Chapter 11
DANTE
? Two hours before. ?
River Street is dead tonight.
Most of the lights lining the block are blown out, leaving the warehouse covered in nothing but darkness.
I pull my car up near the side entrance and cut the engine. The second the headlights die, the shadows swallow everything whole.
From the looks of it, most of our crew is already inside. Two black SUVs sit backed into the loading dock, rear doors wide open, and a thin strip of light spills out from beneath the warehouse door.
I step out, and the smell hits me immediately.
It’s a mix of river water, rot from beneath the bridges, and rusted metal hanging in the air.
It settles heavy in my nose cavity, and I grimace, dragging a hand down my face as I start toward the door.
I’ve never gotten used to that smell. Probably never will.
Inside, the warehouse is full of crates stacked high near the garage door, packed tight with weapons and product, all of it lined up on wooden dollies.
I follow the voices echoing from deeper inside, letting the sound guide me back into the office space.
Viktor’s here and leaning back against the wall as he talks to a few of our guys.
His eyes move to me in the doorway the second I step through.
“Look who finally decided to show up,” he says, pushing off the wall slightly.
He’s not supposed to be here.
He was told to keep an eye on Leigh.
“What happened to watching your sister?”
There’s a change in his expression.
His gaze shifts back to the guys. “Everyone out,” he says. “Let’s get this shit done.”
The room clears fast.
Tony brushes past me first, giving a slight nod. He’s been with the Genovese family longer than I have. He’s always been dependable.
Gordon follows. He’s newer, but doing his best to show that he’s loyal.
Nash lingers half a second longer than the rest, exchanging a look with Viktor before heading out.
Then it’s just us.
Viktor exhales through his nose, rolling his shoulders once. “Feds at 67th yet?”
“Last I heard,” I answer, stepping further into the room.
A smirk tugs at his mouth. “Poor bastards.”
Yeah. Poor bastards.
Because while the Lucchese family is getting dragged out of their own territory across town, we’re standing here with a clean thirty-minute window to move everything we’ve got sitting in this building.
No interference. Just as I prefer it.
“Alright,” Viktor says, clapping his hands once. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
He walks past me, already moving for the door like the conversation is over.
“Viktor,” I call after him, my voice stopping him in his tracks. “Where the fuck is Leigh at?”
He turns slightly to face me.
“She’s fine. I dropped her off at home earlier.” He exhales. “She bought like fifty thousand books.. I can assume that she’s probably already halfway through one.”
A quiet chuckle slips out of me before I can stop it.
She definitely caught his ass.
He keeps walking out of the office, and I follow a step behind him, my focus still half on the conversation we just had.
Tires screeching outside the warehouse stops us where we are.
My eyes shift toward the garage without turning my head all the way.
Everyone who’s supposed to be here already is.
That’s when the engines start cutting off. One by one.
Around us, the guys pick up on it too. Conversations die off mid-sentence, and there’s a split second where everything just.. shifts.
You can feel it.
The exact moment we all go on edge.
Viktor glances at me from the side.
Tony freezes mid-step, a crate still in his arms. Gordon’s hand drifts toward the gun tucked at his back and Nash turns toward the door, already tense.
Viktor steps up beside me, voice quiet “Your guys?”
I don’t even turn to look at him. “No.”
A few seconds pass, and then the sound of car doors slamming shut echoes from outside.
“Shit,” Nash says from in front of us.
The first man comes through the entrance door with his weapon already raised.
The shot fires before anyone can do anything.
Glass shatters behind us as the bullet tears through the office window.
“Move!” Viktor shouts.
What should’ve been a quick, clean move is already going to shit.
This is a mess.
And Gabriel’s not going to like it.
Gunfire erupts inside the warehouse, deafening in the enclosed space. Bullets tear into the metal siding, sparks jumping across the concrete as rounds ricochet dangerously close to our feet.
Our guys scatter for cover, diving behind crates and vehicles.
I draw my pistol, stepping into the chaos instead of away from it, and fire toward the opening.
