Chapter 2 - The Shadows at the Window
My hand slipped beneath my jacket, fingers wrapping around the textured grip of my firearm. I didn't turn around; instead, I watched the reflection in the greasy windowpane.
A black sedan idling curbside. Headlights off, wipers cutting rhythmic, sweeping arcs across the windshield. Two men stepped out onto the rain-slicked pavement. They didn't wear raincoats. They wore tailored charcoal suits that screamed professional enforcers, moving with the synchronized, lethal efficiency of men who spent their lives clearing rooms.
"Rosa," I said, my voice dropping into a razor-sharp command. "Get the girls into the back storage room. Now."
"Who—"
"Don't ask questions. Move."
Rosa didn't hesitate. Survival instinct, honed by years of poverty and proximity to the criminal underworld, kicked in instantly. She spun around, calling out to her daughters in a sharp, urgent tone that brooked no argument. The four girls dropped their crayons and notebooks, scrambling behind the counter and into the narrow hallway leading to the kitchen and storage cellar.
The diner door pushed open with a lazy chime.
A tall man with a broken nose, slicked-back dark hair, and a long trench coat stepped inside. He shook the rain from his shoulders like a dog shaking off river water, his cold, gray eyes scanning the empty tables before locking directly onto mine.
"Well, well, well," the man rasped, his voice like gravel grinding under a heavy boot. "Vance. Boss has been looking all over the city for you. Word is, you've taken up a new hobby. Real estate in the public school system."
I didn't stand up. I kept my posture relaxed, though every muscle in my body was coiled like a steel spring. "You've got the wrong table, pal. The kitchen closed twenty minutes ago."
The enforcer smiled, showing a row of straight, expensive teeth that looked entirely out of place in a face as battered as his. He pulled a heavy silver cigarette case from his pocket, flipped it open, and tapped a cigarette against the metal without lighting it.
"Boss Falcone doesn't like loose ends," the man continued, taking two slow steps toward my booth. "For fourteen months, you've been a ghost. A whisper in the dark. But you had to go play dress-up at a PTA luncheon. You had to let a little girl look you in the eye and call you daddy."
"She didn't call me daddy," I corrected quietly. "She asked if I was somebody's."
"Same difference," the enforcer scoffed, his hand inching toward his left armpit. "And now, everyone tied to that little performance has to be scrubbed. Starting with the waitress who’s been keeping your secret all this time."
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That was his mistake. He took his eyes off my hands for a fraction of a second to glance toward the kitchen hallway.
I moved.
