Page 1 of Surrender

CHAPTER ONE

CRISTIANO

The worst thing about deals like this is all the waiting.

I glance at my watch—which also informs me I have six unread texts, two missed calls, and not enough steps for the day—and shake my head. Coming from a childhood where nothing had ever been on time, I always try to be punctual.

When arms deals get delayed, the safest response is to turn tail and run because it means something went wrong. There’s no room for laziness or procrastination.

So when I see that my clock says ten past…

My skin crawls, my gut warning me that this isn’t right. This isn’t normal.

“Pack up,” I tell my men. “They want this deal, they can do it on my time or not at all.” It means I’ll have an entire shipment of guns to get rid of, but that’s a secondary concern.

They’re used to the routine by now. Everyone should know that Cristiano Fiore does not tolerate tardiness.

Marco nods to me and starts loading the truck again, and he’s discreet enough to where I barely hear him curse in disappointment.

I get it. They depend on these deals for their paydays, and he’s a fucking drunk when he’s off the clock with a taste for good whiskey. Functional alcoholic, they call it, and a reason I’m working on moving up one of the other men to take his place before he becomes a liability.

But I’m not risking everything on the off chance that someone’s simply running late.

I’m starting to head toward the van when a shot rings out.

I’m not going to pretend I’m faster than a bullet. If somebody’s got good aim, I can’t dodge.

But sometimes I am lucky.

The bullet grazes my arm and embeds itself into Marco instead. He barely has time to cry out before he slumps over the shipment.

“B-boss…”

My instincts kick in, and I rush toward the van, ignoring the pain in my arm. Everybody else takes cover too, going for their own guns. Marco keeps making pained noises, but everybody knows that attempting to help him is just putting a neon sign on their back.

Judging from where Marco got hit, the gunman has to be closer to the warehouse entrance, potentially on higher ground.

I unholster my gun and try to remember the layout of the shelves and pillars. Warehouses make a great place to exchange goods—nobody questions crates going in and out—but they’re nightmares to navigate. There are also far too many places for somebody to hide.

This was all a setup. Fuck. I’d done my due diligence and researched the buyer, and nothing had triggered any red flags. That’s a bad sign, as it means whoever wants me gone is powerful and cunning enough to get around our usual vetting system.

“Fucking show yourself!” one of my men shouts. He doesn’t shoot, though, because I’ve trained my people well. There’s no point in wasting bullets—or potentially shooting one of our own men—by shooting blindly.

At least he’s providing a distraction, though. I crawl around the van and, still laying low, continue behind a crate. It’s not ideal, and crawling makes me an easier target than if I’d been running, but I need to find out who the fuck tried to shoot at me.

If they’re smart, they’ve already packed up after one miss.

But another shot rings out, and another of my men falls to the floor.

Fuck. That’s definitely a sniper rifle, not a handgun. I keep moving, hoping the sniper stays in his current spot and gives me time to get closer.

Unfortunately, he must have spotted me, because the next shot embeds itself into one of the boxes next to me. Fuck.

I give up on stealth and start running, winding my way closer to where I think he has to be.

I hear the clatter of a gun being dropped, and the next gunshot is different. It also catches me in my side, where I’m thankfully wearing bullet resistant armor. The impact hurts, but I grunt through it because I’m so fucking close.

Just ahead, somebody dashes around one of the shelves. He’s given up on stealth too, and shoots again even though I’m nowhere near him.

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