Page 51 of Veil of Blood

We’ve spent weeks piecing together Dino’s trail—dead ends and whispers, every lead tracing back to Ferrano’s old stronghold. Javier’s last confession pointed here: “Dino slipped through the cracks but will show for his own kind of reckoning.” Marco’s ledger confirmed an unmarked payout flagged for this dock. So when our informant in Ferrano’s inner circle finally tipped us last night—“Dino will arrive by water at midnight”—Chiara and I prepared for a siege. No more guesses. Tonight, we burn the last ember of this hunt.

The Ferrano docks lie under an eerie half-light at night. Floodlights from high gantries carve patchwork shadows across stacked shipping containers. The wind off the bay cuts salt through every breath, and I taste it in my throat. Every step I take toward that isolated container feels like walking into a predator’s lair. My boots crunch on gravel as Chiara and I emerge from the alley, weapons drawn. My Glock hovers at his side; her pistol rests snug in its holster. We move silent, alert—ready for the moment when Dino slips from the darkness.

Ahead, a single container stands apart, rust-streaked and half-hidden by stacked crates. Our informant said Dino would be here, inspecting the site before vanishing by speedboat. As we round the corner, three silhouettes rush from behind the crates, rifles raised.

The night explodes.

I fires—my shot cracks the air, sending one thug sprawling across the concrete as his rifle skitters. Chiara pivots, drawingher pistol, squeezing the trigger. The second man’s chest jerks under the floodlight; he drops, boots sliding into shallow puddles. The third thug dives for cover, shotgun raised. Chiara fires again. Bullets tear into the metal of a nearby crate, sending wood splinters spraying. I’m on him in an instant, tackling him beside the container’s corner. The shotgun clatters away, and my knee crashes into the thug’s side, forcing a grunt before he goes limp.

By the time the echoes die, only one man stands, his back pressed against that rusted container, breathing too fast. His eyes flick toward us, face pale. He lifts a trembling hand, raising a too-small pistol.

“Dino Ferrano,” he rasps. “You’ll regret this.”

I step forward, pistol leveled. “Don’t lie,” I growl. “We know you’re Dino. The ledger, Javier, Marco—they all led us here.”

The man’s grin is too confident to be honest. He straightens, rolling his shoulders as if ready to charge. “You’re welcome to try me,” he snarls.

Chiara advances beside me, fists clenched. “He talks like Dino,” she says in a low voice. “But I’ve watched Dino enough times to know his cadence, his hate. He’s faking it.”

We squeeze him into the container’s corner—rifles at the ready. Rain from earlier has left slick patches on the metal beneath his feet. He shifts, swaying; adrenaline or fear, I can’t tell.

“Don’t make this any harder,” I say. “The real Dino is gone. You’re nobody but bait.”

He laughs, a dry sound that echoes between the containers. “Bait?” he repeats. “You still haven’t found Dino. He left me a gift—your blind rage.” He lifts a hand, revealing a small detonator clipped to his belt. “Pull the wrong trigger, and we both go down.”

My chest tightens. Chiara’s jaw clenches as she glances at the detonator. “He’s stalling,” I whisper. “Dino had to be here; they abandoned him after the fight.”

The man’s grin widens. “I’m Dino,” he says. “Now finish me.”

Before we can react, he thumbs the detonator’s switch—just a click, no explosion. He wanted to scare us. I barrel into him, slamming his shoulder against the container’s edge. He grunts, head snapping back. Chiara moves in with a swift kick to his ribs—metal against flesh—forcing him to double over. My Glock flashes; the muzzle blast echoes. The fake Dino’s eyes widen, chest jerking under the floodlight as a slug tears through him. He collapses, body folding into a heap against the container wall.

Silence roars in my ears. The rain-slick concrete glints beneath the man’s lifeless boots. His face is slack, the grin gone. The detonator falls from his belt, skittering across the metal panels.

Chiara kneels, knife in hand. She presses her palm to his chest—no pulse. She closes his eyes with a gentle fingertip. “It wasn’t him,” she says, voice low, flat.

I step close, skimming the body for any clue—pockets, hidden compartments—but find nothing more than empty shells and a crumpled scrap of paper jammed in his jacket: a single line reading “Gone by dawn.”

“Dino was here,” I mutter, eyes tracing the container’s edges. “He must have slipped away while we were focused on these guys.”

Chiara’s gaze flies to the open dock beyond, where waves slap against the pilings. “So he achieved what he wanted: to make us kill a decoy.”

I tug the scrap of paper free and tuck it into my pocket. “He’s ahead of us. Again.”

Rain patters against the metal roof as we stand over the corpse. I holster my Glock, my expression grim. “We can’t let him keep leading us in circles.”

“I agree,” Chiara replies. “But he bought us time.” She stares at the pool of blood spreading on the pavement. “We need new intel—something that tells us exactly where Dino is before it’s too late.”

Chiara stands, dusting blood from her knife. She turns toward the edge of the dock. “There’s a marina east of here—a small inlet where only slow boats travel. Dino might have had to wait for high tide to slip out.”

I glance at her. “We split up? I circle the inlet; you check the warehouses for any slip?”

Chiara nods, feeling the weight of each second. “He’ll head for water. He’ll vanish if we don’t move now.”

She wipes her blade on a rag and tucks it away. She slides her jacket back on, pulling the collar up against the wind. “I’ll drive. Let’s go.”

At the far end of the dock, a cold gust rattles the crates. The corpse of the fake Dino lies in twisted repose, a grim reminder of how close we came to losing our chance. Chiara and I step over the broken shells. I slip the scrap of paper into my jacket and draw my Glock again—just in case. Chiara’s engine purrs to life as she backs the car onto the wet concrete.

Through the car window, Chiara presses her hand to the metal container, the surging swell of saltwater beneath. “He’s not here,” she says to the empty space. “But he’ll be back.”

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