Chapter Four
Vendetta
The morning air was crisp, cold enough to keep his window rolled halfway up, but not cold enough to stop the fog from clinging to the edges of the glass.
The van hummed beneath him, its tires eating up the pavement as he made his way through the first leg of his route.
A rehab clinic, an assisted living, and a small pharmacy with a back door and no security cameras.
The usual.
Vendetta kept the van steady, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh. His fingers twitched out of habit more than restlessness.
But his mind wasn’t on the road. It was on her.
The girl with the knockout smile, kind eyes, and a voice that had a way of cutting through his walls without even trying.
The girl who’d invited him into her story.
She had no idea she was living in the middle of a battlefield.
He hadn’t planned on seeing her again, not until he accomplished what he’d set out to do.
He sure hadn’t counted on sitting in her apartment eating pizza and listening to her question her whole damn world.
But the more he got to know her, the more he had her, the more he craved.
All it took was her mention of her uncle, Eli, and he had his excuse to see her again.
His gut warned him not to answer her text.
Every instinct honed from years of surviving betrayal, blood, and backroom lies screamed that getting closer to her was a bad idea.
That the second he got tangled up with Dylan Crizer, he’d lose the edge he needed to finish what he came back here to do.
But there was no walking away from it now.
When the truth in all this came for her -- and it would -- who would she have left to trust but him?
It didn’t matter how bad an idea it was.
She was his responsibility from the moment he’d touched her.
She was his to protect, his to watch over.
He would be the one to protect her when she inevitably faced her uncle’s betrayal.
Eli Crizer was good at doling out betrayal. Vendetta hadn’t asked for the betrayal Eli and his sworn brothers had dealt him. But it was his, and he’d burn Oak Grove down before he let them, let Eli, touch her.
Vendetta’s anger rose at the thought of her uncle not speaking up while his crew disrespected his niece right in front of him.
That silence said everything. Either he didn’t care, or he couldn’t afford to show it.
Neither one sat right. And the way Dylan talked about him?
Like she was still trying to give him the benefit of the doubt.
Dylan hadn’t seen who he really was yet.
But she would. And when she did, she’d break.
Which meant Vendetta had to be ready to make sure she didn’t shatter alone.
Another reason he needed to stay close to her.
Turning down a narrow access road, Noesner Medical Clinic was the kind of place that looked respectable from the front but hadn’t seen a paint job in five years.
It sat on the edge of the industrial strip, boxed in by chain-link fencing and loading docks that hadn’t been used for anything legal in a long time.
His stop here was simple. He was dropping off one box of wound care kits and IV-line replacements. He’d been in and out a half-dozen times already. He’d never seen more than a tired receptionist or a delivery driver from the lab.
Something was different today.
As Vendetta rounded the back lot, he slowed the van to a crawl.
Another vehicle was already there. A dark, unmarked van.
No company logos. Just dust, dents, and tinted windows.
Outside of it, two men stood, one of them wearing a Cottonmouth cut.
He was too young to be a higher up. Young and jumpy, he was one of the hang-arounds Vendetta had noticed lurking near Ned’s a few times.
The other man was older and in casual clothes, and he looked really pissed off.
Vendetta parked in the lot, his van facing in the opposite direction of the men, but it provided a perfect angle to watch them in his side mirror. He slid the driver’s side window down on the off chance he could hear anything. And he could. Their voices carried, sharp and angry.
“You said the shipment was clean!” the older man hissed.
“Yeah, I said it would be clean,” the Cottonmouth snapped back. “But it’s not. What the fuck do you want me to do about it now?”
Vendetta killed the engine and slid down in his seat just enough to stay out of view.
The older guy shoved a clipboard at the biker. “They flagged it. Said half the barcodes don’t match the shipment. You trying to get me fired? Or raided?”
“Keep your fuckin’ voice down,” the Cottonmouth growled, grabbing the clipboard and glancing around. “We’ll fix it. Just move the rest of it to Ned’s. Tell them it was rerouted.”
