Page 119 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
We wait for the elevator.
Doors open.
We step in with two orderlies and a woman wheeling a laundry cart.
Nothing moves.
Good.
The doors almost close before a hand cuts them.
A man steps in and turns his shoulder to make space.
He smells like peppermint and a bar sink.
He watches the floor numbers, not us.
It reads as harmless to people who don’t count angles.
Elisa sees it the same second I do.
The band of his watch is wide enough to hide a cuff.
His jacket hems low to cover weight at the waist.
His shoes are soft-soled.
He shifts his feet for balance as the car starts to move.
Muscle memory, not courtesy.
Fourth floor dings.
Doors open to a busy corridor.
He rotates his body, crowd-smart, lets the woman pass, moves with her like a shadow, reaches for Elisa’s tote with one hand and her elbow with the other like they know each other.
“Hey,” he says, bright and easy. “You dropped this?—”
He doesn’t finish because my hand is already on his wrist and my shoulder is already in his chest.
Elbow to wrist, heel to ankle.
The tote slides free.
He pivots into a knife-hand he practiced in someone’s basement and the blade flashes, short and cheap.
I step inside the line and bounce his knuckles off the elevator frame.
The knife hits the tile and skitters under the laundry cart.
“Back,” I tell Elisa without looking.
The orderlies step away fast.
The woman with the cart freezes and then, to her credit, pulls the brake.
The man tries a headbutt.
