I could be on the verge of getting everything I wanted. So, why did it feel so empty?

The smell of cigarettes weighed heavily in the air as I stood by the dock. Even the salty smell of the ocean couldn’t force it away. My eyelids fluttered closed. I needed a second to get myself together. I was doing that a lot lately, trying to grab onto the control I prided myself on. But the moment I relaxed, the bluest eyes appeared before me framed by thick black lashes on a clean-shaven face. A sharp jawline that was perfect for nibbling on and soft pink lips that tilted up in a daring smile.

“Open the crate,” Benito said.

My eyes flashed open at Benito’s voice, and I forced it all down. If my brother noticed how out of it I was, history would repeat itself. I couldn’t go through that again.

Three of our men jammed crowbars under the thick wood lid and cracked it open. The cover thunked down on the ground next to the box as the contents were revealed. Or lack of.

“Fuck,” Gin groaned. Our eyes locked for a second before we both looked at Benito. He stood over the empty crate that was supposed to be holding the shipment of guns. Ones that we’d already sold.

“Open all the fucking boxes,” Benito said through clenched teeth.

Gin and I picked up a crowbar and headed for the other crates. All the men were out there popping open the boxes. One by one, they were showing up empty. There was only straw.

Gin headed toward me. “What the hell do you think happened?”

I shook my head. Maybe if my mind wasn’t scattered and my thoughts constantly bouncing back to a certain cop, I would have an answer.

The sound of a gun being fired echoed around us. We didn’t have to rush to know what had happened. I straightened my back and walked over to my brother as one of the men lay on the ground, rocking back and forth as he held his bleeding knee.

“You were in charge of the shipment. I cannot fathom how two hundred assault rifles and unmarked handguns go missing.” Benito stood over him, his gun steady as it was aimed at Benjamin’s face.

“I don’t know,” Benjamin squeezed out.

He’d been with us for a while, nearly two years, and he had to know Benito’s least favorite words were “I don’t know.” As if to remind him of that fact, Benito fired the next bullet into his other leg.

Benjamin let out an undignified scream that far surpassed the bang of the gun. He cursed as he clutched both bleeding legs. Blood splattered all over the ground and a few crates nearby. The sight was normal, and everyone stood there watching him as he tried to slow down his bleeding.

The angrier my brother got, the thicker his Italian accent got. “You expect me to believe that shit? Where are my guns?” Benito asked.