Dangerously Yours

The Night Job

The house settles into a different kind of quiet once the cars leave—lighter in sound, heavier in air. Without the men around, it's like the walls can finally breathe. Mirrors hold still reflections instead of watching eyes.

Mira dims the downstairs lights, humming as she checks locks that probably don't need checking.

Her orderliness is its own form of armor.

In the kitchen she hands me a bowl of stew and a chunk of bread. ''Eat. Isla and I monitor comma tonight. You will stay where it's bright.''

''Because you think I'll run?''

''Because we lock the gates after nine.'' She says it without malice, then waves to a stool. ''Sit.''

I eat because there's nothing else to do. Every bite tastes too normal for a night that feels wrong.

From the adjoining room comes Isla's voice, low and steady. ''Dock cameras are live. The van's in position.'' Another pause. ''They're already late.''

Her tone prickles down my spine.

I carry the empty bowl into the control room—a narrow space crammed with monitors and radios.

Screens glow blue against her face; cigarette smoke snakes toward the ceiling vent.

''Something off?'' I ask.

She doesn't look away from the feeds. ''Should've heard the second check-in ten minutes ago.''

''What happens if you don't?''

''Then we start calling for favors.''

Mira joins with a tablet, placing a hand on Isla's shoulder like she's done it a hundred times. I stand behind them, eyes drawn to one monitor showing streaks of harbor lights and moving shadows between crates.

Static cuts across a channel, Luca's voice: 'Secure. Extraction complete.'

Relief unravels through the room; Isla exhales smoke she didn't realize she was holding. ''Finally.''

But the next sound isn't relief. It's shouting, muffled through interference. Marco's voice, a rapid string of curses; gunfire pops in the background, sharp and hollow. Then dead air.

Mira freezes. ''What was that?''

Isla stubs out the cigarette. ''Ambush. Someone fed intel to the wrong hands.'' She starts flipping switches, trying to raise them again. Nothing but static.

My pulse spikes. ''We should—''

''We wait,'' Isla cuts in. ''Running blind gets people killed.''

The minutes stretch, measured only by the tick of a nearby clock and the static hiss. My nails bite into my palms.

Through the haze, a single phrase crackles over the speaker. ''Clear—repeat, clear. Casualty one.''

No name attached.

Mira closes her eyes for a second, whispering something that sounds like a prayer. Isla straightens, voice sharper now. ''Bring them in.''

Headlights slice across the security feed fifteen minutes later—two cars instead of three. The gates open; doors slam. Isla's already moving, gun holstered at her hip, strides clipped with purpose. I followed before Mira could stop me.

The front doors blow open with the smell of salt and iron. Marco limps inside, arm tight across his side, blood seeping through the fabric. Rafa supports him, half dragging, half steering. Aiden's expression hasn't changed, but his knuckles are white.

''Luca?'' Isla demands.

''He's outside,'' Aiden answers. ''Dealt with the shooter.'' His glance flicks to me, unreadable. ''Elijah is still at the docks checking for remains.''

Marco grunts. ''Missed me by a breath. Bastard won't try again.'' He notices me then, smirks through pain. ''Didn't think you'd still be here, sweetheart.''

''Stop calling me that.'' The words come out before I can temper them.

Rafa barks a short laugh. ''She's learning fast.''

Isla handles them like a commander, ordering Rafa to bring first-aid supplies, sending Mira for clean water. I hover uselessly until she jerks her chin toward a side cabinet. ''Towels.''

I obey, pressing a folded cloth against Marco's wound. He hisses but doesn't pull away.

''You keep surprising me,'' he mutters.

''You keep bleeding. Not a great habit.''

Isla's voice cuts through. ''Yes. Not a great habit. Next time, wear the vests Elijah pays for.''

He doesn't argue. No one does when she uses that tone.

The door slams again. Elijah walks in. His shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled, a trace of blood splattered along one cuff—none of it is his. The room snaps to silence.

''Status,'' he says.

''Contained,'' Luca answers, coming in behind him with a limp of his own. ''Pier group neutralized. Found one of DeSoto's men with our coordinates.

Elijah's jaw tightens. ''Meaning?''

''Leak. Inside.''

His gaze sweeps the room, methodical and cold. It finds me at the last pass, lingering longer than I can stand. ''Everyone downstairs,'' he orders. ''We lock this house down until I say otherwise.

When only two of us remain in the foyer, he steps closer. The smell of gunpowder clings to him. ''You wanted to understand what this world costs,'' he says quietly. ''Now you've seen the receipt.''

I don't answer. I can't.

He turns toward the staircase. ''Get some rest, Amara. Tomorrow, we start finding out who betrayed me.''

His steps echo upward, each one measured.

And though the house feels full—people in every hall, lights in every window—it's never felt emptier than it does after he's gone.