Chapter 25: Betrayal at the Docks
Leo stood on the west-side piers of Seattle, scraping his boots along splintered planks. Weathered to silver, scratched by years of incessant weathering, the wood was slick with sea water and rimmed with oil that gave off a pale glow in the grayness of the sodium lights. These lanterns, pendulous in the night air, cast a yellow light which pierced not at all, but scarcely, into the warm moist air. The harbor stretched out before him, a sheet of black studded with solitary glows from far lamps, ghostly white shapes of cranes, and unearthly black shapes of ships in the bay. The air was thick with the salty scent of the sea, blended with the acrid bite of diesel and the faraway, fishy odor that stuck to the piers like an unpleasant memory. The wind, a keening, insistent whine, battered his leather coat, carrying with it the city sounds—the distant rumble of traffic, the wail of an occasional siren, and the soft, insistent smacking of waves against pilings.
He stood, his gaze on the black water, his mind a knot of rage, of anger, of mounting unease that gnawed at him.
The city, steel and concrete maze, waited, watched, held its breath. The docks, that in-between place of sea and shore, were much like his own in-between place of limbo, a transition place, a doubting place. The splintered boards beneath one's feet creaked with a slight incline, a slight reminder of the incessant rush of time, of the multitude of feet that had trod this street before. The atmosphere was one of urban decay and released nature, a powerful contrast that spoke to the turbulence within him. The air was heavy, heavy with the saltiness of the ocean, a biting, metallic smell that flooded his nostrils.
It was compounded by the sharp odor of diesel fuel, belching from the rusty cranes groaning overhead, their bone-white shapes stark against the scraggly clouds. A cold, fishy decay arose from old nets, draped in piles along the edge of the pier, a macabre reminder of the neglect of the harbor. Moonlight, pale and cold, sliced through the cloud cover, casting hard shadows on the rough water surface. Waves pounded against barnacle-covered pilings with a rhythmic beat, a percussive beat that echoed the pounding beat in his chest. Damn it, the peace they had forged was a thin one, a veneer over the tension between Marco, Gia, and the war that loomed over them all, ready to consume them. Wind cut off Puget Sound, a biting cold that rattled the chains draped across the docks' skeletal frames.
The metal clanged and groaned, a dirge melody to the distant shriek of gulls flying overhead above the darkness of a line of derelict warehouses. Their tin roofs sagged under years of neglect, the shattered windows like vacant eyes glowering down at the scene below. His leather jacket clung to his shoulders, damp and stiff, its familiar musky scent overpowered by the omnipresent stench of the docks. A shiver coursed through the torn fabric, tracing the raw agony in his ribs, a reminder of the Serpents' assault, still raw from yesterday's bloodshed. His chest burned, a knot of rage and terror twisting deep within him, raking at his ribs. Damn wolf, damn bond, damn Marco. Marco's voice echoed in his mind, "Choose, Russo," the ultimatum issued hours before in the cold, hollow room of the cathedral.
Ezra's tormented shout, a counterpoint to Marco's threat, added to the madness. Damn it, whose side was he fighting on? Whose blood would he spill? He snapped his Zippo, the flame dancing to life, and lit a cigarette, exhaling smoke to steady his trembling hands. The ember burned red in the darkness, a tiny pillar of resistance. The truce was temporary, he knew, a fleeting moment of peace before the storm. Damn it, why had he approved it? His phone, finally charged, displayed the time: 11:27 p.m., March 06, 2025. Marco's call, the one that had led to this gathering, here, now. Damn him, he always had a way of pulling him into the chaos. The docks, a border between land and sea, mirrored his own state of limbo. He was caught between warring factions, between loyalty and necessity, between the hot passion of the bond and the cold, hard reality of survival.
Marco stood, silk shirt torn and dark eyes glittering with predatory calm that chilled Leo.
Damn him, he was too unruffled. His men, five big, hung back behind him, guns leveled, their attitudes radiating an unspoken menace. Leo's men, four, were coiled, eyes darting across the docks, hands resting on their own guns. Damn it, their peace had been a fragile thing, a thin membrane drawn over festering hostility. Vito, his flannel-shirted back chilled by the damp night air, his gray eyes suspicious and watchful, grunted, "Kid, watch Gia. Tricks." His voice was harsh, heavy with worry. Damn him, he always knew. "Yeah, damn her," Leo rasped, flipping his knife, the blade catching the dim light. Damn it, was this a trap? Abruptly, shooting pierced the night air, interrupting the tense quiet.
Shit, Gia's men, the Serpents, had attacked them. Bullets whizzed, slicing past their heads, cracking the weathered wood of the docks. Leo lowered himself, his heart racing, adrenaline flooding. Marco, his back to Leo's, moved with a blood-curdling, mechanical synchronicity. Shit, he and Marco shared something that was too frightening. Claws sliced the air, and Leo's blade, slick with red, struck home. Serpents fell, their bodies slamming into the planks with a muffled bang. Damn it, the link was hot, the wolf growled within him, fury and fear mingled. Damn them, they were fighting back to back. Damn it, why did it come so right? Bullets flew by, and Vito cursed.
Damn it, he'd been hit. Leo saw the red bloom on his chest, oozing and spreading. Shit him, he fell, his body thudding onto the planks with a sickening crash. "Vito!" Leo's shout was jagged, a raw mixture of rage and grief. Shit, he held Vito tight in his arms, the blood sticky and warm in his fingers. "Hold on," he pleaded. Shit him, Marco snarled, "Go! " covering their retreat with a hail of claws and bullets. Curse him, he was steady, focused. Leo ran, his boots pounding the planks, Vito thrashing in his arms. "Kid, sorry," he panted, his voice thin. Curse it, no. He saw a crate, a black sanctuary, and gently laid Vito down. Curse it, Vito was pale, his breathing shallow. Curse her, Gia. Why?
Damn it, whose fault was this? Gia emerged from the shadows, her pistol pressed to Ezra's head. Damn it, he was caught. Ezra's hazel eyes widened in terror. Damn her, she sneered, her voice metallic and cold. "Knew about the ritual, Leo." Damn it, she had known. "Can't kill your mate, so I will." Damn it, the wolf was angry, a tsunami of rage. "Gia, damn you," Leo growled, his fists clenching. Damn her, how did she know? Damn it, Marco spun around, his claws sticky with blood, his eyes a deep black of feral intent. Damn him, whose mate was he? A gun rang out across the night, but it wasn't Gia who held it. Whose was the trigger?