Bait

The docks in Red Hook smelled of brine, diesel, and rotting fish.

It was raining. A cold, miserable drizzle that soaked Elena to the bone. Her hands were zip-tied behind her back. She was sitting on a rusted bollard at the end of Pier 4.

Miller stood ten feet away, holding her phone.

"He won't come," Elena said, her teeth chattering. "He knows it's a trap."

"He'll come," Miller laughed. "I saw the way he looked at you at the Gala. The great Nico Valenti has a soft spot. And I'm going to stick a knife right in it."

Miller dialed a number. He put it on speaker.

"Miller," Nico’s voice answered. It wasn't the warm rumble Elena knew. It was the sound of a glacier calving. "If she has a scratch on her, I will peel you."

"She's fine, Nico. A little wet. We're at Pier 4. Come alone. No guns. No backup. Or the Good Girl goes for a swim with concrete shoes."

"I'm five minutes out."

The line clicked dead.

Miller smiled. "See? Predictable."

Elena looked at the dark water. She twisted her wrists.

Nico had taught her this. Years ago, in her brother’s kitchen, demonstrating how to escape if she ever got grabbed. *It’s about leverage, Ellie. Don't pull apart. Push down and snap.*

She tested the plastic. It was tight, biting into her skin. But she felt the locking mechanism.

"He's going to kill you," Elena said quietly.

"He's walking into a crossfire," Miller pointed to the shipping containers stacked around them. Shadows moved in the darkness. Russo hitmen. "Valenti dies tonight. And I get a promotion."

Headlights swept across the pier. A black Maserati rolled to a stop fifty yards away.

The door opened.

Nico stepped out. He was wearing a long black trench coat. He held his hands up, showing open palms. He walked toward them, his gait steady, his face a mask of terrifying calm.

"Let her go, Miller," Nico called out. The rain plastered his hair to his skull.

"Knees!" Miller shouted, aiming his gun at Elena’s head. "On your knees, Valenti!"

Nico didn't hesitate. The Don of the city dropped to his knees in the mud. He looked at Elena. His eyes weren't afraid. They were apologetic.

* I'm sorry I dragged you into this,* they said.

"Surrender the territory," Miller gloated. "Sign over the ports."

"Done," Nico said. "Let her walk."

"I don't think so," Miller cocked the hammer. "Loose ends, you know?"

Miller turned his gaze from Nico to Elena, preparing to fire.

That split second was all Elena needed.

She didn't scream. She slammed her wrists down against the rusted metal of the bollard, putting all her weight into the leverage point.

* Snap.*

The zip-tie broke.

Elena launched herself forward, not away from the gun, but *into* Miller. She lowered her shoulder and tackled him at the waist.

"Nico!" she screamed.

Miller stumbled back, the gun firing wild into the air.

Nico was moving before the shot rang out. He didn't run. He exploded from his knees. He closed the distance in three strides.

As Miller tried to shove Elena off and re-aim, Nico was there.

Nico didn't use a gun. He used his hands. He grabbed Miller’s wrist and twisted until bone snapped. Miller screamed, dropping the weapon.

Nico grabbed Miller by the throat and lifted him off the ground.

"I told you," Nico whispered, his voice intimate and demonic. "She is poison."

The shadows in the containers erupted with gunfire, but Nico didn't care. He threw Miller’s body off the pier into the dark water.

Nico grabbed Elena, shielding her with his body as bullets pinged off the metal around them. He pulled a gun from his waistband—he hadn't come unarmed after all—and fired blindly into the darkness to cover their retreat.

"Run!" Nico roared, dragging her toward the car.