Claimed by the Mafia Biker
Every gunshot tightened me like a fist.
“Lena called,” the driver said suddenly. “She says she’s keeping watch. Says the alley’s quiet. But not for long.”
“We have to believe them,” I whispered, though the callus of fear on the inside of my chest kept cracking.
Inside, the plan unfolded. Cruz’s men hooked up lines, pulled open crates. Blade kept their backs, blade flashing in the low light, face a grim sculpture. Cruz moved through the chaos with intent, not fury; he was precise, a man doing what had to be done. The crates were opened. It smelled of fuel and chemicals and — a small, mundane flush of money stacked like rectangles of sin.