Chapter 1
Dr. Russo POV
The car spiraled out of control. It wasn’t a smooth drift; it was a violent, reckless glide that sent our hearts racing. The rear tires screeched relentlessly against the loose gravel, fishtailing with a sinister intent as the cliff loomed just inches from us. My headlights caught the abyss—an endless stretch of dark air and perilous drop.
“Shit—!” Alex gasped, eyes wide with terror.
The vehicle lurched violently, tilting at an alarming angle. For a brief moment, gravity seemed to disappear, and it felt as if we were already airborne.
No.
I clenched the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white, forcing the rising tide of panic deep down, out of reach. My hands quivered despite my efforts to stay steady. My pulse thundered so loudly that it blurred the edges of reality.
I slammed on the gas.
The engine roared fiercely—like a wounded beast—but the tires just spun, kicking up gravel that rattled beneath the car with the force of gunfire. The vehicle trembled, fighting my grip, threatening to slip sideways into the void.
“Come on… come on…” I whispered through clenched teeth, the words barely a prayer.
Then—light.
Headlights sliced through the darkness behind us, illuminating the scene with an almost predatory glint.
I knew that car.
The sedan whipped around, engine wailing as it barreled directly toward us. No hesitation, no warnings—only a cold, calculated intent.
They wanted to finish us off.
My chest tightened, a vice of dread squeezing my breath. “Please…” The word escaped my lips, raw and desperate. It wasn’t directed at them, though—I wasn’t even sure who I was pleading for anymore. “Dad… don’t let this be it.”
The other car closed in with terrifying speed.
I buried the pedal deeper into the floor.
For an agonizing heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then the tires found purchase.
Hard.
The car lunged forward, jolting violently out of its slide. My shoulder slammed into the door as I wrestled the wheel, dragging us away from the cliff’s edge by precious inches—just luck and sheer stubbornness holding us together.
The sedan didn’t get that same break.
It screamed onto the gravel at full speed.
I watched it unfold in painfully slow motion.
The sedan swerved. Overcorrected. Its rear end kicked out, tires shrieking as the driver clawed for control. It was too late.
Way too late.
The car spun once—twice—
And then it was gone.
Over the edge.
The crash hit us a second later—a brutal, shattering symphony of metal and glass erupting from the dark silence below. A violent resonance of destruction followed by an eerie quiet, as if the world were swallowing it whole.
Dust swirled up from the cliff like smoke from a funeral pyre.
I slammed the brakes.
The car shuddered violently and came to a halt, the engine rattling as if it would explode. Sharp, ragged breaths filled the silence as I gripped the wheel tightly—unable to let go.
Not yet.
Beside me, Alex sat frozen.
He just stared.
Out the window.
At the haunting emptiness.
“We… we just—” His voice cracked, lips curling into a jagged half-laugh that trembled with hysteria. “Holy fuck.”
Before I processed it, he yanked me in, his grip fierce enough to knock the breath from my lungs. I felt him shake—really shake, now that it was over.
“I thought we were dead,” he whispered into my shoulder, voice thick with emotion.
“Yeah,” I replied quietly. “We were.”
For a lingering moment, we stayed like that.
Tangled in shock and adrenaline, the thick silence wrapped around us—no birds, no wind, just the relentless ticking of the engine and the haunting echo of what had just unfolded.
He gradually released me, leaning back, eyes still wide, as if unsure the world regained its reality.
I finally loosened my grip on the wheel; my fingers ached, stiff and trembling. We had come disturbingly close to the end.
I glanced at Alex.
He met my gaze, and for a fleeting moment, no words were needed. That same dread reflected back at me—we weren’t supposed to survive that.
But we did.
Which only meant one thing.
It wasn’t over.
I swallowed hard, forcing my breathing to steady.
I shifted in the driver’s seat, body stiff with a newfound determination. My hands wrapped around the steering wheel once more, fingers locking in place—harder than before. I craved that pressure, that solid grip to keep me anchored—to prevent me from slipping back into chaos.
We shouldn’t have survived.
That reality gnawed at my mind.
Yet, here we were.
And that meant we couldn’t stop.
I turned the key.
The engine roared back to life, a violent growl tearing through the ominous quiet. It felt out of place—too loud, too fierce—but I embraced it, slamming my foot down on the accelerator as the car surged forward, like it had something to prove.
So did I.
The road ahead blurred—the darkness streaked past us as speed took over. No more hesitations. No looking back.
Five miles evaporated in a single heartbeat.
I hit the exit hard, tires gripping asphalt as we careened around the turn. The warehouse emerged ahead—dark, silent, waiting, as if it were expecting us.
A breath escaped Alex’s lips, filled with disbelief rather than relief.
