Chapter 45

forty-five

GIOVANNI

The night air bit at my skin as I stood in the shadows near the west entrance. I’d left my jacket in the car, thinking I wouldn’t need it, but the cold had settled deep into my bones. Didn’t matter. The discomfort kept me alert, focused.

Where the fuck was Monahan, our arms dealer? We didn’t have time for him to be fashionably late. I glanced at my watch, its face glowing a sickly green in the dark. He was ten minutes behind schedule, which for him was practically early, but it still put me on edge.

The docks had a way of amplifying sounds. The creak of the ship’s hull, the distant clatter of crates, even the low murmur of voices all seemed to blend together into an acoustic soup. I listened for anything out of the ordinary, any note of danger in the mix. So far, nothing—but my instincts told me we weren’t alone.

The shadows shifted, and a prickle of awareness raised the hair on the back of my neck. I put a hand to my holster, fingers brushing the grip of my gun. The Valentinos had to be here somewhere. This shipment was too big for them to ignore, and Rocco wasn’t the type to let us encroach on their turf. Running guns was a huge part of his business model, and he wouldn’t stand for us stepping on his toes without a fight.

They’re here. I can feel it.

Headlights cut through the night, blinding me for a moment as a car rounded the corner. I squinted, hand tightening on my gun until recognition set in. Monahan’s sports car was an obnoxious piece of machinery, all sharp angles and speed, with a gaudy, bright yellow paint job. It stuck out like a sore thumb against the grunge of the docks—hell; it stuck out anywhere—but that was Monahan, flashy to the point of foolishness.

The car screeched to a halt, and the arms dealer stepped out with his usual swagger. He wore a tailored, extremely expensive suit, looking every bit the apex predator he believed himself to be.

“Monahan,” I said, stepping from my perch along the side of the building. He grinned and extended a hand, which I shook before slapping him on the back. “Thought you’d decided to blow us off.”

“Me? Never.” His grin widened, flashing straight, white teeth he’d no doubt paid for. The man was richer than God, and he flaunted that fact often. “You know I’m always happy to do business with the Cristenellos.”

“The feeling is mutual. Come on,” I said, leading him toward the warehouse. “Let me show you the merchandise.”

Both of us played our parts flawlessly, keeping this shit as realistic as possible for appearance’s sake.

“Nice setup you’ve got here,” he commented absently, trying to make small talk. “Looks like everything’s running smoothly.”

“For now,” I murmured, the nuance layered, knowing he’d read between the lines. “We’ll see how it holds up.”

We reached the warehouse, and I held the door open for him. Inside, the operation was a hive of activity—men following orders, forklifts whirring as they stacked crates of ‘goods.’ The entire scene crackled with frenetic energy.

I spotted Dimitri up on the platform, his eyes sweeping the room like a fucking hawk. He gave a small nod when he saw me, and I beckoned Monahan to follow as I headed toward the center of the warehouse, passing Marco on the way.

We weaved through stacks of crates, each one labeled in code to disguise its contents. Or lack thereof.

Monahan glided a finger across a box, then examined it as though he expected to find gold dust. “So, this is the big play, huh? Going all in on the hardware.”

“It’s a necessary investment,” I fibbed, playing along. “Times are changing.”

He smirked. “Glad to see you finally came to your senses. This is where the real money is.”

We reached the center of the room where I’d left a laptop open on a crate, using it as a makeshift desk. “Take a look,” I said, nodding to the screen. “The inventory’s all there, and I think you’ll find the terms more than favorable.”

Monahan scanned the deal, taking stock of all we were ‘selling.’

“And as a measure of good faith, here’s a little sample.” I grabbed a crowbar and pried the top off one of the crates we’d staged for just this purpose. Lying inside were actual weapons, ones we’d purchased legally, not that anyone else needed to know that.

This deal had to look legit, and we’d done everything we could think of to keep things authentic.

Two more crates were opened, and Monahan inspected the contents of each one.

“I’ve got to warn you, if you’re fuckin’ me over, Cristenello—” His voice dipped, low and dangerous, adding a nice touch to our little playact.

I held up my hands in mock surrender. “It’s legit. You know we wouldn’t play you like that.” When he hesitated, looking torn, I jutted my chin toward another crate that was still nailed shut. And lacking weapons of any kind. “You want to crack open another one? Hell, open ‘em all and inspect ‘em for yourself.” Crossing my arms, I cocked my head, pretending to play hardball. “Or maybe I should call Noll,” I suggested, rattling off the name of a different arms dealer. One I had on good authority that Monahan disliked. Immensely.

