Page 65 of Brando

“You already have,” he says bluntly, his tone dropping to something darker. “But it’s not too late. You need to make a choice, Brando. Or you’re going to lose her forever.”

I don’t have a response to that—not a good one, anyway. His words hit harder than I want to admit. The weight of them presses down on me, heavier than anything else tonight. He’s right. But it doesn’t change the fact that I’m stuck. Because deep down, I’m terrified. Not of losing her—that part feels like it’s already slipping away. No, I’m terrified of losing control. It’s the only thing I’ve ever been good at, the only thing that’s kept me from falling apart. And the idea of not being able to control this, not knowing how things will play out, that’s what makes my gut twist with fear.

I’ve always been the one in control, the one calling the shots. But with her? With this? I’m stepping into unknown territory. And if I’m honest with myself, that uncertainty is the most terrifying part I have to contend with.

The first lightof dawn is creeping across the sky, casting long, jagged shadows over the dockyards. We’ve dwindled to a handful of men—just enough to keep an eye on things, just enough to feel like we’ve got the situation under control. The rest of the crew has been sent to the diner up the road. Scar figured they could use some rest, a hot meal before the chaos of the day sets in.

With another few hours to go before the dock officially opens for business and starts to load its cargo, we’re not expecting much to happen as we sit around and wait for the owner of the human cargo to attend and realize what’s happened. We’re on the home stretch now – we’ve infiltrated what we believe to be Falcone’s human trafficking ring, which will no doubt cost him dearly and put him on several most wanted lists, and everything that comes afterward is merely icing on the cake. Everyone knows the rules about human trafficking in our city; if others are involved in this, we can’t risk missing our chance to find them, so we sit and wait amidst the quiet hum of the water and the distant sound of seagulls.

I’m standing by the old shipping crate, leaning against it with my hands shoved in my pockets, staring out at the horizon, barely aware of the others around me. I can hear the faint murmur of their voices as they talk quietly, their faces shadowed in the pale morning light. There’s a sense of calm in the air, an uneasy truce of sorts. The kind of silence before a storm.

The others are scattered, keeping their distance, all of us half-watching the empty street behind us, half-watching the open water stretching out before us. The silence feels thick,unnatural, like the world is holding its breath, waiting for something.

That’s when I hear it.

A faint scrape, like boots dragging over wet wood. It’s barely noticeable at first, the sound blending with the creak of the dock and the gentle slap of the waves against the pylons. But then it’s louder—closer. A shift in the air. I straighten, instinctively, but I don’t move yet. My instincts are telling me something’s wrong, but I can’t put my finger on it.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I catch the faintest movement—a shadow slipping between the towering stacks of crates, barely a ripple in the stillness. At first, I tell myself it’s nothing. But it’s the kind of nothing that makes my skin prickle. It’s too quiet, too subtle to be dismissed.

The others haven’t noticed. They’re too busy fiddling with their gear or chewing on the remains of cigarettes.

But I know. I can feel it.

“Did you see that?” I mutter, low, to no one in particular.

Mason glances up, his brow furrowed in confusion. “What?”

Before I can respond, there's a sharp noise—a creak of wood, a footfall that’s just a bit too heavy on the planks.

And then I see him.

Frank.

He steps into the light, slowly, his figure emerging from the shadows with a calm that makes the air feel suddenly too thin. There’s something off about the way he moves—too deliberate, like he’s been practicing this exact moment. He’s holding Sophia in front of him, her arm twisted painfully behind her back, her face pale, eyes wide with terror.

Frank’s got a gun pressed to her temple. It gleams in the dim light, and every muscle in my body goes tight. I can hear the faint click of his boots against the wood, the sound sending a ripple of panic through me.

I should’ve seen this coming. I should’ve been more careful. But we all got complacent. Too few of us, too much quiet.

For a moment, I’m frozen—just staring at the scene before me. I want to move, to shout, to do anything but stand here with my heart pounding in my chest.

But I can’t. Not yet. My mind wanders to Mia, sleeping peacefully in the boot of the SUV. I pray that she sleeps soundly through whatever happens next, because I can’t guarantee there won’t be bloodshed.

“Don’t make a sound,” Frank’s voice cuts through the stillness, low but firm. His gaze flickers over the men behind me. “None of you. Or I’ll paint this dock with her brains.”

My stomach twists, but I force myself to stay still. I force myself to think. There’s no room for mistakes here. If I make one wrong move, Sophia’s dead.

I take a slow step forward, trying to keep my voice steady. “Let her go, Frank. This doesn’t have to go any further.”

Frank’s lips curl into a smile that has no warmth in it, only malice. “You think I came here to negotiate, Brando?”

He shifts, pushing Sophia closer, his grip on her tightening. I see her flinch, hear her breath catch, and my chest tightens like a vise. I want to break his fucking neck, but I know I can’t—at least, not without making things a hundred times worse.

The others are still behind me, but I can feel their eyes on me. I’m the one who has to figure this out. I’m the one who has to keep it together.

Frank isn’t alone. I know that now. There are two more men behind him, just outside the range of sight—lurking in the shadows between the crates. I can hear the faint shuffle of feet, the crackle of something brushing against metal. They’ve got us cornered, trapped. I count the seconds in my head, the cold, knotting dread tightening around my ribs.

“Don't try anything,” Frank says, his voice cutting through the silence like a razor. “I’ll leave your girl here in pieces if you do. You understand me, Gatti?”

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