The man spat on the ground. “You’re lucky I owe Eli.”
Vendetta’s eyes narrowed. There it is. Maybe a lead?
Whatever they were moving, it wasn’t medical supplies. And whatever had gone wrong was happening under Eli Crizer’s name.
Vendetta waited until the argument died down and the other van pulled away before climbing out of his own. He dropped the box at the back door of Noesner Medical like nothing was wrong. He smiled, signed, and drove off.
But his next stop wasn’t on the delivery sheet. He was going back to the warehouse. To the logbooks and digital records. Because if what he just heard was the tip of something bigger? He was going to dig until the whole damn thing collapsed.
Rolling the van back into the INeeda warehouse lot like it was just another day on the job, he parked where he always did.
He gave Freddie the usual nod as he passed the office window.
There was no need to draw attention or move too fast. Inside, the air smelled like cardboard and bleach.
The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, and the shelves stood stacked in neat, harmless rows.
A dozen employees moved like clockwork, handling boxes, checking orders, and scanning barcodes.
And just like that, he disappeared into the system. Vendetta made his way to the records room under the guise of a restock. No one questioned him. New guy or not, he’d already learned how to stay off the radar. People didn’t look twice if you looked like you belonged there.
He stepped into the back office where they kept the printed records.
They were filed by date, destination, and client account.
It was mostly digitized now, but the paper trail still mattered.
He pulled records from the past four weeks for Noesner Medical.
He sorted through them one by one. At first, he saw exactly what he expected -- bandages, alcohol wipes, cold packs, and gloves.
But the red flags soon began to emerge.
A record from two weeks ago:
* 400-count sterile surgical gloves.
* IV sedation kits, unboxed.
* Sterile wraps ordered under a third-party billing name SS Holdings.
That same name again. SS. Sinister Skin.
Flipping back through the records, there was a separate account for Ned’s Sundown Lounge.
Officially, they’d only ordered standard supplies. But three days ago, an order had been placed under a personal pickup listing. No driver name. Just initials: SH.
And the contents?
Wound sealants
Two field-use medical kits
Naltrexone injectors
What the hell was a bar doing with opioid blockers? Vendetta’s mind was racing. This wasn’t just shady. This was medical gear ordered in preparation for damage control. The contents were for sedation, patching up trauma, and keeping people alive, just long enough.
Vendetta carefully tucked the copies back exactly as he’d found them, his heart pounding cold and steady in his chest. He tucked the last document back into place, closed the cabinet with the same casual care he’d use if nothing had changed.
But everything had. They were moving people, and Dylan Crizer was right in the middle of it without even realizing it.
He couldn’t afford to make a mistake now.
Couldn’t afford to spook the Cottonmouths too early -- or Dylan.
Still… He knew he needed to try and convince her to get a job somewhere else.
Somewhere safer, far from Ned’s and the shady dealings happening every night.
Vendetta knew it wouldn’t work. She was so damn stubborn, the kind of stubborn that grew from being hurt too many times and still choosing to stand up straight.
Dylan wouldn’t run just because he told her to.
But shouldn’t he at least try? Even if she stayed, even if she fought him on it, maybe hearing it from someone else, someone who saw the warning signs would plant a seed. Maybe it would remind her that she wasn’t as safe as she wanted to believe.
Meanwhile, first things first. He needed to know her schedule better than she did.
If things turned ugly fast, and they would, her safety would depend on him knowing exactly where she was, and when.
He rolled the van out of the warehouse with his last set of deliveries like nothing was wrong, every movement calm and practiced.
But his mind was already working the angles.
Where did Dylan go when she wasn’t at Ned’s?
When were her shifts? He’d never liked the idea of her walking back and forth to work at the bar…
or anywhere for that matter. Who did she trust enough to talk to beside him?
He’d been remiss in not paying close enough attention before. But he sure would now.
No more late-night distractions or pretending he could just drift in and out of her life like it didn’t matter. It damn well did matter. More than it should. And he’d start tonight.