My friend narrowed his eyes, and I could almost hear him calling me a fucker in his mind.

Finally, he nodded. “Alright. I’m in.” Reaching past his lapel, he pulled out a pen and a business card, scribbling something on it before handing it to me.

I eyed the scrawled handwriting. The number would’ve had any sane man salivating over the amount of zeros.

“You’ve got a deal.” Tucking it into my back pocket before we sealed the arrangement with a firm handshake. “Pleasure doing business.”

Monahan clamped a hand down on my shoulder as we walked toward the exit. “I’ll arrange payment and have my guys pick it up tomorrow. And Gio,” he said, turning to leave, “tell your old man ‘hello’ for me.”

I didn’t bother responding. He was already walking away, unbuttoning his suit jacket before ducking lithely into his obnoxious car. I watched until the taillights disappeared from sight, then turned my attention to the rest of the warehouse. The men were still working, stacking the last of the crates.

This entire farce had taken an act of congress to set up, and yet Rocco and Vincent hadn’t shown their faces.

Worry crept in, that first frisson of doubt.

I started toward the loading docks, but something caught my eye. One of our guys, Alec, was standing near the far entrance. Initially, I thought he was just leaving the work for everyone else like the weasel he was, but then I noticed the phone pressed to his ear. He seemed to be talking in hurried, hushed tones, and those beady eyes of his shifted nervously as he spoke.

Alec, you shady piece of shit. What are you up to now?

Fuck, I hated that guy. Maybe it was because he came up through the ranks too quickly, skipping the years of grunt work everyone else had to endure. Or perhaps it was how vocal he’d been about the impending regime change, as if he could possibly sway my fathers from stepping down. Both were reason enough to dislike him, but I knew the nail in the coffin had been the way he’d treated Kit the night she’d been shot. The asshole deserved the beating he’d taken for talking shit about her.

Hell, even before our girl was in the picture, my instincts had told me he couldn’t be trusted. From the day he showed up, kissing ass and attempting to work his way into our fathers’ inner circle, something about him had rubbed me wrong. He was too slick, too eager, like a used car salesman trying to unload a lemon. We needed the manpower, so I’d kept my mouth shut and let him play his game, but that didn’t mean I had to like it.

And now that he’d been a complete dick to my Omega, redemption was out of the question. His ass was out of here as soon as we were in control, as far as I was concerned.

Then again, if my intuition about his suspicious behavior was correct…

I headed in his direction, moving slowly so as not to draw attention. If he was selling us out, I needed proof, something concrete that I could take to Dimitri and Emilio. Halfway there, he ended his call and slipped the phone into his pocket. I stopped, pretending to inspect a crate, and watched as he walked toward an exit, his gait hurried and nervous.

My mind raced with possibilities. Had he tipped off the Valentinos about our fake deal? Was he feeding them information about our defenses, our plans? If he was, that made him more than just a disloyal prick—it made him a traitor, and in our world, that was a one-way ticket into a shallow grave in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere.

I followed him, ducking out the side entrance and peering into the night. The cold air bit at my skin, sharp as a switchblade, and the sounds of the docks washed over me in a dissonant symphony. I spotted Alec rounding a corner, his silhouette briefly illuminated by a distant floodlight.

Where’d you go, you little fucker?

I moved quickly but quietly, sticking to the shadows and keeping low. If Alec was meeting someone, I needed to see who it was. My hand drifted to the piece holstered at my side, fingers curling around the cold metal grip.

The alley opened into a small parking lot, and I caught sight of Alec just as he slipped behind a rusted-out van. He paused, glancing about with the nervousness of a frightened rabbit, then pulled out his phone again. The screen’s glow cast an eerie light on his face, making his features look more rodent-like than usual.

A deafening crack split the air, and a muzzle flash lit up the darkness. The bullet whizzed past my ear, so close I could feel the heat of it, before it exploded into the brick wall behind me. Shards of debris rained down as I hit the ground, rolling to my knees and drawing my gun in one fluid motion.

The shadows moved as if they’d come alive, men bleeding out from all directions to converge on the warehouse.

This was the moment we’d been waiting for. I pressed on the earpiece, hoping D and Marco had heard the shot over the noise of the machines working inside the damn building.

My heart rate spiked as more shots were fired, and I dove for safety, hissing out, “They’re here.”

“How many?” D sounded like he was on the move, coming to cover my ass.

Firing back to buy myself some time, I counted the dark figures of the advancing men. “At least a dozen.”