Chapter 4 - Glass and Gasoline
The world vanished into white noise, flying shards of tempered glass, and the smell of sulfur.
“Down!” Alessandro’s voice was a thunderclap.
In a fraction of a second, his massive frame cleared the booth, his arms wrapping around my shoulders and dragging me down behind the stainless-steel prep counter just as a second blast ripped through the vinyl seat where I had been sitting two seconds earlier.
The stuffing of the booth exploded into clouds of white synthetic fluff.
Behind the register, Dana let out a piercing, hysterical shriek, dropping to the floor among spilled receipts and shattered soda bottles.
Pop-pop-pop-pop!
A burst of automatic gunfire chewed through the neon Rosie’s Diner sign above the window, raining sparks and melted plastic onto the linoleum floor.
Alessandro didn't panic. His movements were terrifyingly smooth, fluid, and mechanical. He reached under his cashmere jacket, drawing a heavy matte-black Heckler & Koch pistol from a concealment holster. He racked the slide against his forearm with one swift, practiced motion.
“Stay behind the grease trap,” Alessandro commanded, his face inches from mine. “If I tell you to crawl to the back alley, you do not look back. You take the girl at the register and you run. Do you understand me?”
I couldn't speak. I could only nod, my hands pressed against my ears as the ringing in my skull threatened to split my head open.
From the street, the screech of wet tires sounded against the asphalt. Two men wearing dark tactical windbreakers and balaclavas stepped through the shattered entrance of the diner, their boots crunching on the glass.
“Romano!” one of them yelled in a thick, raspy voice. “Marco sends his regards from the docks!”
Alessandro didn't answer with words. He pivoted around the edge of the steel counter, bringing his weapon up with both hands.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Three rapid, ear-splitting reports echoed off the diner’s aluminum walls. The lead gunman crumpled instantly, his shotgun clattering across the slick tile. The second shooter dove behind the jukebox, returning fire with a compact submachine gun that shredded the wooden booths and sent rows of glass sundae dishes exploding into powder.
From the kitchen, Rosa suddenly appeared.
She wasn't screaming. She wasn't running. In her hands, she held a cast-iron skillet loaded with boiling canola oil directly from the deep fryer. With the ferocious strength of a woman who had survived thirty years of neighborhood violence, Rosa stepped through the swinging kitchen door and hurled the scalding oil directly around the side of the jukebox.
A horrific, blood-curdling scream tore from the second shooter as the boiling liquid coated his face and arms. He stumbled backward into the shattered glass, firing blindly into the ceiling, before Alessandro stepped forward and fired two clean shots into his chest.
The shooter dropped.
Silence crashed back into Rosie’s Diner.
The air was suffocating—thick with gray gunsmoke, the acrid stench of burned oil, and the copper tang of fresh blood pooling on the yellow tile.
Alessandro lowered his weapon, his chest heaving beneath his tailored suit. A dark stain was spreading rapidly along his left ribs where a stray shotgun pellet had sliced through his cashmere jacket.
He didn't look at his wound. He turned his slate-gray eyes directly toward me.
“Clara,” he said, extending a blood-flecked hand down to where I knelt on the floor. “Get up. They aren't finished.”
I looked at his outstretched hand. I looked at the two dead men on the floor of the diner where I had worked for five years.
May you like
My safe, miserable, quiet life was gone.
I took his hand.
