The Jersey City warehouse looms like a fortress of rust and concrete, its windows boarded up, its loading docks silent under the gray dawn sky. The stolen pickup truck idles a block away, its engine a low growl as Roman scans the building through a pair of binoculars he pulled from the safehouse. I’m in the passenger seat, the crowbar across my lap, the key and Lila’s flash drive heavy in my pocket. Marcus is in the back, his knife glinting as he checks it for the third time. My glasses are smudged, my hands clammy, but I’m Sienna Cruz, and I’m not backing down. The documents—proof of Roman’s crimes and the Syndicate’s secrets—are inside, and with them, the truth about Elena, about me, about this nightmare I’ve been dragged into.

Roman lowers the binoculars, his face grim. “Three guards outside, maybe more inside. Kane’s men. They’ll be expecting trouble.”

“Then let’s give it to them,” Marcus says, his voice rough. His split lip is swollen, but his eyes burn with determination. “We get in, grab the documents, get out. No heroics.”

Roman glances at me, his green eyes searching. “You sure about this, Sienna? Once we go in, there’s no turning back.”

I meet his gaze, my jaw tight. “I’ve been in too deep since the moment I touched that Caravaggio. Let’s finish this.”

He nods, a flicker of respect in his eyes, and hands me a small pistol from the duffel bag. “You know how to use this?”

I take it, the metal cold and heavy in my hand. “Point and shoot, right?” My voice is steady, but my heart’s racing. I’ve never held a gun before, let alone fired one. But I’m not the shy art restorer who walked into Roman’s gallery anymore. I’m something else now—something harder.

Marcus leans forward, his hand on my shoulder. “Stick close to me, Sienna. We’ve got your back.”

Roman’s jaw twitches, but he doesn’t comment. The tension between them is a live wire, but we don’t have time for it. He kills the engine, and we slip out of the truck, moving low and fast toward the warehouse. The air smells of salt and diesel, the nearby docks humming faintly with early morning activity. We stick to the shadows, avoiding the guards patrolling the perimeter. Roman leads us to a rusted side door, its lock already broken—Lila’s intel was spot-on.

Inside, the warehouse is a maze of crates and industrial equipment, the air thick with dust and the faint tang of oil. Dim fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting long shadows. Roman motions for us to split up—him to the left, Marcus to the right, me in the middle. I grip the pistol, my crowbar tucked into my waistband, and move forward, my pulse hammering. Every creak of the floorboards feels like a gunshot.

I spot a metal staircase leading to a loft area, where a faint glow spills out. That’s where they’d keep the documents—somewhere secure, elevated. I glance at Roman, who’s creeping along a row of crates, and Marcus, who’s disappeared into the shadows. I’m on my own for now. I climb the stairs, my footsteps light, the pistol heavy in my hand. At the top, I peer into a small office, its door ajar. A man—Victor Kane, I assume—stands over a table, the documents spread out before him. He’s tall, broad, with a shaved head and a scar running down his neck. Two other men stand nearby, rifles slung across their chests.

My heart stops. The documents are right there, but I’m outnumbered. I duck back, my mind racing. I need a distraction. I spot a stack of metal pipes leaning against the wall—unstable, precarious. Perfect. I holster the pistol, grab the crowbar, and wedge it into the stack, prying until the pipes clatter to the floor with a deafening crash. The men in the office spin toward the noise, shouting, and I slip inside, hiding behind a filing cabinet.

Kane barks orders, sending his men to investigate. I wait, my breath shallow, until he’s alone. He’s still studying the documents, muttering to himself. I creep closer, the crowbar in one hand, the pistol in the other. I’m almost there when my foot catches on a loose cable, and I stumble, knocking over a chair.

Kane spins, his gun drawn in an instant. “Who’s there?” he growls, his eyes locking onto me as I freeze, half-hidden in the shadows.

I don’t think—I raise the pistol and fire. The shot goes wide, shattering a window, but it’s enough to startle him. He dives for cover, and I grab the documents, shoving them into my jacket. Footsteps pound up the stairs—his men, coming back. I’m trapped.

“Sienna!” Roman’s voice cuts through the chaos. He bursts into the office, tackling Kane before he can aim again. They grapple, Roman’s lean frame against Kane’s bulk, fists flying. I scramble to help, but Marcus appears, grabbing me and pulling me toward the stairs.

“We’ve got the documents,” I gasp, clutching them tight. “But Roman—”

“He can handle himself,” Marcus says, his knife ready as we descend. Gunfire erupts behind us, and I flinch, my heart in my throat. We reach the warehouse floor, dodging crates as more men appear, their shouts echoing. Marcus slashes at one, his knife finding its mark, while I swing the crowbar, catching another in the knee. He collapses, and we run for the door.

Outside, the air is cold and sharp, the dawn light gray and unforgiving. Marcus pulls me toward the truck, but I stop, looking back. “Roman’s still in there,” I say, my voice breaking.

Marcus grabs my arm. “He’s not worth it, Sienna. We’ve got what we came for. Let’s go.”

I shake my head, the documents heavy against my chest. “He saved me, Marcus. I can’t leave him.”

Before Marcus can argue, Roman stumbles out of the warehouse, blood streaming from a new cut on his arm. He’s limping, but he’s alive. “Go!” he shouts, waving us toward the truck. Kane’s men are close behind, their gunfire splitting the air.

We pile into the truck, Roman at the wheel, and peel out, tires screeching. The warehouse shrinks in the rearview mirror, but the danger’s far from over. I clutch the documents, my hands shaking, and glance at Roman. His face is pale, his breathing ragged, but his eyes meet mine, and there’s something new there—trust, maybe, or something deeper.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice rough.

I nod, my throat tight. “Got the documents.”

Marcus leans forward, his knife still in his hand. “Yeah, and a hell of a lot of trouble. What now, Vale? Your enemies aren’t going to stop.”

Roman’s grip tightens on the wheel. “We take the fight to them. The documents name names—people in the Syndicate who’ll do anything to stay hidden. We use that.”

I pull the documents from my jacket, my fingers brushing the flash drive Lila gave me. “And the paintings?” I ask. “They’re coded, right? What do they mean?”

Roman’s eyes flicker, a shadow passing over them. “They’re the key to everything. Each one hides a piece of the puzzle—accounts, locations, deals. Elena figured it out, and it got her killed. I won’t let that happen to you.”

My chest tightens, Elena’s face flashing in my mind—her eyes, her fear, so like mine. “I’m not her,” I say, my voice firm. “And I’m not your redemption, Roman. But I’m in this, and I’m not running.”

He nods, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “I know.”

Marcus scoffs, leaning back. “Great. So we’re all in this suicide pact. Where to now?”

Roman glances at me, then at the road. “Back to Lila. She can decode the documents, maybe the paintings too. But we need to move fast. The Syndicate will know we have them by now.”