CHAPTER 28 – Familiar Shadows
1078 Words
Dante Salinas preferred quiet.
Quiet made people sloppy. It gave them space to fill the air with words they didn’t mean to say, or glances they didn’t mean to give. You could tell more from where someone’s eyes darted—or didn’t—than from an entire confession.
Silence was where truth lived.
Which made it a problem that right now, the warehouse office was loud as hell.
Jorge was talking so fast he was practically spitting.
“Four days, D. Four. No sign of Jordan. His car’s at the edge of the orchard, smeared with so much blood you’d think they slaughtered a cow in the driver’s seat, and nobody knows where he went. Or where the cash went. The cops are sniffing around, but they’re not saying much yet. Either he’s running, or he’s—”
He dragged his thumb across his throat like a middle-school drama kid.
Someone else snorted.
“I mean… Jordan always was sloppy. Maybe he finally got what was coming.”
A few of the guys laughed. The kind of laugh that didn’t reach their eyes. Nervous. Too loud.
Dante didn’t laugh.
He didn’t even blink.
He sat behind the battered metal desk, sleeves rolled up, the ink on his forearms catching the flicker of the shitty overhead bulb.
His gaze slid over Jorge. Over the others. Clocking how their shoulders hunched. How nobody would meet his eyes for more than a second.
His jaw flexed once. He twisted the silver ring on his right hand, slow and deliberate.
Inside, his mind was already sorting through possibilities like puzzle pieces.
Jordan might be a liar. But he’s not stupid. He sure as hell wouldn’t run off with that kind of money without a plan. Unless he was dead. Or wanted everyone to think he was.
He spoke quietly. Even. Letting the silence stretch first.
“Jordan lied. A lot. But he wasn’t an i***t. He knew better than to run off with our money without a plan.”
The laughter died on a dime. Like someone had killed the lights.
Dante leaned forward, fingers steepled. Voice flat as concrete.
“Missing money isn’t funny. Cops sniffing around is worse than Jordan alive. You keep laughing, and I’ll wonder why.”
Jorge swallowed hard, eyes flicking away. “Sorry, D.”
Dante tilted his head, studying him a second longer. Then flicked his chin toward the door.
“Go home. All of you.”
They didn’t argue. Chairs scraped concrete as the crew scattered like pigeons. Jorge shot Dante one last worried look before slipping out, leaving the door swinging half-open.
Dante stayed still until the footsteps faded into silence.
Then he exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding his breath the whole time.
He turned toward the flatscreen bolted to the cinderblock wall. Pulled up the feed from the warehouse lot where Jordan was supposed to drop the cash.
He clicked through hours of nothing. Static. Wind rustling debris. A cat darting under the dumpster, tail flicking like it owned the place.
Then—movement.
He rewound. Slowed the playback.
A car rolled into frame. Tinted windows catching glints of streetlight.
Not Jordan’s black Infiniti. A beat-up Honda Civic. Wrong car. Wrong everything.
Why the hell was that there?
Dante leaned closer, eyes narrowing. The car crawled past the warehouse door, hesitant.
Even through grainy footage, he clocked the driver’s tension. The slight jerk of the wheel. Like it kept slipping under sweaty palms.
Cars move different when the person inside is scared.
He scrubbed forward frame by frame.
A glint flashed across the screen. Passenger side.
A figure shifted into the faint glow of the streetlamp—a curtain of dark hair swinging forward, obscuring her face.
Small. Shoulders hunched.
A girl.
Pretty. Petite. Hair shining almost blue under the sodium lights.
Dante froze the frame. Zoomed in. Pixels bloomed and blurred until the image looked like modern art.
He rewound. Played it again. And again.
He didn’t slam his fist into the desk. Didn’t curse. Didn’t breathe for a long second.
Instead, he stared at that faint silhouette, mind already cataloging details and possibilities.
He never jumped to conclusions. But he never ignored shadows, either.
Dante leaned back in the chair, arms crossed tight over his chest.
He turned the video’s volume all the way down, leaving only the sound of his own breath echoing off cinderblock walls.
Jordan and his secrets. Jordan and that grin like he owned the damn world.
Dante had known from day one that kid was built for trouble. Flashy. Smooth talker. Always one move away from being rich, but somehow never cashing in.
And Dante had tolerated him—for one reason only:
Because Jordan always paid on time.
Until now.
Dante blew out a slow breath, trying to unclench his jaw.
But his brain wouldn’t let go. Pieces kept circling back, refusing to settle.
He could still see it clear as daylight—Jordan flashing his phone screen at him one night while they were moving stashes.
“Bro, look at her. That’s Lia. Tell me she’s not the prettiest girl in this town.”
That photo was burned into Dante’s brain: a girl with a bright smile, cheeks flushed pink, hair in loose waves. The kind of smile that made men forget how to think straight.
The one with the smile.
Dante narrowed his eyes at the frozen frame on the monitor.
Was that Lia in the passenger seat of the car? Or am I chasing ghosts—because Jordan’s gone, the cash is gone, and the cops are circling like vultures?
He twisted the ring on his finger, metal cool against his skin.
“Jordan… what the hell did you do?”
He reached forward and shut off the monitor.
The screen went black, leaving him staring at his own faint reflection in the glass.
He didn’t call Jorge back in. Didn’t send any messages. Didn’t say a word.
Instead, he just sat there, tapping his silver ring against the edge of the metal desk in a steady, measured rhythm.
Half-truths got people killed. He didn’t move until he was sure.
The warehouse settled into silence. The kind of silence that felt like the walls were listening.
He let it stretch around him, clearing space in his head.
Because if that girl in the footage was Lia—even by accident—that meant one thing:
She was his problem now.
- Writer