“We almost died back there,” he murmured, his tone low and heavy, as if saying it too loudly might summon the specter of our near death.
I kept my eyes on the road.
“Yeah,” I stated flatly, voice steady as a rock despite the storm within.
I pressed the pedal down harder.
“But we didn’t.”
The engine roared in defiance, louder now, angrier—like it understood the stakes.
We should’ve walked away unscathed.
Anyone else would have.
But we were still here—still driving, still pushing forward, still chasing a job that nearly cost us our lives.
Contract’s a contract.
Delivery on schedule.
No matter the cost.
STEELE POV
The warehouse loomed out of the night like a decayed tooth—broad, low, bleeding light from a handful of tired floodlamps that struggled to push back the encroaching darkness. The lot was a chaotic patchwork of crushed gravel and oily stains, puddles slick as ink. The chain-link fence sagged inward, weary from its burden of secrets. Diesel exhaust hung thick in the air, intertwining with the acrid scent of cigarette smoke and the rusty, metallic tang of neglect. Somewhere inside, a forklift beeped slowly and steadily—like a heartbeat for a place that should have long since succumbed to silence.
A cluster of men loomed in loose knots near the loading bay. Big silhouettes, raucous laughter echoing off the walls. Their hard faces wore the kind of laughter that wasn’t born from joy but rather a desperate attempt to quiet the fear gnawing at them.
My hands still trembled from the cliff encounter, but I forced them to move as if nothing was wrong. I killed the headlights and let the engine idle, listening to the way it ticked and growled as it cooled—almost as if it was angry we’d made it out alive.
I turned to her.
“Listen to me.” My voice emerged low and rough, more a command than a comfort. “You go straight to that truck.”
She swallowed hard, the fake mustache twitching when her mouth tightened.
“Head down,” I added. “No eye contact. Don’t scan. Don’t stare. Just walk like you own the place.”
Her eyes flickered with defiance, nerves, adrenaline—the familiar storm she carried, now cloaked in disguise.
I reached over, adjusting her wig with careful fingers that felt anything but. The hair was too pristine, too polished for this gritty world. I mussed it up, giving it a more lived-in look, as if she’d spent the night hauling loads instead of concealing her true self.
She glanced at her reflection in the rearview mirror—mustache, wig, jaw set with determination.
“Do I look stupid?” she asked quietly.
“You look like a problem,” I replied. “Perfect.”
She let out a short laugh, thin and strained.
We bumped fists—quick and hard.
And then, we stepped out into the cold, which hit like a slap. The night air felt anything but clean; it felt as if it were being watched. Each shadow held depth, and every dark corner appeared alive.
She took the lead, boots crunching gravel, shoulders squared, striding toward the truck as if she had been born under a loading dock. With her chin down and hands relaxed at her sides, she moved steadily. It was convincing—almost.
I kept my gaze on her until she melted into the throng of bodies.
Then, I turned to Lucas, who stood near the bay, flanked by two guys built like refrigerators, a cigarette glowing between his fingers. He laughed until his eyes fell on me, at which point his mirth vanished, cut off like a wire.
His gaze darted past me to the car. “What the hell is that?” he snapped, stepping closer, his voice sharp enough to slice. “What happened to my car?”
For a heartbeat, the cliff resurfaced—headlights, gravel, empty air. My throat tightened, the memory clinging like a ghost.
Keeping my face impassive, I maintained my voice. “Road got ugly.”
Lucas scrutinized me as if trying to see through my skin.
“Ugly how?”
I leaned forward just enough to keep it private without making it overt. “We got hit.”
His eyes narrowed, and the men behind him shifted, sensing the weight of the moment.
“By who?” Lucas demanded.
“The Albanians.”
The name hung in the air, changing the feel of the night. Even the guys behind him tensed, as if their bodies had instincts of their own.
Lucas’s anger didn’t vanish, but it twisted into something else. His jaw tightened, working like he was chewing on glass.
“You saying they tried you?”
“I’m saying they tried to shove us off a cliff.”
Lucas’s cigarette hovered mid-air.
“…You’re alive,” he stated incredulously, as if he couldn’t believe it.
“Yeah.” I managed a humorless half-smile. “They’re not.”
One of the men behind him muttered a curse. Lucas’s gaze remained locked on me.
“You hurt?” he asked, and the question was laced with something deeper—concern, maybe.
I shrugged. “I’m here.”
“Jesus Christ.” He ran a hand down his face, frustration boiling into something darker. “You realize what this means, right? What kind of heat this brings?”
“I know.” My voice sharpened. “That’s why we’re finishing the drop.”
Lucas’s eyes flicked past me to the truck—and to her.
