Chapter 24
ERYX
I sit by the open window, cigarette between my fingers, the smoke curling into the cold air. She’s still, for once, not fighting me, or running. Just breathing like the world outside doesn’t exist, like it doesn’t matter. She fits here too well. Like a missing piece that should’ve always been mine.
My shirt hangs loose on her frame, swallowing her in the scent of me. She belongs here in my bed, in my life. If it were up to me, she’d never step outside this room again. Just stay here. Wrapped in my clothes. Wrapped in me.
She’s got no idea how beautiful she is to me. I see my entire future with her. She’s starting to open up to me. Each day I’m looking less and less like the enemy to her and more like someone she can rely on. But all that can change with a simple truth.
I’m going to tell her, but I’m not ready yet. The moment I do, all this will be over, and I’d rather live in my delusion a bit longer.
One thing is for certain though. I’m going to kill her father. For putting her in harms way, for setting up the possibility of her getting hurt.
She begins tossing and turning in the sheets. Since I’ve been watching her sleep these days she’s had less and less nightmares. But is clear something is still tormenting her mind.
I put out the rest of the cigarette before flicking it out the window.
Then I make my way to her, getting underneath the sheets.
I bring my arm over her waist and pull her closer.
She turns around in my hold so that she’s facing me and buries her face on my chest. Her body instantly relaxing.
That welcoming scent of vanilla hits my nose, and makes me feel at home.
Of course the peace doesn’t last for long, as my phone buzzes with an incoming text.
Father
Warehouse 11 Old Harbor Marina 3 AM
Lot 31
I glance at my watch, we still have an hour. I text the boys to get ready. We haven’t run a job in a few weeks.
Carefully, I slide out from under her and cover her with the blanket again. Black jeans, boots, hoodie. I dress all in black, helping me blend into shadows better. I snag my balaclava for later and lift my piece from the nightstand, sliding it behind my back.
I press a kiss to her forehead. Her hand shoots out, gripping mine.
“Where are you going?” she murmurs, half-asleep.
“I’ll be back soon, baby,” I whisper. “Just need to take care of something.”
Roman and Caine are already waiting by the car when I get down to the garage. I’m grateful we’ve got each other, I can always count on them to have my back through it all.
“Dad sent the location,” Roman tells me. “Caine pulled details on the place and looks to be owned by the Rivera family. Since when do we do business with the Cartel?”
“You’re asking me? You’re next in line, shouldn’t you know?”
We pile into Roman’s SUV. The blacked out one we use for most jobs and drive 30 minutes into the marina. Roman drives while Caine rides shotgun, humming some rock song under his breath, drumming his fingers against the dashboard like we’re on our way to a concert instead of cartel territory.
I’m in the back, eyes on the road, silence heavy between us.
The marina spreads out ahead, all glossy on the surface and rot underneath.
Every inch of this place is a front. Cartel business, Bratva, even the Irish and Italians.
Everyone knows pockets run deep here. We all have a little piece of the pie.
The cartel moves their tequila shipments through here.
Everyone knows tequila isn’t the only thing in those crates though.
Crates stamped with cheerful labels that no one questions, and inside those crates?
Guns, cash, powder. Everything that oils the machine.
The marina itself has been owned by the Ashford family for generations. When they made themselves legit by going into politics, the families all had a sit down with the dear governor.
Now, we all have our own warehouse, but only a select few know which warehouses belongs to who. Those were the rules set by the heads way back when. A way to keep it all organized and cordial. Make sure no one ever tried going over anyone's head.
Workers are all local, since it would be too obvious to have our own men work our side.
The problem with this little side quest our father sent us on however, is that we don’t do business with the cartel. Not openly. Not ever.
“Strange place for Father to send us,” Roman mutters, low.
Caine smirks, eyes flicking to the rearview to catch mine.
“Strange? Try suspicious as fuck. I’d bet money we’re walking into something we weren’t invited to.
” He leans against the dash of the SUV as we roll down the cracked pavement, his boot steady tapping to the rhythm of the song playing through the speakers.
He’s not wrong. My gut hasn’t settled since the text came through. My father doesn’t waste words, doesn’t waste our time. If he sent us here, it’s for a reason. The question is, what.
“Hope this one doesn’t turn into a shitshow,” he says, flashing a grin over his shoulder. He lives for the chaos but pretends he doesn’t.
I don’t answer. My focus sharpens the closer we get. The air thickens with the sour tang of fish and gasoline. Forklifts trundle past stacked shipping containers, workers in reflective vests pretending they don’t see us. Everyone here knows what goes down at the marina. Knows not to ask questions.
