Page 15 of Twisted Devotion

As we follow him, my instincts kick in. My hand drifts toward the gun beneath my jacket. I don’t pull it—yet.

The dockworker leads us to the shipping container, its faded red exterior marred by patches of rust. He stops abruptly, his hands shaking as he points at it.

“Here,” he says, his voice unsteady.

Ken steps up beside me, his usual grin nowhere to be found. His gaze flicks to my hand on my weapon, then to the dockworker.

The change in Ken’s demeanor tells me everything I need to know: he senses it too.

“Open it,” I command, my voice cold and steady.

The dockworker fumbles with the lock, his hands shaking so badly I almost take over. Finally, the lock clicks and the container doors swing open.

Everything explodes at once.

Gunfire erupts, a deafening roar in the confined space. Men burst from the container, weapons raised.

The first bullet slams into my chest, and the impact sends me sprawling. Pain tears through me, white-hot and blinding, as I hit the ground hard. My breath catches, the world tilting violently.

The docks descend into chaos.

The pain in my shoulder screams louder than the gunfire, enough to cripple most men. But not me. I’ve been here before—hell, I’ve survived worse.

Gritting my teeth, I yank my gun free and fire. The sharp recoil steadies me in the storm. Blood seeps through my shirt, warm and sticky, but I shove the pain aside. My shot finds its target—anyone not on my side is fair game.

A mountain of a man barrels toward me, fists raised like sledgehammers. He’s massive, built like a tank. I duck his first swing, the air slicing past my ear.

I drive my fist into his gut. It’s like punching concrete. He grabs my throat, his grip like a vice, and lifts me off the ground. My lungs burn, the world narrowing to his bloodshot eyes.

My free hand lashes out, slamming the butt of my gun into his temple. He staggers, his grip faltering just enough for me to drop. I hit the ground, roll, and come up behind him.

The knife in my boot finds its mark, sliding between his ribs in quick, brutal strokes. His blood sprays hot on my face, and I feel no remorse —only satisfaction as he crumples to the ground with a heavy thud.

As he falls, my gaze locks on the tattoo on his hand—a coiled serpent pierced by a dagger.

The image sears into my mind like a brand.

I don’t have time to dwell on it.

Gunfire rips through the air, relentless.

I scan the chaos for Ken and Luca, my pulse hammering in my ears. Ken finds me first, yelling like a man possessed. He charges toward me, firing as he comes. Two men drop, bullets planted cleanly in their skulls.

“Luca?” I ask, my voice tight.

Ken shakes his head, jaw clenched.

Luca’s gone.

There’s a wide gleam in Ken’s eyes—anger or tears, I can’t tell. Around us, the situation is unraveling fast. We’re outnumbered, five to one. Men seem to materialize from nowhere, like shadows stepping into the light.

It’s a goddamn massacre.

“You need to leave, Mr. Paolo,” Ken says, his voice raw.

“No!”

“Go!” he shouts, louder than the crack of gunfire.

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