Shadows on the dock

The night pressed in on the safehouse like a secret we weren’t meant to keep. The walls sweated damp, the air stale with dust, liquor, and the faint tang of gun oil. It wasn’t a sanctuary, not really. At best, it was a pause between storms. At worst, a coffin waiting to be nailed shut.

I sat at the table, my father’s old pistol heavy in my palm. Its weight felt unnatural, though I’d carried guns before. Maybe because it wasn’t just steel—it was history. His history. Every scratch in the grip was another ghost.

Luca’s breathing was uneven from the chair beside me. He tried to keep it steady, but I’d spent too long around men like him not to hear the strain. Pride kept him upright, but blood didn’t care about pride. It seeped dark through the bandages we’d wrapped around his ribs, a slow bloom that made my stomach knot.

“You keep looking at that gun,” he said, voice rough from pain. “Like it’ll tell you what to do.”

“It’s not talking back,” I muttered, eyes fixed on the barrel.

He huffe