He stared a moment too long.
“Who’s the driver?” he asked slowly.
“Knight,” I replied without hesitation. “A favor. One run.”
Lucas’s mouth twisted in disbelief. “He looks like he’d get folded in half by a stiff breeze.”
“He’s fast,” I shot back, sharper than intended. I reined myself in, controlling the edge in my tone. “And he’s the reason we didn’t die tonight.”
Lucas studied me, gauging whether I was lying or merely reckless.
“You trust him?” he asked.
I met his gaze without flinching. “I trust him with my life.”
That hit home.
He held my stare another beat before finally looking away, like the decision left a bad taste in his mouth.
“Fine,” he said, but the weight of his reluctance hung in the air. “But if this goes sideways—”
“It won’t,” I interrupted firmly. “Not tonight.”
He exhaled sharply, urgency crackling in the air. “Go. I need to check on Armani.” I didn’t hesitate.
I bolted across the lot, head down, heart pounding like a drum, instincts tuned to every sound—boots crunching on gravel, engines revving in the distance, a burst of laughter that echoed too loudly, and the metallic thud of a bay door slamming shut.
I lunged into the truck, hoisting myself up into the passenger seat as if diving into a safe zone. The cab was cramped and dim, illuminated only by the ghastly orange light spilling in from the warehouse outside. The air was thick with the scent of diesel, stale sweat, and metal that had been warmed and cooled too many times. The seatbelt buckle dug into my palm as I snapped it in place, the click sharp in the tension-filled silence—like the truck itself was declaring our arrival.
It hit me then: my lungs were tight, locked in a vise.
I dragged in a breath, and it tasted like rust.
She didn’t look at me right away. Her eyes were fixed ahead, hands on the wheel—steady and resolute. It was as though turning her head would shatter the fragile façade we were maintaining.
“Ready?” she asked, her tone flat and sharp.
No, I wasn’t ready for any of this. Just one word, icily delivered.
I examined her profile—the disguise masking her features, the wig casting shadows, the false mustache desperately trying to help her blend in with the men outside. Yet I could sense the tension radiating from her jaw, the strain pooling in her throat. The adrenaline was still coursing through her veins, biding its time.
“Yeah,” I replied, my voice low and steady. “Just don’t do anything stupid.”
A breath escaped her lips, barely a laugh. “We’re already here, aren’t we?”
I leaned over the console and punched in the drop location on the navigation screen, fingers flying across the glass—so frantic that I slipped once, the tremor in my hands a lingering reminder of our recent brush with disaster. My body still hadn’t caught up; it was like I was stuck on the edge of a cliff.
Outside, silhouettes loitered in the warehouse yard. Men drifted in and out of shadows, smoke curling from their mouths like ghosts. I could hear the slow beep of a forklift deep inside, a persistent countdown that only added to my unease.
Every sound felt like a warning.
I finished entering the details, and the route snapped into place.
“Drive,” I commanded.
She shifted into gear.
The truck grumbled, awakening with a heavy, low groan that vibrated through the floorboards as if it resented being disturbed. With practiced precision, she eased us forward, weaving through the cluttered lot, eyes trained ahead, avoiding any lingering glances that might give us away.
I monitored the mirrors, watched the shadows, and scanned for headlights that didn’t belong.
As we rolled past the line of men, I felt their stares—curious, bored, hungry. One stepped too close to the passenger side, his face swallowed by darkness except for the ember of his cigarette, which flared to life as he inhaled, momentarily illuminating his grin.
My skin prickled.
Don’t look. Don’t react. Don’t give them a reason.
We cleared the yard, the weight of it lifting, and hit the open road. The warehouse lights receded behind us, flickering in the mirrors like dying stars.
For a moment, it was just the engine’s growl and the hiss of tires on asphalt. The city felt distant, a fading memory, and the road stretched out ahead, darker and emptier, streetlights standing too far apart, shrouding stretches of black where anything could lurk.
She pressed on the gas.
The truck surged forward, faster than it had any right to, my shoulder sinking into the seat as the acceleration pressed against me.
I stayed silent for a moment, gripping the fabric of the seat with a desperation that almost hurt.
“You’re holding on like that’s going to save you,” she said, her voice low, edged with tension.
“Maybe it will,” I shot back, the words spilling out. “Maybe I’m just tired of skirting death tonight.”
Her knuckles turned white on the steering wheel. “Then stop talking like we’re done for.”
I turned to her, frustration igniting in my chest. “We were inches from going off that cliff!”
“And we’re inches from finishing the job,” she retorted, raw emotion surfacing, humor evaporating. “Want to fall apart? Do it later.”
