The Chicago docks at two in the morning were a graveyard of rusted shipping containers and the oily, black reflection of the moon on the water. The air was thick with the scent of diesel and rotting fish, a far cry from the sandalwood-scented halls of Roman’s estate. I stood by the edge of the pier, the wind whipping my hair across my face, stinging my cheeks like tiny needles.
Roman stood a few feet away, a silhouette of sharp angles against the fog. He hadn't spoken since we left the car, his attention focused on the dark expanse of the lake. He looked like a man who was used to waiting for the tide to bring him his enemies.
"He's late," I said, my voice barely a whisper against the roar of the wind.
"Men like Carlos aren't late, Brielle. They're careful," Roman replied without turnin
