Dane's POV:
A truck waits for us at the outskirts.
The second we step off the boat, the world changes.
The water behind us is black and churning, but the port ahead is alive in the ugliest way — bustling, loud with engines and shouted orders, chains clanking, crates thudding onto wet boards.
Floodlights glare down from tall poles, bleaching the night into something harsh and exposed.
Ships sit belly-deep in the water like fat beasts, their sides scarred and rust-streaked.
Smaller boats crowd the docks, packed tight, bumping and creaking, tied off with ropes that look ready to snap.
Cargo nets swing overhead, dripping brine. The air tastes like salt and diesel and rot.
And everywhere — Stocciani's men.
They're scattered like ants, moving in groups, checking inventory, barking at each other, counting with clipboards and gloved hands. Their boots slap against slick wood, and the sound carries.
Other shipments are arriving too.
Other girls getting off their boats.
