44

44
VIVIENNE

By nightfall, the docks were covered in fog and shadow. Lamps swayed in the salty wind, it was casting faint circles of light on the wet boards. The Riveras’ warehouse stood ahead like a dark shape against the sea, almost as if it were waiting for us.

Lucian moved first, a dark figure cutting the mist, Vito and Davide close behind. They were shadows with teeth, eager to taste blood. My own people kept nearer to me—Leo with his steady hands, Bruno broad and heavy-footed, Marisol twitching with nerves she tried and failed to disguise.

“It’s too quiet,” Marisol whispered.

She was right. The docks always had noise—waves hitting the wood, men shouting, gulls calling—but tonight, there was nothing.

Lucian lifted his fist, the signal to move. His men went ahead. The guard didn’t last long—a short cry, a crack, and then silence again. Vito came back wiping his knife, grinning too wide in the dark.

“All clear.”

Lucian didn’t answer. He never wasted breath when steel could speak for him. He moved again, and we followed.

The door pushed open with a groan, the metal grinding against fgr wood, the kind of sound that made you want to wince. A stale, heavy smell hit me at once—mildew from damp rope and oil so strong it stung the back of my throat.

The inside was worse. Crates filled the place, endless rows stacked neatly. It was like walking into a forest where every tree was a coffin, nailed shut and waiting.

Bruno muttered, his voice was uneasy. “Enough stock to feed a city.”

Lucian didn’t hesitate “No. Enough to destroy one"

We moved like we had planned. Lucian’s men spread out to deal with the guards and lock down the exits. My team split off the other way. I pushed through rows of stacked cargo while Leo slipped inside the office to dig for ledgers and papers that could tie the Riveras to all this.

Marisol was at my side, her hands shaking as she jammed a crowbar into a crate. Bruno moved toward the side doors, forcing the bolts down with a grunt. Everyone knew their part.

I slowed when I spotted it. A mark.

At first, it looked like nothing—just a dark patch on the wood. But when I leaned in, my stomach tightened. The crate had been branded.

The surface was scarred black, burned so deep it cut through the grain. This wasn’t random damage. It was on purpose, neat and exact. Like someone had pressed fire into it on purpose.

I crouched down, my fingers tracing the edges of the brand even though it was cold now. I knew this mark. It wasn’t Rivera. Their crest was all sharp edges and proud lines. This was different—uglier. The lines curled inward, twisting like a snare meant to trap whatever touched it.

Marisol’s crowbar screeched against wood. The crate popped open with a crack. Inside, instead of the rifles we expected, I saw boxes—plain, stamped with dates, seals, numbers. Medicine. Bandages. Rows of vials wrapped in paper.

A cold shiver ran down my back.

“Lucian,” I called

I stepped closer, pointing at the crates. “This isn’t the Riveras. Look—these marks. The Riveras never used this crest. It’s the same one from the banquet, the same one from the counterfeit crates. Whoever is tricking us, whoever tried to poison me—they’re behind this too.”

But Lucian didn’t slow. He moved the torch in his hand towards the rim of an oil drum Davide had rolled into place.

“Lucian, stop,” I begged. “You don’t even know what you’re setting on fire.”

At last, he turned his head and looked at me. His eyes burned with anger, but there was something colder beneath it—certainty, the kind you couldn’t shake with reason.

“You think I care whose crest it is?” he said flatly. “They put it on Rivera land. That makes it theirs.”

Then he tipped the flame forward.

The oil caught instantly, hissing like a snake. Fire rushed out in a hungry wave across the boards, climbing the crates with greedy speed. In seconds, the entire building was alive with orange light, shadows walked across the walls as if the building itself was fighting to breathe.

“Wait!” I coughed still I ran forward, tearing at the lid of the nearest crate. Inside, I saw boxes stamped with dates, vials wrapped in paper, bottles labeled with medical seals. I dragged it over to him..

“These aren’t weapons,” I shouted. “It’s medicine—antibiotics, insulin, supplies for the lower wards!”

. “If you burn this, you’re not hurting the Riveras—you’re hurting the sick, the poor. Our own people.”

But Lucian’s expression stayed like stone. “Then they’ll learn where to beg next time,” he said coldly.

Leo came bursting from the office, his shirt clinging to him with sweat, a ledger clutched so tightly in his hands his knuckles were white. His face had gone pale.

“Boss!” he called over the roar of the fire. “These crates—they’re contracted to the free clinics. Not all of this even belongs to the Riveras. Half of it is neutral supply. You destroy this, you cripple the docks!”

But it was already too late. The fire leapt higher, spreading fast, snapping from one crate to another. Bottles burst with loud cracks, glass shattering and spraying across the floor.

The chemicals spat bitter smoke that clawed at our lungs and stung our eyes.

I pulled my scarf across my mouth, coughing hard. The roar of the fire swallowed every other sound.

“Lucian!” I screamed. “Don’t you see? This is the trap! They wanted this—they wanted us to burn our own city. Every family waiting on this medicine will hate us. They’ll curse our name!”

But Lucian didn’t move. He stood before the blaze as though it were his crown,Behind him, Vito and Davide laughed, tipping more oil onto the floor, feeding the flames.

And all I could do was watch as the cure for thousands went up in smoke.

Bruno ran back “The rafters are catching—we stay, we burn too!”

We rushed outside, coughing hard, smoke burning our throats. Our clothes smelled like fire. Behind us, the warehouse was already gone. Flames shot high into the foggy night.

I bent over, pulling air into my lungs. My team stood close by. Their faces were dark with anger.

And Lucian?

He stood at the very edge of the pier The fire lit his face, proud and like the fire bowed only to him.

“They’ll remember this night,” he said. His voice was low.

I stared at him, at the ruin behind him, at the lives already crumbling in the fire.

“Yes,” I whispered, though no one heard. “They’ll remember. But not the way you think.”