I swallowed hard, biting back the thoughts swirling in my mind. She was right—sometimes it was about keeping it together in the heat of the moment. Dad used to say that too, in different words. Stay strong. Cry later.
The truck devoured the road ahead.
A car appeared in front of us, crawling along in the right lane.
“Lex—” I began, but she cut left, tight and quick, the truck shifting with a life of its own. We flew past the other vehicle, the gust rocking both cars, the blaring horns behind us echoing a symphony of anger.
“Jesus Christ!” I exclaimed, heart racing. “Slow the hell down!”
She didn’t flinch. “No.”
“No?” I echoed, a mix of disbelief and fear twisting in my gut.
Her voice remained steady, but her eyes burned bright with intensity. “You didn’t see what I saw tonight. I won’t slow down. I won’t give anyone a clean shot at us.”
My throat went dry.
She wasn’t reckless for the thrill; she was driving like the darkness was clawing at us from behind.
The exit loomed ahead.
Too soon.
She took the turn sharply—tires screeching, the truck leaning unnaturally as my stomach dropped. In an instant, she corrected, smooth as steel, and we were hurtling down a straight road, fast and devouring the distance like it owed us something. I glanced at the navigation.
The time.
The distance.
My heart sank.
“That can’t be right,” I muttered.
“What?” she asked, glancing at me briefly.
With trembling fingers, I zoomed in, reset the route, and entered it again. The same route. The same numbers.
A chill skittered down my spine.
“This is—this is impossible,” I breathed, my voice barely a whisper. I pulled out my phone to double-check. “We didn’t have enough time.”
She flicked her eyes toward me, a brief flash of concern. “We did.”
I looked up—
And there it was, looming on our right like a predator waiting to pounce. The building stood tall with dark, unyielding windows, a perimeter fence surrounding it, and a security light that buzzed overhead, flickering like a warning.
We were already here.
I opened my mouth, words catching in my throat. “How—”
She shrugged, as if we were just pulling into a grocery store. “Dad didn’t teach me to be careful.”
“That’s not what I asked,” I snapped, my words sharp, tinged with fear that needed an outlet. “How did you get here in twenty minutes?”
Her jaw tightened. “Because you said we had to.”
The truck swung into the gravel lot, stopping with a jarring screech. Stones rattled under the chassis; the engine idled like a restless animal.
For a moment, we both sat still.
I studied her—her disguise, her hands gripping the wheel. Then I forced my voice to steady. “Stay inside.”
Her eyes locked onto mine—no playfulness, no grin now. “If something goes wrong—”
“Stay inside,” I insisted, my tone more forceful. “If you get out, if anyone sees you—”
“I know,” she interrupted, her voice tight with urgency. “I know.”
I stepped out into the night.
The air felt different—crisp, biting. It carried the scent of damp concrete and chemical runoff. Beyond the fence, a dog barked once, then abruptly fell silent.
Giuseppe loomed near the loading area, his posture tense, face half-illuminated by the flickering security light. He looked as if he’d been waiting too long and didn’t like it one bit.
When he spotted me, his eyes widened, as if I had just emerged from a grave.
“Steele?” he called, stepping closer. “What the hell are you doing here? Where’s Tommy? Where’s Armani?”
The names hit me like blows.
I didn’t soften it. I couldn’t.
“Tommy’s dead.”
Giuseppe’s face drained of color—shock mingling with something deeper. He blinked slowly, trying to process.
“Dead?” he echoed, as if the word were foreign.
“Albanians,” I explained. “They got him earlier.”
A tense silence stretched between us.
Then Giuseppe’s expression hardened, grief giving way to anger. “And Armani?”
“Shot,” I replied flatly. “He’s still breathing. That’s all I can promise.”
Giuseppe stared at me, his jaw working, caught between disbelief and rage. For a fleeting moment, he looked genuinely rattled.
Then his gaze flicked past my shoulder—to the truck.
To her.
His mouth twitched, not in a smile, but something calculating.
“But your guy,” he murmured, his voice shifting. “He made time.”
I shifted slightly, blocking his view without being obvious. “He’s not my guy. Just a favor.”
Giuseppe kept his eyes on the truck. “A favor that drives like that isn’t just a favor. It’s an asset.”
My stomach tightened.
“One run,” I said, deliberately. “That’s it.”
Giuseppe finally returned his gaze to mine, and suddenly, that look of sympathy was gone.
Now there was interest.
“Sure,” he replied, nodding too easily. “One run.”
But the way he spoke made my skin crawl. Someone like Giuseppe didn’t hear “one run.” He heard “opportunity.”
And somewhere in the darkness behind the building, the security light buzzed and flickered, as if it were trying to warn me in Morse code.
