Chapter 6
Ayla
The door slams open with a gust of cold air and Santi’s voice cutting through it.
“We lost the shipment.”
I don’t even look up from the crate I’m prying open. My hands are already raw under the work gloves from splinters and cold steel, and I don’t have the fucking patience today. “What do you mean lost it?”
He kicks the door shut behind him, the thud echoing off the cracked concrete walls of the warehouse. This place smells like rust and dust and desperation. I found it a couple years ago, boarded up and half-burned, tucked behind the edge of the port. It became my little secret.
Santi shrugs, rain dripping off his hoodie. “Gone. Nada. Except one brick. We got one.”
I slam the crowbar down with a curse, chest tightening. “How the hell—”
“The Russians,” he cuts in, tossing the wrapped bundle onto the table beside me. It lands with a heavy thud. “Again.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I rip off the gloves from my fingers, blood warm in my veins now. Fucking Russians, they’re always one step ahead. We don’t even take the full load—we skim. One box, maybe two. Enough that Gabriel doesn’t notice. Enough to survive.
“How the hell did they intercept the whole thing?”
He shifts like he’s got more. “Word is, they knew when Gabriel’s shipment was coming. So they took everything. It was a hit back.”
I stare at him. Hard. “Yeah well they’re fucking with my inventory now.”
“Maybe we should get our own.”
I lean against the table, arms crossed, and breathe through my teeth. “You know I’m not doing this for the game, I don’t want to be like our brothers.”
Santi nods.
“Well,” I sigh. “At least they don’t know it’s us. They can fuck with Gabriel.”
Santi grins, half-relieved, half-worried. “Exactly what I said.”
Before I can answer, the back door creaks open.
Emir steps in, all shadow and silence. Still Gabriel’s right hand, but the only one who’s ever looked at me with something that almost passed for pity.
“Ayla,” he says, voice deep, unimpressed. “Your brother is pissed.”
I push off the table. “It wasn’t me this time. I barely got half my usual cut.”
He raises a brow, amused. “If he knew you were taking anything, he’d have you killed.”
I tilt my head. “Who’s gonna kill me? You?”
His eyes harden. “You gotta lay low, Ayla. He’s already in the middle of this shitstorm with Korsakov. This—” He gestures around the room. “—this little Robin Hood routine of yours is gonna blow up in your face.”
“That’s not my fight,” I say, teeth clenched. “That’s his problem. I’m just trying to get the fuck out of here.”
“You don’t have enough saved yet?”
I snort. “You know how I live, Emir. Ramen and roof leaks. I’m still working both jobs—the diner and cleaning for Mrs. Hardinoff… still not enough.”
He steps closer, voice low. “He’s sniffing around. He’s not stupid. If he finds out it’s you—”
“He won’t.”
His eyes flick to Santi, and something cold shifts in the air.
“Don’t look at him like that,” I snap. “He’s not—”
“I’ll go,” Santi says quickly, heading for the door.
“You don’t have to treat him like that,” I say once he’s gone.
Emir crosses his arms. “He’s a Sarkisian. You know what the fuck they’re doing right now?”
“Yeah. And Santi’s not part of that shit.”
Emir’s eyes narrow. “Korsakov is in an alliance with the Italians. If he finds out you’re involved in this, if he thinks you’re fucking with his supply line? You’re on your own. I can protect you from Gabriel. That’s it.”
“I don’t need protection,” I snap. “I’ve got this. I always have.”
His stare lingers. “Your brother wants to see you.”
My spine locks. “Don’t call him that.”
“That’s what he is, right?”
I shake my head slowly. “Gabriel has never wanted to be my brother.”
He sighs. “He wants to see you tonight.”
“Tell him to fuck off.”
“I’m not telling him that,” he mutters. “You can tell him yourself. Or show up. Your call.”
He leaves like he always does—without waiting for a goodbye.
The silence settles. Heavy.
I exhale through my nose and stare down at the lone brick Santi brought in. One brick. That’s all I have to work with this month.
Not enough to flip and stash. Not enough to survive.
I head to the far side of the warehouse where the space is partitioned off with old metal dividers and broken filing cabinets. My crew’s makeshift planning room.
My crew.
I push through the metal dividers, three people wait for me inside.
Ricky leans against the wall, tattooed arms crossed, cigarette dangling from his lips even though I’ve told him a thousand times not to smoke in here.
He sees me and grins—that crooked, trouble-seeking grin that got us through more shit than I can count.
Met him in high school before he dropped out.
He was the one who noticed the bruises when no one else did.
“Bout time, boss,” he says.
I hate when he calls me that. Makes me feel like Gabriel.
Beside him, Kay sits on an overturned crate, legs swinging, her dyed-red hair catching what little light filters through the grimy windows.
