Dock 17 squatted at the edge of the harbor like a forgotten thing, all rusted steel and concrete bones, the kind of place the city pretended not to see. The air tasted like salt and diesel, thick enough to coat the back of Mateo's throat. Fog rolled in lazy sheets off the water, swallowing sound, blurring edges. Perfect.
A car pulled into the alley way lights flashing through the fog. From the car three men came down and approached the already parked vehicle in front and stopped in front of a package, most likely whatever they were there for.
Mateo zipped his jacket as he stepped out of the car, boots crunching over gravel and broken shells. The dock lights buzzed overhead, flickering like they were on their last legs. A cargo crane loomed nearby, frozen mid-reach, its shadow stretched long across the wet ground.
Three men waited near the edge of the pier. Two he recognized—dock runners, loyal in the way men were when fear paid better than honesty. The third was new, taller, clean boots and his hands tucked into his coat pockets like he didn't need to prove anything.
Mateo clocked him immediately.
Lucas hung back, lighting a cigarette, eyes sharp as they tracked the scene. He didn't stand beside Mateo like usual. Didn't crack a joke. He Just watched.
The tall man stepped forward. "You Mateo?"
Mateo didn't answer right away. He let the silence stretch, let the fog do some of the work. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm, almost bored. "Depends who's asking."
The man smiled thinly. "Fair enough."
A crate sat between them, long and narrow, wrapped in oil-stained plastic. Mateo nudged it with his boot. Solid. Heavy.
"You're late," Mateo said.
"Traffic," the man replied. "And nerves."
Mateo's mouth twitched. "Smart man."
He crouched, slicing the plastic with a knife. Didn't rush. Inside—exactly what he expected. He closed it again and stood.
"Payment?" he asked.
The man nodded. One of the runners stepped forward, handing over a duffel. Mateo didn't check it. He didn't have to. The insult alone would've cost them more than whatever was inside.
"Pleasure," the man said.
Mateo met his eyes. Held them. "Don't let it happen again."
The message landed. The man backed away, motioning to his people. The crate was hauled off toward a waiting truck, swallowed by fog and distance.
Business done.
Mateo exhaled slowly, tension bleeding out of his shoulders. This—this was easy. Clean lines. Clear rules. No pretending.
Lucas flicked his cigarette into a puddle and crushed it under his heel. "You didn't have to scare him like that."
Mateo snorted. "I didn't scare him. I educated him."
Lucas didn't smile.
They walked back toward the car, footsteps echoing too loud in the emptiness. Somewhere nearby, water slapped against concrete in a steady, patient rhythm.
"You're slipping," Lucas said suddenly.
Mateo stopped. Turned. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." Lucas leaned against the car, arms crossed. "You used to enjoy this more."
Mateo laughed once, sharp. "You dragging me out here to psychoanalyze me now?"
Lucas didn't rise to it. "I'm saying you've got shit on your mind."
Mateo stepped closer, invading his space. "And I'm saying mind your fucking business."
For a moment, it felt like Lucas might push back. Instead, he looked away, jaw tight.
"Someone asked about her," Lucas said.
The fog seemed to thicken, pressing in. Mateo's smile faded.
"Asked about who?" he said, already knowing.
"Bambi."
The name hit differently here. Out in the open. Uncontrolled.
Mateo scoffed. "So?"
"So," Lucas continued, carefully, "it wasn't casual."
Mateo felt irritation crawl up his spine. "She's not invisible."
"No," Lucas agreed. "But she's not part of this world either. And people who cross worlds without knowing the rules tend to get hurt."
Mateo laughed again, louder this time. "You think she needs protecting? From who?"
Lucas met his gaze. "From men who hear the way you talk about her."
Silence dropped between them.
Mateo turned away, staring out at the water. Black. Endless. He shoved his hands into his pockets.
"I didn't say anything that wasn't true," he said. "She knows what she is."
"That's the problem," Lucas replied. "You think you get to define her."
Mateo's jaw clenched. "I don't define her. I accept her."
"That's bullshit."
Mateo spun back, eyes cold. "Watch your mouth."
Lucas didn't flinch. "You strip her down to something convenient so you don't have to feel guilty when you treat her like shit."
Mateo stepped in close. "You forgetting who you're talking to?"
"No," Lucas said quietly. "I'm remembering."
That landed harder than a threat.
Mateo scoffed and grabbed the car door. "You're overthinking it. She's fine. Always is."
Lucas shook his head. "That's what men say right before things go bad."
They drove in silence after that, the city lights slowly replacing fog and shadows. Mateo stared out the window, jaw tight, replaying the conversation despite himself.
Bambi wasn't fragile. She was sharp. Tough. She took what she wanted. She liked the edge, the danger. She liked him.
Didn't she?
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
He didn't look at it right away.
Lucas glanced over. "You gonna check that?"
"Later."
The phone buzzed again.
Mateo pulled it out, irritation already primed. One message.
You left without saying anything.
He stared at the screen longer than he meant to. Typed something. Deleted it. Locked the phone.
"She waiting for you?" Lucas asked.
Mateo slid the phone back into his pocket. "She can wait."
Lucas said nothing, but the look he gave Mateo wasn't judgment. It was calculation.
They stopped at a red light. A group of girls laughed on the corner, smoke curling from their mouths, eyes bright and careless. Mateo watched them without interest.
Lucas broke the silence. "If something happens to her—"
"Nothing's going to happen," Mateo snapped.
Lucas nodded slowly. "Men always say that too."
The light turned green.
Mateo drove.
He didn't see Lucas pull out his own phone.Didn't see the name he scrolled to.Didn't hear the message he sent, short and deliberate.
Keep an eye on her.
Mateo only felt the familiar tightening in his chest, the one he ignored every time, the one that whispered—not of love, but of ownership.
And ownership, once threatened, never stayed quiet for long.