Chapter Two — Vinny
The warehouse was a graveyard for steel and oil tanks.
It had once been a cigar factory some old-school mobsters owned back in the twenties, but now it reeked only of corrosion, rot, and decay. Overhead, the flickering fluorescent lights hummed low and cast jagged shadows across the cracked concrete.
The place felt wrong.
Not dangerous.
Wrong.
My pulse kicked up anyway, my fight-or-flight instinct flaring, but I kept walking.
Lady of Rage stood by a stack of crates, arms crossed. Her people were scattered throughout the warehouse, hands resting on weapons, eyes scanning the dark.
I glanced around, searching for Delilah.
She was always with her wife.
Tonight, she wasn't.
The absence gnawed at me longer than it should have, but I swallowed the urge to ask.
I didn't care.
"Why you always in these fucking suits?"
Rage's voice cut through the silence, her gaze raking over me like she was lining up a shot.
I adjusted my cuffs, the fabric stiff against my wrists.
"Looks like you've got this handled. Why call me at three in the morning?"
My voice was rough from lack of sleep.
She smirked, teeth flashing in the dim light. She was a striking woman—smooth dark skin, sharp features, a face that belonged on a magazine cover, not in the underworld.
"Get a nine-to-five if you want steady hours."
Before I could retort, the heavy thud of boots echoed behind us.
A group of men emerged from the shadows.
Faces like carved stone.
Eyes colder than the steel they carried.
Their leader stood out immediately. His posture was rigid, a scar splitting his cheek like a lightning bolt. His hand rested casually near his waistband, fingers brushing the grip of a gun.
I didn't recognize them.
That set my teeth on edge.
I knew every major player in Tampa.
Out-of-towners were trouble.
Reckless.
Unpredictable.
This was a gamble, even for Rage.
"You got my money?"
His voice was rough, gravel grinding against steel. A Southern twang. Texas or Louisiana.
Lady of Rage lifted a black briefcase.
"You got the guns?"
One of his men wheeled forward a crate and pried it open with a crowbar. Polished metal glinted beneath the flickering lights.
My eyes stayed locked on the leader, watching for tells.
The air was too still.
Too heavy.
The briefcase changed hands.
The crate rolled toward Rage's crew.
Then—
Movement.
A flicker in the shadows ten feet away.
One of the men beside me shifted, his hand creeping toward his waistband.
"Down!"
I lunged for Rage, shoving her to the ground as the first shot rang out.
The bullet sliced through the space where her head had been.
Then chaos erupted.
The gunfire wasn't loud. It was violent—a percussive blast that punched through the warehouse and slammed against my eardrums. Brass casings pinged off the concrete, bouncing and spinning. Muzzle flashes cut through the darkness in strobing bursts, leaving afterimages burned into my vision.
Bodies dropped.
Someone screamed—a short, wet sound that cut off mid-note.
The metallic tang of blood mixed with oil and rust, thick enough to taste.
I moved on instinct.
My gun barked in my hand, each shot syncing with the hammering of my heart. Recoil kicked up my arm. The slide cycled. Hot brass kissed my cheek.
"Kill them all!" Rage shouted over the noise.
I didn't need to be told twice.
I kept firing until my magazine ran dry and the slide locked back with a click that seemed impossibly quiet.
The echoes of gunfire slowly faded into a ringing silence.
The floor was slick with blood. Dark. Spreading. Seeping into the cracks in the concrete.
The air was thick with smoke—cordite and something else, something acrid that clung to the back of my throat.
Only our side was left standing.
My suit was splattered with someone else's blood. Warm. Already cooling.
I breathed heavily, my chest burning from the adrenaline.
I turned toward Rage—
And froze.
There was movement near the exit.
A figure slipped through the shadows, moving fast and smooth. Light on her feet. Too quiet for someone trying to run.
I reached into my jacket for a fresh magazine, my fingers finding the cold metal—
Then the light caught her face.
Sophia.
The world went completely silent.
The smell of smoke and blood vanished instantly. The ringing in my ears faded to nothing. All I could hear was my own heartbeat, slow and heavy, like a fist knocking on a door I'd locked years ago.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
It was impossible.
She was dead.
I had seen her body. I had touched her cold skin. I had kissed her forehead in the morgue and whispered promises I couldn't keep.
I buried her myself.
But it was definitely her.
The shape of her jaw.
Those exact eyes.
The same cheekbones I'd traced with my thumb a thousand mornings.
"Vicente!"
Rage's voice snapped me back.
She was on her feet now, gun still smoking, eyes darting between me and the exit.
"Who the hell is that?"
I didn't answer.
I was already running before my mind fully processed me doing it.
My legs pumped. My lungs burned. My dress shoes slipped on the blood-slick concrete, but I didn't slow down.
I burst into the night, cold air hitting me like a slap.
The street was empty.
The shadows had swallowed her whole.
"Damn it!"
My fist cracked against the warehouse wall, pain vibrating up my arm. The brick scraped my knuckles. I didn't feel it.
My head spun.
I couldn't fucking breathe.
Ghosts.
Hallucinations.
Had to be.
Rage appeared beside me, her eyes dark with suspicion. Her chest was heaving too, but her face was already composed—calculating.
"Who was that?"
I hesitated.
"I... don't know."
Shut cut her eyes at me.
"You let her get away."
"I didn't—"
"She saw everything." Her voice was ice. Flat. Final. "If she talks to the cops, I'll kill you. Find her first."
I didn't kill women.
But that was the second problem.
I nodded, my jaw clenched.
As I turned back toward the empty street, my mind raced.
Who the hell had I just seen?
And why did she wear my dead wife's face?