Page 29 of Tank
I grip the edge of the wall, my breath shallow.
It’s all balanced on a razor’s edge, and if I so much as breathe wrong — It’s all going to explode.
Chapter Fourteen
Tank
The second my eyes lock onto him, I feel my pulse transform, hardening into a steady, steely warbeat that drowns out everything else: Victor Moretti — the very man I've traveled across this godforsaken town to end, the target who has haunted every one of my waking thoughts, the bastard who ruined so many lives.
He enters my bakery as though he owns the damn place, each arrogant step a testament to his misplaced confidence. His expensive jacket is immaculate, not a wrinkle in sight, and his smirk is honed to a razor's edge. He’s flanked by two of his goons, hulking shadows that trail him with all the loyalty of mutts on a leash, both itching to show their teeth. I know their type: eager, dangerous, overzealous, but destined to crumble under the magnitude of what they’ve bitten off. I don’t move. I don’t react, even though every part of me screams to let loose. Because I can’t — at least, not yet. Through the bakery window, I glimpse a couple of early-morning customers ambling toward us. Innocent people. Civilians. Little do they know they’re strolling into the eye of a storm I am barely holding back. I'm reminded that no matter how much I crave to dash across the counter and shred this power-hungry prick with my bare hands, this isn’t the time. Not yet. Not with lives at stake.
Moretti’s stony gaze sweeps the room with methodical precision, like a searchlight scouring a prison yard. Then those dead eyes of his land on me with a clatter, pinning me in place. He smiles, a poisonous curl of the lips that stretches too far to be anything but a threat.
“Heard good things about this place.”
His voice cuts through the tension, sharp and insincere, with a feigned politeness that makes my blood boil. All part of his game. Of course he has — I'm good at what I do, whether that’s pressing flour, sugar, and fat into something delicious, or popping the throat of meth kingpins who run third-tier cities that reek like asshole.
I stay where I am, arms folded tight across my chest, anchoring myself. My expression remains blank, defiant in its refusal to give anything away. “Yeah?” My voice comes out rough, bored, exactly how I want it to sound. “People talk too much.”
One of his men lets loose a snicker, a contemptuous little sound that echoes around the room, but it’s Moretti who makes the next move, leaning against the counter like we’re old friends. Like I haven’t been waiting for this moment, dreaming of it, ever since I found out who he was. Like he doesn’t yet know he’s a walking corpse as soon as I get him alone.
He gestures to the display case and then to me, a casual wave of the hand that belies the menace he brings with him. “Wouldn’t expect to see a guy like you running a bakery.”
“Wouldn’t expect to see a guy like you in here. You want a cookie?”
He chuckles, a low, mirthless rumble that grates like sandpaper on skin. “Gotta keep things running, you know? Hard to do that on an empty stomach.”
I say nothing, letting the silence stretch between us like the pull of a taut wire. Moretti studies me, too long, too intent. Like he’s trying to figure something out and doesn’t like the conclusions he’s coming to.
Behind me, in the back of the shop, it’s silent. A quiet so deep that it practically hums in my ears, a suspicious silence that signals her presence more clearly than any noise could. Bianca. I know she’s there. Even if I can’t see her, even if she doesn’t make a sound, I feel her like she's an extension of my own heartbeat. And I need to keep it that way. She needs to stay hidden, especially now.
I don’t look, don’t shift my weight, don’t even blink in her direction. Because if I do, I know Moretti won't miss it. That snake will see everything. His smirk lingers. The sick assurance of a man who thinks he’s got the upper hand and doesn’t realize how close he is to losing it.
“You new around here?” he asks, the corners of his lips twisting as if the words are some kind of joke only he knows the punch line to. “Where are you from?”
“Yeah.” I keep my voice level, a rough grunt pushed through clenched teeth. “I’m new. From out of town.” Each word is a stubborn affront, daring him to call me on it. Fuck him and his trying to size me up — in a contest of size, any size, he won’t measure up. “Needed a change of pace.”
His eyes narrow, and I can almost see the gears turning in his head, measuring me up, trying to gauge if I’m a threat worth bothering with. What he doesn’t know is that I’m the last threat he’ll ever fucking see.
He tilts his head, like he’s filing that away for later, underestimating me like every arrogant asshole before him.
“Name’s Victor,” he says, offering a hand.
I look at it, cold and unyielding, scorn etched into every angle of my refusal.
His smirk stretches so wide I half expect it to split his face.
“Not a friendly guy, huh? Trust me, if you knew who I was, you’d want to be my friend. But since you’re new in town, I’m going to write your attitude off to ignorance. This time.”
I exhale through my nose, like a bull ready to charge. Then I grab a paper bag, giving him a pointed look that says I’d rather wrap him up in a body bag if I got the chance.
“What do you want? You here to buy or just chat me up? Because I ain’t fucking interested in flirting.”
Moretti watches me, his eyes flickering with amusement like this is just another move in his sick game. A game I have every intention of ending.
“Just checking out the new local business. That a crime?”
“Loitering’s a crime. You going to loiter, or you going to buy something?”
