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"Where are we going?" I try to keep my voice even, but it's not easy when every fiber of your being is screaming danger.
"Somewhere safe," he says, and I don't miss the irony.
Yeah, as safe as a lamb in a lion's den.
I send up a silent prayer, not really sure who I'm praying to. Maybe to some guardian angel who's got a thing for lost causes or to Constantino himself, wherever he might be. Please, let me be wrong about him. Let him come for us.
Declan's gaze never wavers from me, and I can feel it, invasive and probing; he's still trying to figure me out, find the secret that binds me to a man like Constantino. But there's no grand mystery here, no hidden depths—he won't find what he's looking for because I'm not even sure it exists.
As we turn another corner, Evan's grip on my hand tightens, and I squeeze back, a wordless promise that I'll do whatever it takes to keep him safe. That's what this is about now—not Constantino, not Declan, but the small, trembling boy who believes I can protect him from the monsters.
"Nearly there," Declan announces, and something in his tone makes the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
"Nearly where?" I ask, but no answer comes, just the echo of our procession through this industrial labyrinth. And as we walk, the darkness seems to press closer, a tangible weight against my chest, reminding me how far we are from anything resembling safety.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The chill bites into my skin, but I welcome it. It's a moonless night; the kind that cloaks devils and their deeds in the comforting shroud of darkness. My breath mists before me, and I watch as my men, shadows themselves, slip through the industrial maze of containers and machinery, silent as death. The warehouse looms ahead, its corrugated exterior an ugly blot against the dark sky.
"Rough night for a rendezvous," I mutter to no one, my voice lost in the salt-laden wind that whips off the docks. It's the kind of night that speaks to my soul—a little bit cold, a little bit merciless. Like me.
I tug my jacket tighter around me, an unnecessary armor against more than just the weather. The slight breeze, a constant companion here at the docks, is perfect—it masks our movements, muffles footsteps, turns us into ghosts on a hunt. The anticipation in my veins is a familiar thrill, a dark hunger waiting to be sated.
I'm huddled close to the wall, the rough bricks jagged against my back. My breath forms misty clouds as I exhale slowly, eyes fixed on the massive metal beast being lowered onto the concrete with a ground-shaking thud.
"Boss, you think it's time?" One of my guys sidles up to me, his own breath a vaporous echo of mine. His voice is a low rumble, barely audible over the distant lapping of water against the docks.
I glance at the illuminated hands of my watch, feeling that gnawing sensation worming its way through my gut. "Not yet." My voice is steady, betraying none of the unease that's clawing inside me.
He nods, melting back into the darkness, and I can't help but wonder if he feels it too—that prickling sense of something off-kilter tonight. But there's no time for doubts, not when the stakes are this high.
My fingers twitch, itching for action, but restraint has always been part of the game. The night wraps around us like a shroud, and the water by the docks hums a haunting tune. It's the kind of night that's perfect for hunting—silent, invisible, deadly.
The container is finally in place and the bribed crane operator that brought it to us is safely out of sight. The Irish had always handled the gun shipments when my family was in the business this way. Bribe a customs agent to get access to a very specific container to offload the cargo.
In a way I can understand why the Irish were pissed. They relied on our family to supply weapons, which they would distribute across the country. That was their main income source, and then one day, it was no more. All because my brothers decided they wanted to go legitimate.
I'd be pissed, too.
"Positions," I hiss into the comms, and like specters, my men slink into place. We form a ring around the unsuspecting prize, each man a shadow armed with more than just intent.
I can hear the crunch of gravel underfoot as the Irish finally show, their voices a soft murmur carried by the wind. They approach the container, oblivious to the trap set just for them. It's almost poetic, in a twisted sort of way.
"Ready..." I murmur, my hand poised over the weapon concealed beneath my jacket. My heart hammers against my ribs, but I clamp down on the rush of adrenaline. Can't let the beast loose, not yet.
Then they're inside, the metal doors swinging shut behind them with an echoing clang. It's the sound of fate sealing shut, and my lips curl into a cruel smile. "Now."
Gunfire erupts, loud and jarring against the stillness of the night. Bullets ricochet off steel, and the air fills with the scent of gunpowder and blood. The Irish are caught in a hailstorm of lead, their return fire desperate and sporadic. They never stood a chance, not against us, not here.
My men are stationed perfectly, each shot calculated and cold. They've become instruments of my will, extensions of the anger that simmers beneath my skin. We're predators, and the container is our killing ground.
"Keep 'em pinned!" I bark out the order, ducking as a stray bullet whizzes past. The carnage sings to me—a dark harmony that matches the rhythm of my primal urges. But I keep the beast at bay, focused on the hunt, on the victory that's so damn close I can taste it.
And then, just as quickly as it began, the gunfire dwindles to silence. The night swallows the echoes, leaving only the ragged breathing of men who know they've danced with death—and led.
The buzz of spent cartridges hitting the concrete is the only sound for a moment, the air thick with gunpowder and blood.
"Clear?" I call out, my voice a command that brooks no hesitation.