This isn’t just the mafia side of me.
As an FBI agent, this kind of shit is just another day.
Different setting, same outcome.
Either way, you have to know how to shoot.
And you have to be good at it.
One of them drops instantly, but another takes his place before the body even hits the ground.
Viktor grabs my arm and pulls me back just as another round tears through the space where I was standing. We slam down behind the office wall, crouched beneath the shattered window.
“We gotta go!” he shouts over the noise.
“Not yet,” I snap, already peering back out.
If we run now, we lose everything.
And I didn’t set this up just to watch it fall apart.
I risk another look. Their men are spreading out now, pushing deeper into the warehouse.
Then, suddenly, an engine roars to life near the front.
One of our SUVs jerks forward, tires screeching as it bolts straight out of the warehouse like hellhounds are chasing it.
For a split second, they falter; confusion flashing over their faces and then they start unloading on it.
As the vehicle takes off, their attention follows it instead of us.
I glance over, catching his eye at the same time he catches mine.
“Go,” Viktor mutters, already moving.
I rise with him, firing twice.
One of them drops after the bullet hits him.
Viktor doesn’t hesitate. He steps forward and puts a straight shot through another man’s forehead.
The body crumples like the strings got cut.
We push out from cover, moving through the wreckage.
Gordon is slumped against a crate, hands pressed tight to his chest. Blood leaks steadily between his fingers, his face already going pale.
He’s not going to make it.
Two more men push in through the front door’s opening.
The first lifts his gun, but I pull the trigger faster.
The bullet catches him in the throat and he drops immediately, hands clawing at his neck, choking on his own blood as he collapses.
The second dives for cover behind a barrel, firing blindly. Shots go wild, tearing into the walls and surrounding items.
But not us.
After a few more shots, the rhythm breaks.
I hear a few clicks and then I realize that he’s out of rounds.
I run at him before he can fix it.
We collide hard, fists flying at each other. His punch connects with my jaw, forcing my head sideways.
I taste blood immediately.
I answer by driving my fist into his ribs, feeling the impact through my knuckles.
He grabs my shirt and slams me back into a metal beam hard enough to fuck up my spine.
The pain that follows is instant as something sinks into my side.
“Fuck-”
He jerks it out, and warmth spills down my side almost immediately.
But the adrenaline hits just as fast.
I grab his wrist before he can swing at me again with the blade and slam my forehead straight into his face.
I hear a crunch on impact and blood automatically pours from his nose as he stumbles back, swearing in Russian.
I don’t give him time to stabilize before I rip the knife from his grip and drive it into his shoulder.
He shouts, gearing himself up as he charges straight at me.
Viktor shoulder-checks me out of the way, stepping in right beside me as he fires, the bullet hitting the man square in the chest.
I press my hand against my side, trying to slow the bleeding.
“Fuck, dude,” Viktor mutters, stepping closer as he looks at the wound.
“You need a hospital. They won’t question-”
“Shut the fuck up,” I cut him off.
The edges of my vision blur, but I try to focus it back.
“You want everyone knowing who I am? You might as well put a bullet in my head yourself.”
Across the warehouse, Gordon’s already gone.
Tony’s still alive, but he’s hunched over, gripping his arm where the bullet hit, blood seeping through his fingers.
And from the looks of it, Nash is the one who took off in one of our vehicles, with a good portion of the product.
Viktor runs a hand through his hair, scanning the damage. “What the hell do you want to do?”
I turn away and head for the door, forcing my body to move through the burning pain in my side. “Handle the shipment,” I grit out over my shoulder. “I’ll handle this.”
By the time I reach the driver’s seat, my pants are soaked through with my blood too.
I turn over the engine and peel out of the parking space.
My hand smears blood all over the gearshift and the steering wheel as I take off.
There’s only one place I can go like this.
Only one place where I won’t have to explain why I look like I just crawled out of a war-zone.
And that thought alone almost makes me laugh.
Because it’s the last place I should be.