Chapter8
1135 Words
Ava thought working under Nico would mean distance—boss gives orders, she follows them. Simple. Clean. Detached.
But apparently, in his world, proximity was power.
He didn’t hand her off to Enzo or any lieutenant. No, she was at Nico’s side that morning, standing dead center in a warehouse colder than a morgue, surrounded by crates of stolen guns and silent men with trigger fingers who looked like they hadn’t blinked in an hour.
It was early, and the light slicing through the high windows was gray and merciless. Frost coated the metal crates. Ava shoved her hands into her jacket, trying not to look like she was shivering. Or impressed.
“Don’t speak unless I ask you to,” Nico said quietly, voice low and razor-sharp, like a blade sliding back into its sheath. “Just watch.”
“I’m not your pet, you know,” she muttered.
He shot her a look over his shoulder—sharp, unamused. “No. You’re my problem.”
That stung more than she expected.
Ava bit the inside of her cheek and fell silent, following him deeper inside the cavernous space. The place reeked of rust, old oil, and something metallic she didn’t want to identify. Overhead, pipes groaned as if the building itself resented being awake at this hour.
A man stood near the far end—thin, twitchy, hands buried deep in his coat pockets like they might hold something deadlier than nervous sweat. A Virelli runner. Young, maybe mid-twenties, with darting eyes and a face that said he’d seen things he couldn’t drink away.
Enzo loomed behind Ava and Nico, silent and watchful. The man was like a shadow with teeth. Ava hadn’t heard him walk up, but she felt him—like cold air on the back of her neck.
Nico stepped up to the runner, stopping a few feet away. “Two crates of ARs went missing from Pier 17. Your people have that dock locked down Tuesdays and Thursdays. Today’s Wednesday.” His tone was calm, clinical. “You want to explain that?”
The runner gave a half-hearted scoff. “Don’t look at us. We’re missing gear too.”
“Convenient,” Nico murmured.
“I’m just saying,” the guy shrugged, “someone’s hitting both sides.”
Ava kept her eyes on Nico. He didn’t blink. Didn’t twitch. Just stared, long enough to make the man start sweating through his collar.
The runner’s throat bobbed.
“Tell your boss,” Nico said, voice coated in ice, “if he wants to survive the week, he better get on the phone. We have a shared problem.”
The runner licked his lips. “Then maybe we should talk—”
“We’re not talking,” Nico cut in, sharp enough to slice through steel. “We’re negotiating. There’s a difference.”
Ava didn’t realize she was holding her breath until that word—negotiating—hung in the air like a gun that might go off.
The runner seemed to feel it too. He shifted on his feet. “There’s a way,” he said, eyes flicking to Ava briefly, then back to Nico. “But it’s gotta be face to face. No runners, no messages. Just them and you.”
Nico tilted his head. “Who do you want to meet?”
The man hesitated like he knew he was saying something dangerous. “Rafe Virelli. He needs to know what’s really going on.”
Nico’s eyes narrowed.
“You want me to call him?” he asked slowly, each word heavy with warning.
“No,” the runner said quickly, hands up as if to ward off the suggestion. “You want to set a place. A warehouse. Neutral ground. Your spot. That’s how we’ll know you’re serious.”
Nico studied him for another beat, then nodded once. “Alright. I’ll send a message.”
The runner didn’t wait. He turned and disappeared into the shadows of the warehouse, like he couldn’t leave fast enough.
Silence settled.
Ava exhaled slowly, her breath clouding in the cold air. “So,” she said, crossing her arms, “you’re really going to have a sit-down with the Virellis?”
Nico’s gaze lingered on the empty doorway. Then he turned to her, face unreadable.
“Yeah,” he said. “We don’t have a choice.”
The days that followed moved like a stormcloud—slow and heavy with pressure.
Ava stayed close, shadowing Nico like a second spine. She’d expected to feel like an outsider, but strangely, people started nodding at her like she belonged. Enzo didn’t trust her, she could feel it in every glance, but he kept his comments to himself. The others—muscle, logistics guys, runners—started treating her like a fixture. Not family, not yet. But not furniture either.
She learned the layout of their warehouses. Memorized names, patterns, schedules. Watched who Nico called, how he spoke to them. He could say a threat and a promise in the same sentence and make both sound like a compliment.
And he never once asked her to leave the room.
Not when guns were laid out on tables like candy. Not when plans were made, or maps were drawn. Not even when he took a call Ava could tell was dangerous just from the way he stood—shoulders tight, voice measured.
He wanted her to see everything.
A part of her hated it.
Another part—quiet and uneasy—didn’t.
There were moments, small but undeniable, when his hand brushed her back guiding her through a room, or when their eyes met and lingered just half a second longer than necessary. And sometimes, late at night in her room at the safehouse, she would think about those moments and wonder what the hell she was doing.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. She wasn’t supposed to feel anything.
She was supposed to be angry. Focused. Guarded.
But somewhere in all this chaos, the lines had blurred. And when Nico looked at her—really looked—it was hard to remember where the lines even were.
The night before the meeting, Ava found herself pacing the balcony outside Nico’s office. The city stretched out beneath them, glowing and restless.
Nico joined her without a word, offering her a glass of something amber and warm. She took it.
“They’re not going to play fair, are they?” she asked, watching the traffic snake through the streets below.
“They never do,” he said.
Ava glanced sideways. “And us?”
He didn’t answer right away.
Then, finally, “We’ll be ready.”
The air between them hummed. Neither of them looked away.
The meeting was coming.
And nothing would be the same after.
- Writer
