“Where are we going?” I ask.
“You’re going home. Ace is gonna follow you to make sure you get there safe.”
I frown. “What about you?”
He runs a hand through his hair and lets out a rough sigh. “I gotta go handle some shit.”
Chapter Twenty Four
Kolter
Since I was forced to bring Naomi to the club for dinner, my father has done everything in his power to keep me as busy as possible. Part of it could be because I’ve all but shrugged off every responsibility he’s tasked me with until now, but I know the truth. He wants to keep me busy, away from her, drown me in duties until I can’t see anything but the club.
I pull out my phone and send Naomi a goodnight text. It’s 2:30 a.m, and I know she’ll have been out for hours. Still, it’ll make her feel better when she reads it in the morning. I’ll also send her a good-morning text before I finally crash. I want her to know that even when I can’t be with her, I’m thinking of her. Always.
The salty stench of the port fills my nose, and I wrap my jacket tighter around me as the crisp night air bites through my clothes. For the last two weeks, I’ve been making drops, collecting debts and doing every grunt job possible. Tonight, though, Snakes had something else in mind. He said I’d been doing good work and sent me with a small group of guys to pick up a shipment. Apparently, the Delfino family, the local mafia, have been sniffing around our territory and are planning to cause some shit tonight.
I’m surprised he and Bones didn’t want to be here. They don’t usually turn down a good fight, and they definitely never turn down an opportunity to take out a few mafia brats. As usual, though, I’m not allowed to question plans or motives; instead, I do as I’m told, I get out, and I hope I live long enough to see one more smile from my Peaches.
Leaning against the wall, I absentmindedly mess with my knife, flicking it out and in, over and over again, as I study the shoreline. Ace watches me with amusement before bumping his shoulder into mine.
“You good?”
“I’m fine,” I respond, standing up a little straighter.
He laughs. “Bullshit. You’re a million miles away. Or thirteen to be exact,” he says with a wink.
I blow out a breath and look up at the sky. Thirteen miles—is that it? That’s the distance between me and my girl? Feels like a lot more.
“How much are we picking up? Are two vans gonna cut it?” Ace asks, looking at the two cargo vans idling to one side.
I pull out a cigarette, light it and take a drag before shaking my head. “You think he tells me shit? He said go pick up the shipment at this place, this time and if any mafia fucks come by, gun ’em down.”
“Aye aye, captain,” Ace mocks.
I scoff in agreement and take another drag then spot a boat beginning to pull into port. It’s unmarked, too small to be commercial and looks to be our supplier.
I smack Ace’s chest then gesture to the boat before looking round at the dozen guys I brought with me. Several stay with the vans; the rest follow me to the dock.
Once the boat is anchored, we’re led wordlessly on board, then to a cargo area filled with dozens of wooden crates. I signal to Bunky, who hands over his crowbar, then crack open one ofthe crates to reveal a fuck ton of AK-47s and AR-15s, and several thousand rounds of ammo for each. I nod in approval, then start organizing the offloading, which is going to take a few journeys each.
We’re almost done when Ace—who I’ve been carrying crates with—stops walking and turns his head slowly to the side.
“Those headlights, Blade?”
I follow his gaze and spot several vehicles approaching our position.
“Son of a bitch,” I mutter, then turn to the rest of my guys and shout, “Fucking hurry! We got company!”
Some of the guys rush back to the boat to finish offloading the cargo; the rest of us grab our guns and tuck ourselves behind the vans and the building. The cars come to a slow halt, and for a moment, I think they haven’t seen us—until the shots ring out.
The last crate is being carried across the parking lot, and it makes for a perfect fucking target. It’s quickly riddled with bullet holes, and then one of my guys gets hit. He drops to the ground, the crate falling along with him, but his buddy grabs him by the vest and pulls him out of the way. From there, it’s a full-on war.
Men rush from our left and right, shooting from a distance before getting close enough that it becomes a hand-to-hand fight. I smack a gun out of one mafia prick’s hand, headbutting him for good measure before jamming the butt of my own gun into the back of his head. The next man that comes at me, I sink my knife into his gut, ripping upwards with a sharp yank that drops him to the ground.
The shipyard is littered with bodies. Some are my men; some are theirs. It’s a goddamn ambush, a bloodbath, and all any of us can do in the moment is fight like hell to make it out the other side.
I rip one guy off Bunky, driving my knife into his forehead before ripping it back out, then look around to see who to take on next