Page 195 of Bitter Poetry

“Negotiating like a pro there, Vince.”

“I’m studying business. Negotiation 101.”

Cocky fucker.

Ahead, I can see the neon sign for the parking garage where Vince’s car is. But on the other side of the road are two flunkies in leather jackets who are not very subtly scoping the passing pedestrians and vehicles.

They’re not Ettore’s men.

My guess is they’re Russians come to check what the fuck happened to their companions.

I don’t look away fast enough. My lip is busted, and they just caught me eyeballing them.

The one on the right lifts a cell phone to his ear. The other is reaching into his pocket, probably for a fucking gun.

Slick move, Christian.

“Move!”

I shove Carmela and Vince toward the parking garage door as I hear the screech of tires behind me—they have run into the road, guns waving.

Fucking Russians.

We’re so fucked.

Inside, a short corridor leads to another door and access to the ground floor parking garage. “Keep going!”

We’ve barely gotten through the second door when I hear them slam through the main entrance, hot on our heels.

I shove the door shut and brace against the back.

“Your car?”

“There.” He stabs a finger toward the opposite side.

“Good. Go. These guys will fuck you up just for being near her. Take her. When you get to the club, ask for Leon orDante Barone. Say Christian sent you. He’ll clear yours and your girlfriend’s debts.”

“Christian!” she screams. “What are you doing? Come with us.”

Vince feels the urgency even if Carmela is not there yet. He grabs her arm and yanks her toward the car. Any other time and I’d break his fucking hand for putting it on her.

A thud and sudden weight slams into the door behind me. It tosses me forward a foot before I can shove it into the jam.

They’re in the car. The engine starts with a roar just as another, heavier pounding nearly tosses me to the floor.

With the next thud, instead of trying to brace it, I let the momentum carry it open and then slam it shut again. It connects with a solid mass.

A grunt of pain follows.

Someone curses.

Tires screech as Vince pulls away. I swing the door all the way open and slam my palm into the solar plexus of the nearest piece of shit. It takes the wind out of him. His companion gets my knee in his face, and he drops with a high-pitched scream that is fucking music.

They’re both lying in the doorway now, scrambling to get up. I grip the door and slam it into them in a frenzy until the intense exertion brings me up for air.

They’re not moving, and blood is splattered all over the place.

A car swings into the garage from the street and swerves to a stop in front of us while I’m still trying to snatch my breath.