Page 13 of Craving Chaos

“Depends,” Renzo mutters.

“On what?”

“On whether that particular spot was ever monitored. Whether the camera installed still works. Whether footage is being recorded. Monitoring the docks is no small undertaking, and this warehouse isn’t a high-volume location.”

A sigh slips past my lips. Not the answer I was hoping for, but there’s still a chance. So long as we’re still breathing, our situation can improve. Making it out of the building alive was the first step.

I’m not completely at ease, though I do feel oddly comforted knowing Renzo is here with me. His presence is zero guarantee of improving my chances. For all I know, having him with me may make things worse, yet the darkness feels less threatening with him in it. Why?

I suppose it’s only logical for the brain to hope having a six-foot-something street-smart man at my side will be helpful, but it bugs me. I’ve spent a long time training myself not to bestow traits such as competence and authority to a man simply because he has a dick between his legs. Renzo is confident. I’ll give him that, but I don’t know anything beyond what I’ve seen in our brief encounters.

It’s a sign that I still have emotional work to do.

I don’t want to accidentally let my guard down in a situation merely because a man is nearby.

“Tell me about the Albanians,” Renzo says, drawing me from my brooding thoughts.

I breathe deeply and think of where to begin. “You’re aware that my father was gunned down in the summer, right?”

“Fuuuuck.” The word is a weary exhalation.

“But wait … there’s more,” I add in a dry, humorless tone.

“Jesus.”

“We figured out that Oran’s wife had tipped off the Albanians.”

“His wife?”

“Yeah, it was an arranged marriage with another Irish family, the Donovans. We had no idea she was harboring a lifetime of resentment. She and her brother also stole a shipment of guns from us. It can’t be a coincidence—the guns and the Albanians. We had a tentative truce with them after taking out half their numbers in retaliation.”

“I’m surprised you would accept a truce on any level, with or without your retaliation.”

“That’s why I said it’s complicated. They put themselves at risk to help us with a very tricky Russian problem. It was a peace offering. I didn’t think they’d shit all over that so quickly.” That’s why my mind hadn’t immediately suspected the Albanians, but now that I’ve thought about it, I can’t imagine we’re dealing with anyone else.

“You think Oran’s wife is behind this?”

“Ex-wife. And that’s the thing that doesn’t make sense. She can’t be behind it. She’s dead.” I pause and mull things over. “But it seems too coincidental for the Albanians to be taking our guns again. It’s not like some greedy Albanian dock workers just happened upon them.”

“Considering we haven’t had a theft like that since we first took over the docks, I’d say it’s unlikely. And I don’t think anyone on our end leaked the location of the guns.”

I can’t help but scoff at his blasé confidence. “I hate to break it to you, but no one is immune to betrayal.”

“No, but you guys have seen an awful lot of that lately.”

“One demented woman with resentment issues—I’d hardly call that an ongoing problem.” Though, she did have a far-reaching ripple effect. It had even caused enough concern from our Dublin associates for them to send a man over. We already had the matter sorted, but that didn’t change how impactful her deception had been. “Didn’t your uncle recently try to overthrow your father?” Talk about a betrayal. Surely, he hasn’t forgotten.

Renzo is quiet for a long minute. “I know we aren’t immune,” he finally says in a surprisingly solemn tone. “Trust me, as boss now, the potential for betrayal is a constant concern.”

His earnest admission surprises me. Not only that he’d concede to a possible weakness, but that he’d openly admit to it in front of an outsider. That isn’t the norm for men in our world.

“Well, however we got to this point,” I add cooly, “I plan on getting back home, and then I will hunt down whoever is responsible.”

“You and me both.” His surly oath draws an amused smirk from me as the truck comes to a stop. The engine turns off.

I can’t see Renzo, but I imagine his body is as tense as mine, waiting for whatever comes next. We can hear the cab doors shut, the seconds counting down in my ears with each thudding beat of my heart.

Only … seconds turn into minutes. Five. Ten. Twenty. And nothing happens.

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