We left the office, our boots echoing in the empty stairwell.

The air outside was thick with the smell of wet asphalt and diesel smoke.

We piled into Roman’s black sedan, the engine purring like a sleeping beast.

Declan drove, his hands tight on the steering wheel.

The windshield wipers fought a losing battle against the heavy downpour.

“My father always talked about a big score,” I said, my voice barely louder than the hum of the heater.

“He used to sit at the kitchen table with his racing forms and maps of the city docks.”

“I thought he was just dreaming.”

“But he was studying the security patrols.”

“He knew exactly when the guards shifted at warehouse four.”

Roman looked at me through the rearview mirror.

“He was planning this even before he sold you to me,” Roman said.

“Yes,” I replied, the realization cold and sharp in my chest.

“I wasn’t a debt payment.”

“I was a smoke screen.”

“He wanted you to look at me while he took everything else.”

“There are other rumors on the street,” Declan said, eyes on the road.