Roman pulls the SUV into the side of one of the Warehouses. The headlights sweep over the white structure, the number 11 spray-painted in black across the warehouse door.
A worker waits by the loading bay, shifting on his feet like he’d rather be anywhere else.
Crates stacked on the dock wear the bright red agave insignia of the Rivera tequila company.
We all step out together. Roman at my right, Caine at my left.
Always the same formation, the same unspoken line in the sand.
The worker nods quickly, almost too eager.
“You’re here for the pickup?” His English is broken, accented.
“Warehouse eleven, lot thirty-one,” I say flatly. “That’s what I was told.”
He gestures toward the crates. “All ready. Ten boxes.”
Roman studies him, eyes like ice. “What’s in them?”
The man hesitates, then forces a smile. “Tequila. Best in Mexico.”
Caine laughs under his breath. “Yeah, and I’m the fucking pope.”
I step closer to the crates, run my hand along the wood. The nails are new. The seal, too clean. I don’t have to open one to know there’s more than alcohol inside. My father wouldn’t send us for liquor.
But why send us here at all?
The worker shifts again, gaze darting past us toward the shadows along the dock. Like he’s waiting for someone else to show up. My stomach knots.
“We’re not supposed to be here,” I murmur. Just loud enough for Roman and Caine.
Roman’s jaw tightens. Caine just grins, but it’s thin, sharp. “Yeah,” he says. “And yet here we are.”
Roman doesn’t say a word, just moves toward the SUV and pops open the trunk. The sound echoes too loud in the empty lot.
Caine whistles low. “Guess we’re really doing this.”
“Yes,” I say. My father’s orders weren’t optional. They never are.
The worker hustles to help us load, but Roman waves him off with a look that could break bone.
We don’t let cartel hands touch Bratva property.
Not if we can help it. So it’s the three of us, lifting heavy wood, stacking ten boxes in the back of the truck.
Each one thuds into place like a coffin shutting.
Sweat runs down my back even though the night air is cool. The marina’s quiet now, too quiet. Somewhere in the distance a seagull screeches.
When the last box is loaded, Roman shuts the trunk hard and turns to me. “Done.”
The worker lingers, shifting on his feet, eyes everywhere but ours. He looks like a man who knows something we don’t.
“What’s inside?” I ask him again.
He licks his lips. “Tequila. Always tequila.”
I stare him down until he looks away. Liar. But pressing him won’t change the order.
Caine brushes his hands together, smirking, though I can see the tightness in his jaw. “All right. Father gets his mystery boxes. Let’s hope they don’t explode on the way home.”
Roman climbs behind the wheel, I take the back seat again, and Caine rides shotgun. The SUV rumbles to life, crates rattling in the back like bones.
As we roll away from the warehouse, I glance once over my shoulder. The worker is still standing there, watching us leave, his face pale under the yellow dock light. He doesn’t wave. Doesn’t move. Just stares, like he’s seeing ghosts already.
Caine mutters, “Don’t like it.”
Roman’s grip tightens on the wheel. “Yep.”
Neither do I. But the job’s done. We have the crates. And whatever game my father’s playing, we’re the pieces on the board.
The worst part? Pawns never know when the knife is coming.
The streets change the closer we get to drop zone. Asphalt gives way to cobblestone, neon signs vanish, and the shadows stretch longer. Bratva territory. Safe, but never comfortable. The SUV growls under Roman’s hands as he turns into the courtyard behind an abandoned motel.
We’re supposed to be meeting Alexey. One of dad’s men.
Caine hops down first, stretching like he’s just out for a stroll. “Lets be quick yeah?”
I step out slowly, boots crunching on gravel. Eyes scanning every corner. Alexey is with two guards, a plumbers van at the ready to take the shipment. The perfect decoy. The guards give our SUV a cursory glance before turning back. No whistles, no jokes, no nods. Just cold eyes.
Roman climbs down last, shoulders tight. “Unload them. Fast.”
Alexey’s men move in practiced rhythm, two men lifting ten heavy crates, stacking them neatly against the far wall of the van. Every crate thuds in place like a heartbeat.
The last crate slides into place and they’re gone without another word.
“Why does it feel like we just started a war?”
Caine shakes his head. “Yep”
Roman frowns. “I feel it too,” he admits.
The unease grows. I don’t know why my father sent us to that marina, why he wants cartel ground touched by Bratva hands, but my instincts are screaming. Something in this job is a message. And I’m not sure if it’s for us, or from us.
A shipment meant to be moved quietly, efficiently. But quiet doesn’t feel right.