Chapter 2 - The Fire We Inherit
The sound was not a bang; it was a tearing violently through the night, followed immediately by the rhythmic, deafening clatter of automatic gunfire.
“Down!” Dominic barked.
In a fraction of a second, his hand clamped around the back of my neck. He hauled me out of the booth and slammed me onto the floor behind the low brick-and-stainless-steel divider of the server station just as a hail of high-caliber rounds shredded the vinyl cushions where my head had rested a second prior.
Plaster, glass, and wood splinters rained down like hail. Screams tore through the air—Rosie shrieking behind the fryers, Mr. Chen scrambling into the employee restroom.
Dominic’s body was completely draped over mine, an impenetrable wall of muscle and Kevlar. The scent of him—expensive cedarwood, cold rain, and the faint metallic tang of gun oil—filled my senses. He was utterly, unnervingly calm. His pulse, thrumming against my cheek where my face was pressed into his chest, was slow. Steady. Rhythmic.
Above us, his four security men weren't panicking. They moved like synchronized machines.
Two of them dropped to one knee, drawing automatic sidearms from beneath their jackets, returning disciplined, double-tap fire through the shattered facade toward a black van idling in the middle of the street. The other two formed a human shield between the windows and our corner.
“Suppressing!” one of the guards shouted, his voice level despite the chaos. “Two shooters on the street, high ground unknown!”
Dominic didn’t draw a weapon. He kept one hand firmly on the back of my head, shielding my skull from ricochets, while his other hand retrieved a slim satellite device from his pocket. He pressed a single button.
“Clear the perimeter,” Dominic commanded into the device. “Live capture preferred. Anyone who resists, leave them where they fall.”
From out on the street came the distinct, terrifying squeal of heavy tires. Through the blown-out window frame, I caught a glimpse of two more armored black Escalades slamming head-on into the side of the shooters' van, pinning it against a concrete light pole with a sickening crunch of metal. Shouts erupted outside, followed by three sharp, muffled cracks of suppressed pistols.
Then, complete, suffocating silence descended.
The neon sign outside sputtered one last time and died, leaving the diner bathed in the eerie red emergency lights from the exit sign. Smoke curled lazily through the broken windows, smelling of cordite and burned rubber.
Dominic lifted his weight off me slowly, checking his hands for blood before extending a broad, calloused palm down to where I lay trembling on the broken tiles.
“Are you hit?” he asked.
“I… I don't know,” I stammered, my entire body convulsing with shock.
He didn't wait for my self-assessment. His hands moved over my shoulders, down my arms, checking my ribs and legs with swift, clinical efficiency. Finding no blood, he exhaled quietly through his nose and pulled me to my feet in one effortless motion.
“You’re clean,” he said.
I looked at the diner. Rosie’s lifetime of hard work was annihilated. The cash register was punctured with three bullet holes. The counter was splintered. Condiment bottles had shattered, painting the floor in a grotesque mixture of ketchup, mustard, and glass.
“Rosie!” I cried out, breaking away from him.
I scrambled behind the counter. The old woman was curled behind the industrial ice maker, clutching a wooden rolling pin, her face grey with shock but entirely unharmed.
“Emma…” Rosie wept, her voice trembling violently. “What… what was that? Who are these people?”
Before I could answer, Dominic rounded the counter. The air around him felt cold enough to freeze water. He looked down at the weeping old woman, then signaled to one of his men who had just stepped back inside, holstering a sidearm.
“Luca,” Dominic said calmly.
“Boss.”
“Call the construction group. Have a structural team here at dawn. Everything replaced, upgraded, top of the line. Double the diner’s footprint, buy out the laundromat next door to expand her seating, and transfer two hundred and fifty thousand dollars to Mrs. Sullivan’s personal account by 8:00 a.m. for the inconvenience.”
Rosie blinked through her tears, her mouth opening and closing like a landed fish. “I… what?”
Dominic turned his obsidian gaze back to me. “Your shift is over, Emma.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you!” I snapped, panic finally overriding my shock. “Look at what happens around you! People shoot at you! You brought this here!”
“They didn’t come for me,” Dominic said evenly, stepping closer until I had to tilt my head back to hold his gaze.
My heart hitched. “What?”
“The shooter in the passenger seat,” Dominic murmured, his voice deadly quiet. “His tattoos belong to the Marcone family. Specifically, the crew run by Victor Vance.”
The name meant nothing to me. “I don't know who that is.”
“You don’t. But your ex-husband does.” Dominic stepped directly into my personal space, towering over me. “Marcus didn't run away to California two years ago like he told you in that postcard, Emma. Marcus stole three hundred thousand dollars of laundered betting money from Victor Vance’s bookmaking operations before he skipped town. Vance finally traced Marcus’s original family registry this morning.”
The floor felt like it was dissolving beneath my sneakers. Marcus. The father who had abandoned Lily when she was barely three, leaving behind a stack of unpaid medical bills and empty whiskey bottles.
“They… they weren't shooting at you?” I whispered, horrified.
“They were watching the diner, waiting for your shift to end to abduct you and Lily for leverage against Marcus,” Dominic said, every word dropping like lead into my chest. “My arrival forced their hand early. If I hadn't walked in that door tonight, you wouldn't have made it to your car.”
My lungs seized. “Lily. Oh god, Lily! My babysitter—Mrs. Gable—”
“Luca already dispatched a unit to your apartment ten minutes ago,” Dominic said, catching my elbows as my knees threatened to give out. “Your daughter is safe. She is currently asleep in the back of my vehicle outside, wrapped in a blanket, eating a chocolate croissant that my driver bought her.”
I didn't think; I moved. I shoved past him, ignoring the crunch of safety glass under my shoes, and burst through the ruined front doors out into the chilly night air.
Parked at the curb, surrounded by three heavily armed men in dark overcoats, was the lead SUV. The rear door was open.
Inside, sitting in the leather captain's chair, was my little girl.
Lily’s brown curls were messy, her tiny hands clutching a pastry wrapped in a napkin, her wide hazel eyes watching a cartoon playing on the vehicle’s headrest screen. Standing guard beside her with an awkward, gentle stiffness was a scarred, six-foot-four enforcer who looked like he wrestled bears for recreation, holding a juice box with a straw positioned for her reach.
“Mama!” Lily piped up, spotting me through the open door. “The nice man said we’re going to a big hotel with a pool!”
A sob tore from my throat as I threw myself into the backseat, gathering her small, fragile frame into my arms. I buried my face in her hair, breathing in the scent of baby shampoo and pastry, trembling so hard my teeth clicked.
A heavy hand rested gently on the open car door frame.
I looked up. Dominic was standing there, the city streetlights reflecting in his unreadable eyes.
“You saved my life from a fire, Emma,” he said softly, the edge of his voice laced with an absolute, terrifying finality. “Now I pull you out of yours. Get in.”
May you like
I looked back at the ruined diner, at the shattered remains of my desperately curated, fragile, invisible life. Then I looked at my daughter’s pale cheeks—cheeks that hid a heart that could fail within months without a quarter-million-dollar surgery.
I pulled the door shut behind me.
