Page 102 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
My mouth tastes like ginger and fear.
I twist, once more, useless, and then my shoulders hit the sedan’s seat.
The door slams.
Darkness.
A hand pushes my head down.
Another pulls my feet in.
Someone says, “Drive.”
The car lurches.
The alley slides past in a smear.
Rizzo pounds on the window with her palm.
The glass doesn’t care.
The city takes the scene back like it always does, and the sound of tires replaces my name.
I try to get one knee up.
A belt bites across my shins.
A voice very close to my ear says, almost kindly, “Don’t.”
I do not stop listening to the street until there is nothing left to hear.
Then the world narrows to the inside of a moving car, the smell of someone else’s coat, and the taste of lemon still on my tongue.
19
NICO
Rizzo calls while I’m counting cash for a driver who can’t count.
The sound she makes isn’t a word.
It’s a tear in fabric. “They took her.”
My hand is already on the door. “Where?”
“Service alley by the east entrance. Fake drill. Clipboard. Woman with a lanyard. White van and a sedan. They folded her into the sedan. I threw coffee at the guy and he swore at me like he knew my mother.”
“What direction?”
“Pike. Then left. The van blocked my view.”
“Plate?”
“Black tint. The sedan had a dent on the rear passenger door and the side mirror buzzed when it moved.”
“Stay put,” I tell her. “And don’t be a hero.”
“Too late,” she says, wrecked and steady. “Go.”
