Page 101 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby

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I get one step.

A black-gloved hand clamps on my coat at the back of the neck and hauls.

The world tilts a little.

Then a horn blasts at the corner as a box truck decides to announce itself.

The noise eats my second shout.

A bystander decides he has to be at work and moves on.

The guard is on his radio now, but his legs look slow.

The woman speaks again, low and pleased.

“Shh,” she says, like this is the part where she wins. “Shh.”

I bite her hand.

She jolts and swears.

I savor the sound and slam my heel down hard, anywhere.

Something gives under my shoe.

A groan.

The grip on my coat loosens again.

I twist toward the street.

A sedan glides up so close the mirror brushes my sleeve.

The back door opens.

It smells like leather and clean chemicals.

A man inside says, calmly, “Now.”

The alley collapses to a point.

Hands lift.

The world rises and then slides sideways.

My phone spills out of my pocket and skitters under the cart.

I see the screen flash one last time with Nico’s name.

The woman’s hair is in my face.

The man with the vest says, almost fondly, “That’s it.”

The guard shouts something that won’t matter.

Rizzo throws the empty cup at the van and keeps running, swearing like a saint having a bad day.

I catch a last slice of sky over the roofline, the gray just starting to think about blue.

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