Chapter 11
“You’re a force, sweetheart. One day the whole damn world will know it.”
— ROBERT MONROE
Constance
Maximo and I climb into the back of the black Escalade Enzo brought around the front of the house.
Last night still clings to me, the scent of Maximo on my skin, in the ache between my legs, in the way he keeps stealing glances at me, as if we crossed into something neither of us is ready to name.
His thigh sits flush against mine; the contact is deliberate, not accidental. It feels like a silent promise, one that says, I’m here and I’m not leaving your side.
Maximo’s hands are still red and raw from beating Pellegrini. He hides the pain well, but I see it in the stiff way he occasionally flexes them.
As soon as we leave the driveway, Maximo pulls up a contact on his phone, saved as “Dockmaster” and calls him.
“Are they still there?” he asks whoever picks up the phone. He listens intently for a moment, then says, “Keep an eye on them from a distance and keep Paul informed. Either you or he call me if there’s any change. Understand?”
After hanging up, he looks over to me and explains, “One of the dockmasters and several of the assistants are on our payroll. Besides helping me move product through the port, they keep an eye out for suspicious activity, like large gatherings of Russians.”
“How often do you get calls about these types of gatherings? Do you have a problem with Russian gangsters pushing in on your territory?” I ask him.
“It’s been a few years, but this isn’t entirely unexpected,” he admits. “Last year, I made sizable campaign donations to my friend Arthur Darby, who was running for mayor.”
That name sounds familiar. “Didn’t he lose to Byron Mathews?”
“He did. I bet you can’t guess who was funding Mayor Mathews’s campaign?
I’ll give you a hint; he ran on an anti-corruption platform.
He promised to break the grip of organized crime in the city.
The hypocrite doesn’t want to get rid of our enterprises.
He wants the Russians to take over so he can continue to get his cut. ”
“You don’t think he’s actively part of this do you?” As I ask the question it feels like a vice clamps down on my heart as anxiety squeezes me.
“I don’t know. If we can grab Kirill and get him to talk, we’ll find out,” Maximo remarks. “Now, when we get there, I want you to stay—”
“I’m not staying behind,” I interrupt him. “Don’t even say it. I’m coming with you.”
“I was going to say, stay behind me. You’ve got a vest and a gun, just in case you need them. Let my crew do the heavy lifting.”
I give him a curt nod and then draw the Glock he gave me from the holster at my side. I check the clip and rack the slide, then gingerly place it back. I spend the rest of the trip trying to quell the tremors that are tearing through my belly as fear grips me.
Enzo glances back at us in the rear-view mirror. “You sure about this Maximo? I’m not trying to second-guess you, but this could get ugly. No offense to Miss Monroe, but this ain’t no place for a lady.”
“You and your boys do what I pay you for, and let me take care of Constance,” Maximo replies in a tone that prohibits further discussion.
By the time we’re almost at Pier 17, the SUV feels like it’s vibrating with anticipation.
I look out the window past him, my eyes fixed on the passing blur of city lights, my stomach twisting tighter with every block.
Maximo doesn’t say anything else as we reach the docks and begin driving down past the warehouses.
He’s wearing the same black bulletproof vest as the rest of his men, a matte pistol holstered at his side, and an extra magazine strapped to the front.
I match him move for move, checking the straps on the vest Enzo gave me in the basement before we left the house.
He glances at me when I check the safety on my weapon for the fifth or sixth time, but he doesn’t give me a reassuring smile, or even a nod of approval.
His expression as he stares at me is completely inscrutable as we head into this ordeal.
And that alone sends a shiver down my spine.
This is the face of a killer unmasked. One I’ve let kiss me, touch me, sleep next to me. And I have zero regrets.
The docks are quiet when we finally get there, the salty air heavy and sticky, mixing with the faint chemical tang of gasoline. Somewhere in the dark water below, a buoy clangs lazily against a piling.
“We move in two teams,” Enzo says.
We slip through the shadows toward the metal building. A single overhead light casts shadows across the cracked pavement.
Inside, voices echo in a foreign language that I’m almost certain is Russian. Their coarse laughter spills out into the night, along with the sound of something heavy being dragged.
Enzo’s crew fans out, rifles up. Maximo raises a hand, motioning them to wait as he peers over a pile of crates. Then, in one fluid motion, he signals, and the world explodes into chaos.
Gunfire suddenly rips through the air. I dive behind a stack of wooden pallets, my heart thundering.
Maximo moves like a man born to commit violence.
He peers over his cover, carefully lining up shots with his pistol.
At least one of the Russians seems to recognize him in the chaos.
I hear one of them shout his name, then a man runs around the side of the warehouse close to the two of us.
I can see his eyes narrowing in the band of light cast from the warehouse, then the barrel of his gun swings towards us.
The impact from the first shot throws him sideways. He stumbles, hitting the ground hard.
“Max!” My scream tears out of me before I can stop it. The sight of him falling, it knocks the air from my lungs. He can’t die. Not after last night. Not like this.
Maximo’s vest takes the worst of it, but I can see him clutch at his side, grimacing. As he scuttles across the ground trying to get into cover, a second shot shatters the air, and Maximo curses bitterly as a spurt of blood flies from his left calf.
Something in me snaps.
I fire back wildly. My aim isn’t perfect, but training kicks in, the stance Maximo drilled into me and the breath control. One of my shots lands.
The Russian that shot Maximo staggers backwards and collapses.
Another appears in the warehouse doorway but goes down immediately clutching at his neck.
I have no idea if I shot them both, or if it was one of Maximo’s men who are surging around us.
My ears ring from the noise, but I keep shooting until someone, Enzo, grabs my shoulder and hauls me behind cover.
“Keep your fucking head down!” he shouts over the firing.
By the time the last of the Russians scatter, the warehouse smells of gunpowder smoke and the hot metal of spent shell casings.
Enzo runs over to a truck where a dead Russian is slumped over the steering wheel.
He throws the body back in the seat, then digs through the cab and comes up with a phone.
He holds the screen up to the dead man’s face to unlock it, then scrolls through the texts as he walks back towards us, his face darkening. “Boss… you need to see this. Here, take it and forward everything while I get you guys out of here.”
Maximo takes it from him, leaning on me for balance as we limp back towards his Escalade. His jaw tightens with each message he reads as I help him climb into the back seat and Enzo starts the engine.
“What is it?” I ask as soon as we pull away. My hands are trembling uncontrollably, and I grab both my knees to try and steady myself.
Maximo meets my eyes, and for a moment I wish he’d lie. But he doesn’t.
“The Volkovs are making moves to end the Luciani family. They’re planning more than just a hit here and there. They want to wipe us out. Permanently.”
He passes me the phone so I can look at it myself. It feels heavy in my hand; heavier than any weapon I’ve held.
A chill cuts through the last of my adrenaline. This isn’t just revenge for my father anymore, or even justice. This is an all-out mafia war, and I’ve tied myself to its most dangerous soldier.