Chapter 4: Blood on the Boards

The dock shone with rain-slicked sheen in the industrial soft light, a slippery runway for the unfolding drama. Leo was rigid, the wet cold creeping into his bones, with each rain drop a cold reminder of the perils that threatened him. Gia's voice, distorted and amplified through Marco's telephone speaker, echoed through the desolate space of the dockyard: "He's mine—kill him, Marco!" The command, cold, sent a shiver through Leo's back, a frozen counterpoint to the burning paper in his pocket.

He kicked a dislodged clod of gravel, the sound overpowered by the relentless drumbeat of the rain. The gravel crunched under his boots, a gritty counterpoint to the slick, greased boards of the dock. The air was heavy with salt and rust, a metallic tang that mixed with the acrid scent of cigarette smoke. He twirled his knife, the blade catching the dim dock lights, a silent threat against the unseen dangers in the night.

A shadow crept along a stack of crates, broad and rapid, the rattle of the dragging chain a rasping counterpoint to the shriek of the wind. Metal scraped against wood, and two yellow eyes flickered for a moment, then vanished into darkness. Leo ironed out his sleeve, the parchment crackling beneath the fabric, giving off a heat that doesn't belong. He lighted a cigarette, the Zippo crackle a rasping, insubordinate note in the muggy stillness. He sucked deeply, the nicotine a wild attempt to slow the pounding cadence of his heart.

The distant shriek of tires sliced the mist, headlights slicing through the gloom, arriving with terrifying velocity. Marco slammed his arm around him, pulling him close, holding tight and unyielding. "Run—or fight," he snarled, low and commanding, his dark eyes locked on Leo's, unflinching and keen. A tenuous ring of cigar smoke drifted from his lips, a testament to his unnerving composure.

Leo was released, kicking an open crate in rage, the wood cracking with a loud impact. "She's your affair—do something about it." Marco puffed on a new cigar, the silver lighter opening and closing, the ritual calming influence. "Ours now—tightly binds us." The words, a reminder of their shared burden, hung heavy in the air.

Leo spat on the rain-soaked boards, a spit-rain mixture. He glanced at his phone, the glowing screen showing the time: 4:05 a.m. A message from Ezra flashed on the screen: "You okay?" He pushed the phone back into his pocket, the parchment warming against his skin. Headlights flashed, two SUVs racing towards them, their doors slamming open as Gia's crew spilled out, guns glinting wetly in the dim light. Nick, his grim scar a derisive snarl of a grin, strode ahead, the chain held loosely in his hand. Metal clashed a fierce warning, the yellow eyes afire once again, ravenous and feral. A cry rang overhead, wings tearing down the blackness of the air.

"Vitale—Russo—done," growled Nick, reaching for his chain and sending it swinging back with savage strength. Leo evaded, the chain scraping hard against his jacket, tearing through the leather. Marco stabbed with his blade, the blade sinking into Nick's arm, blood welling up, warm and red. Nick bellowed, flailing the chain once more, it curling around Marco's leg and yanking him down. Leo kicked Nick's knee, the bone snapping with a sickening crunch, the guy staggering, the chain jingling. Gia screamed out, "Finish him!"

Leo pulled Marco up onto his feet, pulling him up off the rain-sodden boards. Marco pressed against his coat, the parchment burning on Leo's skin. "Thanks, Russo." Leo snapped his blade, the knife flashing. "Close it—move." Gia's thugs dripped out, guns cocked and ready. Leo kicked a crate, wood splintering, and pushed it into the charging gang, taking one of them down, his gun thudding on the pavement. Marco jumped a goon, his knife descending, blood spattering, red and wet. The man stumbled and fell, grunting.

The wind howled, the rain battering their faces, the cries of seagulls in the distance a mournful accompaniment to the devastation. A stray cat flashed out of the night, hissing, and disappeared into the darkness. Leo pulled out his phone, punching Vito's number. "Docks—now—Gia's hit." He pocketed the phone, the parchment burning in his hand, a bloody pulse coming from its heart. Nick bellowed, swinging his chain again, smashing a crate, splinters zipping. Marco stabbed with his knife, driving it deep into Nick's side, blood bubbling up, red and hot. Nick stumbled, his chain crashing, his yellow eyes dimming. Gia's shriek pierced, "Kill him—now!"

