Chapter 29: Rescue’s Cost (Nico Valenti POV)
Chapter 29: Rescue’s Cost (Nico Valenti POV)
Marco’s call came ten minutes ago, O’Connor’s van, license plate half-covered in mud, parked outside a dockside warehouse near slip 22. Now I’m at the warehouse, a crumbling brick building with Port of Chicago stenciled on the side, my gun raised, my thumb grinding my cross keychain in my pocket. Marco’s behind me, crowbar in hand, his cigarette tossed into the gravel. “Two guards inside,” he whispers, nodding to the rusted door. “Van’s around back.”
I kick the door in, the hinges screaming, and charge inside, my boots echoing on the concrete. Two guards spin toward us, one with a snake tattoo, the other with a buzz cut, a radio on his belt. I fire twice, precise shots to their shoulders, and they drop, guns clattering. Luca’s in the corner, tied to a metal chair, blood on his cheek, but his eyes lock on mine, fierce and alive.
I’m at his side in seconds, pulling my knife to cut the ropes, my hand shaking but steady enough. “You’re okay,” I say, my voice rough, sawing through the cords. Luca’s humming that ballad, low and shaky, his hands flexing as the ropes loosen.
A third guard, big, with a scar on his knuckles, lunges from behind a crate, his knife flashing. I twist, but the blade catches my side, a hot, sharp sting that steals my breath. I grunt, slamming him into the wall, my gun pressed to his temple. “Where’s Raf?” I demand, blood seeping through my shirt, warm and sticky.
“Slip 22,” he chokes out, his eyes wide. “Boat’s leaving at midnight.”
I pistol-whip him, letting him slump to the floor, and turn back to Luca, cutting the last rope. He’s free, grabbing my arm, his fingers digging in. “You’re bleeding,” he says, tucking a curl behind his ear, his voice tight but steady.
“It’s nothing,” I lie, the pain clawing my side, my hand dropping to my cross for focus. I pull Luca to his feet, but my knees buckle, and he catches me, his arm around my waist.
Marco’s at the door, crowbar raised, scanning for more threats. “Clear,” he says, then nods to the guards’ van outside. “I’ll slash the tires. Buy us time.”
“Do it,” I say, leaning on Luca as we stagger toward the exit. Marco sprints to the van, his crowbar ripping into the rubber, the hiss of air loud in the quiet. Luca grabs the buzz-cut guard’s radio from the floor, clipping it to his belt, its static crackling as we move.
“Stay with me, Nico,” Luca says, his voice firm, guiding me to the truck parked in the alley. He’s still humming, the notes keeping us both grounded, and he slides into the driver’s seat, helping me into the passenger side. My shirt’s soaked now, the pain a dull roar, but I grip his hand, squeezing once.
He starts the engine, pulling onto the dock road, the warehouse shrinking behind us. The radio crackles, a voice cutting through: “Kid’s gone. Check the docks.” Luca mutes it, his jaw tight, and glances at me. “They’re looking for us,” he says, tucking another curl behind his ear. “We need to get you patched up.”
“Safehouse,” I say, my voice hoarse, grabbing a rag from the dash and pressing it to my wound, the fabric turning red. “Then we hit slip 22. Raf’s not getting away.”
Luca nods, weaving through traffic, his hands steady on the wheel despite the shake in his fingers. “You sure about Raf?” he asks, his voice low. “What if it’s another trap?”
“It’s him,” I say, my thumb on my cross, the metal biting my skin. “He’s been playing us from the start. That guard confirmed it.”
Luca grabs the radio, turning the volume low, catching snippets, O’Connor’s men scrambling, orders to lock down the docks. “They’re closing in,” he says, tossing the radio onto the dash. “We need Marco.”
I pull my phone, texting Marco with one hand: At safehouse soon. Raf’s at slip 22. Need backup. His reply’s quick: Tires slashed. Heading to slip 22 now. I pocket it, leaning back, the pain spiking with every breath. Luca’s talking, his voice a steady stream, about the bar, the ballad, anything to keep me awake. “Remember Tommy’s bad karaoke?” he says, a forced smile in his voice. “Swore he’d outsing me.”
I manage a laugh, sharp and short, gripping his arm. “You’d wipe the floor with him,” I say, my vision blurring at the edges.
He pulls into the alley behind the safehouse, cutting the engine, and helps me out, my arm over his shoulder. I stumble, my boots scraping the gravel, but Luca’s there, his grip strong, guiding me toward the door. He pauses, his body tensing, and I follow his gaze, across the street, under a flickering streetlight, Gia stands, her jacket zipped tight, her face unreadable. She stares at us, then turns, disappearing into the shadows of the alley.