Heartbeat in the Crossfire

AMARA

The docks loom ahead in the bruised darkness, the water black like spilled oil beneath the thin haze of mist. Moretti's SUV rolls to a stop on the gravel, headlights cutting through the fog. Behind us, two more vehicles idle, engines low, windows tinted against the light. 

The air tastes like salt, rust, and something fouler. Gunpowder, maybe.

"Stay sharp," Moretti murmurs. His eyes scan the docks with lethal calm. "No mistakes."

I nod without speaking. My pulse is steady, but there's a weight on my chest I can't shake. A quiet dread, coiled and ready to strike. What are we going to find in there?

We move as one. Moretti leads, his men fanning out in practiced formation. I fall into step beside him, my fingers brushing the cold steel of the weapon he pressed into my palm before we left. Just in case. 

The warehouse ahead is half-rooted, its metal doors pulled slightly ajar. Shadows shift beyond them. Quiet. Too quiet. 

Something's wrong. 

Moretti slows, hand raised in signal. His men freeze. Breath fogs in the cold air. For a heartbeat, the only sound is the distant lap of water and the crunch of gravel under careful feet. 

Then: "Go," Moretti commands, barely above a whisper. 

The breach is fast. Controlled chaos. The doors are shoved open, weapons raised. Inside is a row of crates, splintered wood, the sharp tang of gasoline. 

And then the trap springs. 

Gunfire erupts from the catwalks above. Suppressed shots, sharp pops that echo through the metal shell of the warehouse. One of Moretti's men drops, hit in the shoulder. Another instantly drags him back. I dive under a crate as bullets splinter wood inches from my face. 

"Ambush!" someone snarls. 

"Fall back," Moretti barks, eyes scanning fast, calculating. His gun is still raised, and he moves like he's done this a thousand times. Calm, deadly, untouchable. 

But I'm not useless. I crawl low, heart hammering, and catch movement. Left side, behind the oil drums. 

A shooter. 

Exposed for a breath too long. 

I raise my weapon, staying low. Exhale. Pull the trigger. 

The man crumples. 

I don't think. I move. I spot another, aim, and shoot. The sharp snap of return fire misses by inches, but I don't flinch. I can't afford to. 

Then suddenly, it's over. 

The gunfire stops. Black Scythe ghosts slip away into the night, leaving behind only blood and smoke. Moretti's men secure the space, a few leaving to try and track our enemies. 

It's a hollow victory. The crates are half-empty. A diversion. I catch my breath, still crouched low, my fingers numb around the gun.

"Amara," Moretti's voice cuts through the ringing in my ears. His hand extends down to me, steady, strong. I take it without thinking. 

He pulls me to my feet and, for a moment, his eyes meet mine. Something unreadable flickers beneath the ice. Not just respect. I can't quite put my finger on what it is, but it heats up my entire body. 

"You good?" he asks, his voice low. 

I nod, breathless. "Yeah, I'm okay,"

But even as I say it, my eyes catch on something half hidden beneath a toppled crate. Charred fabric. Melted silver stitching. A crest. 

I freeze. 

I know that crest. I've seen it before...years ago, on my father's old ledgers. On documents he thought I never saw. 

The breath leaves my lungs. What is my family's crest doing in a Black Scythe warehouse? If anything, this proves that Black Scythe is responsible for the death of my parents, just as they are for the kidnapping of my brother. 

But Moretti is already barking orders, pulling me back into the motion of the moment. I shove the discovery deep down, for now. 

On the ride back to the club, failure clings to us like smoke. One man down. Two injured. Black Scythe gone without a trace. And underneath it all, the weight of what I haven't forgotten: the photos. The promise Moretti made. 

The silence between us isn't comfortable. It's electric. Sharp-edged. My thoughts churn, my hands twisted tightly in my lap to keep them from shaking. 

I can't stop thinking about what I saw in the warehouse. That crest. 

"You saved one of my men tonight," he says suddenly, voice low, almost too soft to hear over the hum of the engine. 

"I did what needed to be done," I say, turning to look at him. 

His eyes flick to me for a second. Something shifts there, a beat of quiet intensity. "Not everyone would've moved that fast,"

I swallow hard as he turns back to the road. There's a heat under my skin I can't quite smother. The distant echo of adrenaline. Or something more dangerous. 

"Guess I'm full of surprises," I murmur. 

The corner of his mouth turns up, that almost-smile that never quite makes it to his eyes making an appearance. "That you are."

Back inside the club, Moretti dismisses the others with a flick of his fingers, his expression cold as always. But I don't leave. Not yet. 

Because I need answers. 

I clear my throat as he takes his seat behind his desk. "You still owe me the truth," 

He doesn't flinch, but his hands curl together. "I remember."

For a breath, I don't look away. I let him see the weight of it. The warehouse, the men bleeding out, my search for my brother, the damn photo burned into the back of my mind. 

"Soon," he murmurs, something dark and unreadable in his voice. "I'll give you everything I promised. Just...not tonight,"

It should make me angry. It should spark that familiar burn of betrayal. But instead, there's something else. Something that curls in my chest, just beneath the fury. Something dangerously fucking close to trust. 

Or the beginning of it. 

"I told you, Moretti, if you lie to me, I'm out,"

"Get some sleep, Valenti," he says, his voice rough around the edges. "We'll regroup in a few hours, and I need you as sharp as you were today."

It's the kind of line that shouldn't mean anything. But for some reason, it catches in my chest. 

I swallow, my voice monotone when I speak. "You too, Moretti. You're not made of steel, no matter how much you like to pretend,"