Page 126 of Twisted Vows

The door opens without a knock. Marco steps in, reminding me of a storm dressed in black. His jaw is tight, his tie crooked. The same uniform of men who’ve seen too much and felt too little.

Marco cocks his head. “You look like hell.”

“Hell’s familiar, so I’ll take that as a compliment.”

My phone buzzes, and Billy’s name flashes across the screen. As soon as I answer the call, our hacker’s paranoia-laced voice comes through the speaker.

“Got something. Martinelli’s back in New York, at a warehouse in Red Hook. The location pings off a burner tied to his old number.”

Too clean. Too convenient. Nothing in this business ever falls into your lap unless someone’s already holding a knife to your throat.

Still, a lead’s a lead. “Text it.”

Once the call ends, silence returns, even heavier than before. Marco watches me, then asks the question no one should.

“You really gonna kill him?”

I release a slow breath instead of answering. In my world, duty doesn’t wait for doubt to catch up.

Marco exhales, low and rough, the way an old engine puffs out smoke. “Sophia’ll hate you for it.”

My chest tightens. Just a flicker, controlled enough that Marco won’t notice my reaction. “She doesn’t need to know.”

The lie burns like cheap whiskey on an open wound.

The drive out to Red Hook feels endless. Manhattan fades behind us like a bad memory. Eventually, concrete softens into docks and shadows, and the smell of salt and rust slaps against the car windows.

Marco keeps glancing over from behind the wheel, his eyes full of things unsaid. Loyalty keeps him quiet. Fear makes him human.

Red Hook’s industrial skeleton looms ahead with the booms of cranes hanging like dying mechanical beasts and shipping containers stacked like coffins. Rusted chain-link fences sag under their own weight. Graffiti bleeds across warehouse walls, and oil puddles reflect dim streetlights. Nearby, the Hudson slaps against rotting piers.

The place hums with the kind of silence that always comes before bullets sing. I shut off the engine, reach into the glove box to pull out a nine-millimeter, and slide the weapon into my side holsters.

I shove the door open and climb out, my boots crunching the gravel. “Too quiet.” Marco emerges on the other side and scans the shadows.

I agree that everything feels tense and wrong. With a push, the warehouse door groans open. A pale cone of light from a swinging bulb spills across the floor, illuminating a single figure tied to a chair.

Vincent Martinelli.

Throat slit open. Eyes glassy.

For a moment, nothing moves. The world narrows to the corpse and the faint drip of blood hitting concrete. I don’t experience any shock. Not even disgust. Just the stillness that settles when you realize the end came without your permission.

Behind me, Marco swears softly. “Shit. Guess someone beat us to it.”

A playing card gleams under the light, pinned to Vincent’s chest by a knife. The ace of spades. Volkovs. An arrogant signature.

“Son of a bitch.” Marco crouches, his eyes sweeping the corners. “No guards?”

As we drift closer, every instinct screams trap, but curiosity’s older than fear, and apparently, I’m suicidal enough to indulge it.

He was clearly killed mere hours ago. The body’s fresh, the blood’s still tacky, and the rot hasn’t set in.

Whoever did this wanted us to find Martinelli. Staged the scene like a deliberate message, or perhaps as a warning. And I stepped right into the trap like a blind man.

Before I can pull out, footsteps echo behind us, and whispers of movement from the shadows prove we’re not alone—we never were, I knew that from the start—and this just became a whole lot more complicated.

Sergei Volkov—tall, barrel-chested, wearing a fur-lined coat despite the mild weather—leads the way. Gold rings adorn every finger. A scar splits his left eyebrow. He moves like he owns the world. His younger brother, Ivan—leaner, meaner, with dead shark eyes and a neck tattoo that crawls up to the jaw—shadows him.