Page 98 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
A delivery cart rolls out from the alley and into my path.
The boxes on it are labeledLinen.
A third person pushes it, head down, cap low.
The cart bumps my shin. It looks like clumsiness.
It feels like intent.
“Watch it,” I say, too loud.
The guard finally looks up.
His mouth opens.
He starts to stand.
He is three beats too late.
The man with the clipboard leans in.
His hand lands on my upper arm lightly, like an uncle.
“This way,” he says, friendly. “We’ll be quick.”
Every warning my mother ever spoke and every rule Nico ever tucked into a sentence climb into my throat.
Turn to a crowd.
Make noise.
Don’t let anyone steer your feet unless a name you trust is attached to the hand.
I pull my arm back and step to my left.
The woman mirrors me.
The cart surges at my knee, just enough to force another step the wrong way.
The alley yawns.
The second van inches forward so the hydrant is boxed and the sightlines narrow.
The SUV from my block has arrived without any engine sound I can pick out.
It slides to the curb across the street.
The windows stay black.
“I said no,” I say. My voice is steady but loud. Good. “Security,” I call. “Hey.”
The guard takes a step.
He says “Ma’am” in a way that sounds like a question.
The woman clicks her tongue.
“We don’t need to make a thing of it,” she coos.
