Page 105 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
Smile that never reaches her eyes.
The driver comes out on my side with a plastic smile and a hand that goes where men keep a gun when they’re new.
He thinks he’s fast.
He’s not.
I move.
There’s a trick to speed.
It’s not feet.
It’s decisions made before they matter.
The driver’s hand finds cloth, not steel.
My fist finds his ear.
He drops the idea of being a shooter and decides to be a wrestler.
I put him into the hood so his ribs learn a fact.
He makes a noise like a drawer slamming.
The woman steps in like she’s going to bless me with a clipboard.
I kick it out of her hand.
It clatters and the paper shows its blank face.
She tries the sweet voice. “Let’s be calm?—”
“No,” I say and step past her.
I get to the back door.
It’s locked.
Inside, movement.
A muffled sound that thinks it’s brave.
I hear it in my spine.
“Rafe,” I say without looking. “Open.”
He’s already there with a flat bar he keeps where most men keep a spare.
He pops the lock like he’s been stealing cars since he was ten.
The door jumps an inch.
I tear it the rest of the way.
She is on the seat, sideways, one wrist cinched to a belt with a zip tie that looks like it wants to cut.
Her coat is pulled half off one shoulder.
