Luna’s POV
The warehouse stank of old motor oil and rust, the kind of smell that clung to my skin and never quite washed out.
I bent down just behind a rotting stack of pallets. My heart was beating slow and steady— just the way that it was supposed to even you were one wrong breath from dying.
The wire that was taped right between my breasts picked up every low curse in Italian. Every scrape of crate against the concrete floor.
Eleven months of this life—smiling while hands grazed my thigh, laughing at jokes that turned my stomach, pretending I didn’t dream of putting bullets through every Russo skull in that room.
That night, it ended.
The wire glitched.
One heartbeat of static—sharp, ugly—and six heads whipped toward me like dogs scenting fresh meat.
“She’s a f*****g fed!”
The
