots, the frost cracks like glass.