POV: Marco
The night smells like oil and salt.
It clings to the air around the dock, heavy and metallic, mixing with the low hum of generators and the distant slap of water against concrete pylons. Sodium lights cast everything in harsh yellow, shadows stretching too long, too thin, making men look like something less human than they are.
I don’t like it.
That realization settles in my chest as I step out of the car, boots hitting the gravel with a crunch that feels too loud. The place is quiet in the wrong way—no shouting, no rushed movement, no chaos that usually follows illegal transfers. Too orderly. Too clean.
Luca falls into step beside me, his expression unreadable, eyes constantly moving.
“You sure about this?” he asks under his breath.
“This is the location Arianna gave,” I reply. “If Sofia and Enzo are moving weapons, this is where.”
“That’s not what I asked,” Luca says.
I don’t answer.
Around us, my men spread out efficiently, weapons low but ready, every movement drilled into muscle memory. These are men who trust me. Men who have followed my orders without hesitation for years. Men who will bleed tonight if I’m wrong.
That thought sits heavy in my gut.
I raise my hand, signaling the advance.
We move in controlled silence, boots soft against concrete, breath measured. The dock stretches ahead of us, long and exposed, lined with shipping containers stacked like monuments to secrecy. A single truck idles near the far end, engine rumbling quietly, exhaust curling into the cool night air.
“There,” one of my men murmurs.
The truck.
Everything narrows to that point. The supposed shipment. The proof Arianna promised. The strike that’s meant to cripple the De Lucas and prove—once and for all—that my judgment hasn’t failed.
I gesture, splitting the team.
Two men circle wide, flanking left. Another pair moves toward the right, hugging the shadows between containers. Luca stays close to me, his presence grounding even as unease coils tighter in my chest.
We reach the truck without resistance.
No guards.
No lookout.
No frantic radio chatter.
My jaw tightens.
“Check it,” I order.
One of the men climbs onto the back, weapon still raised as he unlatches the doors. The metal groans as they swing open, echoing across the dock far too loudly.
I step closer, heart pounding now, the silence screaming in my ears.
The interior is empty. No crates. No weapons. Nothing.
“What the hell—” someone starts.
The first shot cuts the air before the sentence can finish.
Glass explodes to my left as a bullet tears through the windshield of one of our cars. Another cracks against a container behind us, sparks flying. The quiet shatters instantly, replaced by chaos.
“Ambush!” Luca shouts.
Gunfire erupts from every direction.
Men pour out from behind containers, from elevated walkways, from places that were empty seconds ago. They’re everywhere—too many, too coordinated, moving with precision that tells me this was planned down to the second.
A trap.
My stomach drops as realization slams into me with brutal force.
“Fall back!” I yell. “Cover!”
We scatter, returning fire, bullets ripping through metal, ricocheting violently. One of my men goes down hard, a cry torn from his throat as he collapses behind a crate, blood spreading dark and fast across his jacket.
“Marco!” Luca grabs my arm, dragging me down as another round screams past where my head was a second earlier. “We’re boxed in!”
I hit the ground hard, gravel biting into my palms. My heart is pounding so violently it feels like it might crack my ribs. I fire back blindly, aiming toward muzzle flashes, my ears ringing from the deafening noise.
“Where the fuck did they come from?” someone shouts over the chaos.
I don’t answer, because the answer is already clawing its way through my mind.
They knew.
They knew exactly when we’d arrive.
Exactly how many men I’d bring.
Exactly where we’d move.
This wasn’t guesswork.
This was fed.
“Move!” I shout. “We’re pulling out—now!”
We fight our way backward, inch by brutal inch. Every step feels like dragging myself through cement. Another man screams as he’s hit in the shoulder, Luca and one of the others hauling him up, blood slicking their hands.
The dock feels endless now, stretching farther with every desperate step toward the vehicles. Gunfire continues to rain down on us, bullets chewing into concrete, splintering wood, tearing through anything that doesn’t move fast enough.
I duck behind a container, chest heaving, vision tunneling.
This was supposed to be clean.
This was supposed to prove control.
Instead, it’s turning into a slaughter.
A grenade explodes near the far end of the dock, the shockwave rattling my teeth, sending debris flying. I taste metal in my mouth, adrenaline burning through my veins.
“Marco, now!” Luca shouts.
I nod sharply and sprint for the car, firing as I run. Hands grab me, shove me into the back seat as bullets hammer the frame. The engine roars to life, tires screeching as we peel away from the dock, weaving wildly as more shots chase us into the night.
Only when the dock disappears behind us do I realize how hard I’m shaking.
The car smells like blood and gunpowder. One of my men groans softly, pale and sweating, a makeshift bandage already soaked through. Luca sits opposite me, jaw clenched, eyes dark with fury.
Silence stretches, broken only by labored breathing and the hum of the road beneath us.
Finally, Luca speaks.
“That wasn’t bad intel,” he says slowly. “That was deliberate.”
I stare straight ahead, my reflection ghosted faintly in the window. “It was a setup.”
“They were waiting,” he continues. “This wasn’t Sofia being sloppy. This was someone handing us over.”
My hands curl into fists in my lap.
Arianna’s face flashes through my mind—calm, reassuring, her voice low as she told me about the dock. If you hit it, you cripple them. You remind everyone who holds power.
Power.
Trust.
Loyalty.
I let out a harsh breath. “She said they were moving weapons.”
“And there was nothing,” Luca says. “Not even decoys.”
The implication hangs between us, heavy and unavoidable.
“You think she sold us out,” I say quietly.
“I think someone did,” Luca replies carefully. “And I think you need to ask yourself who benefits most from us bleeding tonight.”
The answer comes too easily.
My jaw tightens painfully.
Arianna.
De Lucas.
Both.
Or worse—only her.
The car slows as we near the city, the lights blurring past, indifferent to the damage done in the dark beyond its edges. I lean back against the seat, exhaustion crashing into me now that adrenaline fades.
Men trusted me tonight.
Men were hurt because I trusted the wrong person.
Carmen’s voice rises unbidden in my mind, sharp and furious, warning me I couldn’t control Arianna. Luca’s earlier caution echoes right behind it. Even my own instincts had screamed at me to slow down.
And I ignored all of it.
Because doubt felt like weakness.
Because jealousy burned louder than reason.
Because believing Arianna was easier than believing I was losing control.
I close my eyes briefly, my chest tightening with something dangerously close to regret.
If this was Arianna’s doing, then I’ve just proven exactly how vulnerable I am.
And if it wasn’t—
Then I’ve already crossed a line that can’t be uncrossed.
Either way, one truth settles deep and unavoidable as the city lights swallow us whole.
I don’t know who I can trust anymore.