Chapter 33 · Pick Up or Pick Him Off

Dominic stomped the radio until plastic snapped under his boot.

A wire spat blue sparks and went dead.

Victor’s voice cut off mid-sentence, but the words were already branded into my skull all the way down the cannery stairs: *Already picked her casket.*

"Sit," Dominic rasped.

"You sit."

He actually dropped onto the folding chair without fighting me. That’s how I knew it was bad.

Pier 9 smelled like rot and iron. Brine, rust, old grease gone sour. The bare bulb swung overhead on its frayed cord, throwing sickly yellow light across the steel table—and onto the ledger.

I’d clamped it under my arm through the whole crossfire sprint. The black leather cover was slick and warm.

Not with my blood.

Dominic leaned back against the rusted iron support. His tailored jacket hung open, and his white button-down was soaked crimson along his left ribs. He kept his gloved palm clamped hard to the tear, trying to trap the bleeding inside.

"It’s a graze," he said.

"It’s a damn hole."

"A graze with ambition.