She’s small, barely nineteen, but she’s got hands faster than anyone I’ve ever seen.
Can pick a lock in under thirty seconds.
Disable an alarm in forty-five. Santi brought her to me before his fucked up brother could sell her off after he scooped her off the street.
And then there’s Jace. Big, quiet, standing in the corner like he’s part of the furniture.
Outgrew the foster system, got into gangs, was a runner for the Irish in Vancouver until he settled here.
Found him digging through the trash a two years ago outside the diner. A secret between the both of us.
Because of our little operation we’ve all got little nest eggs to get us where we want to go.
But today? Today we’re fucked.
“We got a problem,” I say, crossing my arms.
Ricky straightens. “Russians?”
“Russians,” I confirm. “They hit the shipment. We only got one brick.”
Kay whistles low. “That’s not gonna cut it for the month.”
“No shit.”
I pace, mind racing through options, discarding each one as fast as it comes. We can’t hit another of Gabriel’s shipments this soon—too risky. Can’t approach the Russians directly—they’d kill us on sight or worse.
“What about the Italians?” Jace asks, voice like gravel.
I stop. Turn to face him. “What about them?”
“They’re aligned with Korsakov now, right? Maybe they got supply we could—”
“No,” I cut him off. “Absolutely fucking not. The Italians are off-limits.”
Ricky raises a brow. “Why? They got better product anyway.”
“Because,” I snap, “you all seem to forget they have Scythe. I don’t know about you, but I’d like to keep my tongue.”
The room goes quiet.
Kay picks at her nails. “So what do we do?”
I breathe out slowly, forcing my heartbeat to steady. Think, Ayla. Think.
“We wait,” I finally say. “We take what we got, flip it carefully, and we wait for the next opportunity.”
“That’s not gonna be enough for your fund,” Ricky points out. “You’re the one who was suppose to get out this month.”
“I know.”
“You still need like, what? Five grand?”
“Seven,” I mutter. “Seven thousand more and I’m gone.”
Kay looks up at me, eyes soft. “Where you gonna go?”
I’ve never told them. Never said it out loud because saying it makes it real, makes it something that can be taken away.
But standing here, in this broken warehouse with these broken people who somehow became the only family I have—I tell them.
“Anywhere,” I say quietly. “Anywhere that’s not here.”
I sink into the broken chair, rub the space between my brows, and let my head fall back.
All I need is a little more time. A little more money.
I’ll be gone before Gabriel ever figures it out. I’ll vanish—new papers, new face, new life. I don’t know where yet. Somewhere warm. Mexico, maybe. Or maybe I’ll just keep heading north until I hit trees and silence. Canada. A place with no ghosts, no Gabriel.
A place where I’m no one.
And free.
***
The gates to Gabriel’s place are already open when I get there—like they were expecting me to show and obey orders.
Emir’s waiting near the front, leaning against the hood of some overpriced black SUV, arms crossed like he’s been standing there for hours just to gloat.
He grins. “Didn’t tell him to fuck off, huh?”
I roll my eyes and stride past him. “You can fuck right off.”
I don’t wait for his response. I just stroll inside and straight to Gabriel’s office.
I don’t knock. I never knock.
I push open the heavy oak door and step inside like I own the place. It still smells the same; cologne, cigar smoke, and blood that’s long since dried into the grout.
Gabriel looks up from his desk, pen poised like he’s about to sign a death warrant. Probably is.
“You look like shit,” he says.
“Thanks, Gabe.” I flop down into the chair across from him, kick my boots up onto his desk, and give him the fakest smile I’ve got. “What do you want?”
His eye twitches. “Don’t call me that.”
“Aww,” I pout. “Don’t want a little sisterly love?”
He shoves my feet off his desk with a scowl. “Quit acting like a damn street rat.”
I grin wider. “Too late.”
He leans back, studying me. “I’ve got a job for you.”
That makes me blink. I straighten a little, suspicious.
Gabriel’s only jobs for me is clean, cook or kill.
“What, you need your toilet scrubbed? Want me to cook for the boys like a good little housewife? Or you don’t have anyone willing to kill and you’re hoping I get killed trying to take out the target? Either way, can’t. I’m busy.”
He glares. “You’re not too fucking busy for the syndicate. I need you to get a job.”
“I got more than enough jobs, Gabe.” I stretch the name out on purpose, just to see that vein in his neck jump.
“I told you not to fucking call me that—unless you want a knife across your throat.”
I go still. My jaw locks. I feel my breath catch for a second too long.
I pushed too far.
“What’s the job?” I ask, voice low.
He smiles, and I hate it. “A bakery.”
My eyes narrow. “A what?”
“Smash and Sugar.”