Valentino

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 Valentino Xanders 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.

But now I know where he is.

I change my course, running down a different row. If I'm right...

I reach the end of the aisle just as he does. He doesn't have time to react before I've tackled him to the ground.

He grunts and bucks against me—not like a wild animal, but with the precision of somebody trained to fight back. Too bad for him that I'm no slouch myself, and I have a good fifty pounds of muscles on him.

He catches my jaw with the palm of his hand, which fucking hurts, but I use that opportunity to grab his wrist and pin it to the floor. Then I jab my gun under his jaw, and he immediately stills.

He's younger than I expected, with messy strands of red hair around his face.

If I had to guess, I'd say he was in his early twenties. His green eyes are cold and hard, though, at odds with what would have been a babyface otherwise.

"Who sent you?" I growl at him. It's probably a futile question, but sometimes men like this would rather give up who's truly responsible rather than taking the heat themselves. It's not likely I'll get any useful answers, though.

"Don't know," he answers with a sneer. "They really want you dead, though."

Of course they do. I have enemies, just like everyone else in this line of business. There's always someone you've pissed off, always someone who wants to take your place. Well, fuck that.

I stare at him, cold eyes meeting cold eyes, and I recognize a kindred soul. I wouldn't betray an employer either, not without extreme pressure.

Well, I'll just have to make sure he feels it.

Before I can even begin to formulate a plan, though, one of my men screams something unintelligible. With the gun still firmly lodged in place, I look up, just in time to feel the building rumble around us and feel the heat of a blast.

I instinctively get as low as I can—which has my body flush against the gunman's as the shelves and racks of the warehouse tumble around us.

Fuck.