Leo kicked up gravel, the noise scattering far, and caught Marco's arm. "Go!" They ran, their boots slapping puddles, rain pounding at them unceasingly. Marco lighted a cigar, exhaling smoke as he ran, the habit a constant in the chaos. The SUVs revved their engines, tires screeching, flinging gravel as Gia's team chased them, guns blazing. Bullets ricocheted off crates, wood splintering. Leo spun his knife, cutting a tire, the rubber bursting, the SUV careening and crashing, metal crunching.

They sprinted down an alley, boots splattering against wet asphalt. Leo glanced at his watch: 4:17 a.m. He smoothed his hair back, slick and damp. Marco leaped atop a dumpster, pushing it across the alley, trapping their attackers behind. Gia's goons yelled, guns raised. Leo took a drag on his cigarette, the Zippo cracking, exhaling smoke. Marco flashed a grin. "Nice move." Leo kicked a can, the sound ringing out loud. "Shut up—move along."

The rain slowed to a drizzle, the gulls overhead, their cawing harsh and insistent. The alley stretched out before them, high brick walls on either side. Marco rummaged in his pocket, thumbing his phone. "Crew's been hit—Gia's cut 'em in half," he said, shoving the phone into his pocket and lighting another cigar. Leo's arm touched his, the parchment rustling, the heat spilling. "She's your blood—why me?" Marco bent his wrist, his hold light but firm. "Pact—blood—us—mine." He concentrated on Leo's, the rhythm pounding, something more than hate.

Leo stepped back from him, his foot hitting the wall, fragments of brick shattering. He pulled a cigarette from his pack and lit it, blowing out smoke. "Your mess—fix it." Marco grinned, pouring a shot into his flask and shoving it at him. Leo grabbed it, setting it down, whiskey searing away. He placed the flask with a clink onto the sidewalk and stared at his phone: 4:25 a.m. Vito had texted a message: "West hit—Serpents—Gia's with 'em." He pocketed the phone again, the paper red, a throbbing crimson pulse. Marco lighted a cigar. "She's turned rogue—craves power—you—me—us."

Leo kicked pebbles, and they flew thinly and went flying. He clutched his knife and flipped it. "Power—over what?" Marco edged closer, holding Leo's collar, pulling him hard. "You—me—pact—blood—everything." His voice was low, his dark eyes slamming into Leo's, too close, his breath smoky and burning. Leo pushed him back, the thud of their chests a solid one. Marco chuckled low, releasing him, blowing smoke. "Feel it yet?"

Leo ironed out his jacket, smoked a cigarette, the Zippo clicking, exhaling a stream of smoke. Marco's tug burned, an ethereal sensation that did not subside. He booted a crate, the wood creaking, and looked at his watch: 4:33 a.m. "Feel what?" Marco smiled, thumping his phone, Gia's voice spilling: "He's mine—kill him—now!" Leo froze stiff, booting the crate, wood splintering, the flask cap flipping and rolling, ice skidding.

Marco wrapped his arm, dragging him tight. "Fight—or run." Leo shook him off, tapped his sleeve, lit another cigarette, smoked smoke. "Your sister—your fight." Marco grinned, lit a cigar. "Ours—pact's us." The rain dripped, the wind wailed, the gulls shrieked. A shadow loomed, tall and broad, chain dragging, metal scraping, gravel crunching. Tires skidded, a passerby glanced, hood up. Leo flipped him off, pulled out his knife, flipped it. Whose blood? Whose fight? Whose pull?

Headlamps cut through darkness, an SUV raged, Nick's Serpents, guns firing. Leo ducked, kicked a box, rolled it, bullets pinged, Marco sliced, knife went in, blood splattered, red and warm, a guy dropped, moaning. Leo flipped his blade, slashed a tire, rubber burst, SUV careened, crashed, metal screeched, screams echoed. Marco grabbed his wrist. "Go!" They ran, boots squelched, chain scraped, close, metal grated. Whose blood? Whose fight? Whose love?

Gia's voice yelled, phone rang, "He's mine—Russo—dies!" Leo looked at his phone, 4:41 a.m., text message from Ezra