Page 11 of Chicago Sin

It all happens in a matter of seconds. I bum-rush the asshole, grabbing his wrist before he can point the pistol. The force of my attack launches us both off the stoop and into the gutter. My shoulder rams into the place where his collarbones meet, sending an explosion of pain across my chest.

We’re tangled in a mess of limbs, struggling against each other as I try to get ahold of the weapon. He’s stronger than I am; his face is twisted in a snarl.

Prison has dulled some of my physical prowess. I’m no longer the sharp knife I once was. My reflexes are faster, but my body isn't fine-tuned.

The guy is clearly out for blood, but I’m ready to fight to the death because I know if he gets that pistol free, I’m a dead man.

The struggle intensifies, and I feel my strength waning. He pries my grip from his wrist, and the gun creeps closer to his own hand. I know I’m outmatched. I’m not strong enough—not fast enough. I already feel the cold, hard steel of the gun against my skin. But I don’t let go. I know that this is a fight for my life, and I won’t back down. I twist his wrist, forcing him to drop the gun, and then I press my knee into his throat, so he can’t scream for help.

I see the fear in his eyes as he struggles to break free from my grip, realizing I now have the upper hand. There’s a moment of stillness as we stare each other down, and I feel the tension between us. It’s a fight for dominance, for power, for our very lives. We are two predators in the wild, locked in a deadly battle.

The momentary pause on my behalf gives the man just enough time to free himself and attack me again with even more force, pushing us both against the doorway of the closest building, where we topple into the door of the florist. I use it, opening the door to trap his wrist and slamming it closed to dislodge the gun.

The weapon clatters to the floor inside the flower shop, and we both follow the movement. It’s a mad scramble as we thrust the door open and tumble through. I land on the gun first.

I have to squelch my desire to shoot him point blank in the head.

I’m not going back to prison. Besides, I need to know who he’s working for.

Because this is obviously a hit.

I empty the chamber of ammo and use the gun to smack him in the temple. He stumbles back but doesn’t black out. Instead, he tackles me to the floor, and the gun goes sliding again.

Chapter Seven

Hannah

It’s him. Armando. The one I used to lust after. This is not how I envisioned him reentering my store.

The scream gets stuck in my throat the moment reality sets in on what is actually happening before me. I’m too shocked to even move. For five long seconds, I just stand here like an idiot staring at the brutal fight.

Then I realize—I should do something.

Call someone.

I pick up my phone, not taking my eyes off the two men struggling on the floor. Both appear to be fighting for their lives. Armando is efficient and calm. He doesn’t make a sound as he grapples with the other guy, rolling until he gets on top. Pummeling him into the ground. But then he loses his advantage and gets knocked backward into a shelf of plants.

I cover my mouth to keep in the cry of dismay at seeing my sweet inventory mauled. It’s not like I have the money to replace even a single pot if they break one.

Armando catches sight of me. “End the call,” he grits as he wrestles the guy to the floor in a headlock. The command in his voice is deadly. Scary enough to make me drop my phone to the counter with a clatter.

“I said end it,” he snarls. They’re on the floor still, a writhing mass. This is not the nice man I remember who came into the store to buy flowers for his woman. This is a beast before me.

“I never dialed!” I protest, picking the phone up to flash him the screen.

He’s not watching because the other guy produced a pocket knife. Armando narrowly misses getting sliced. There’s a practiced precision to his movements like instead of being a mobster, he’s actually a secret agent, a James Bond style superspy. Maybe it’s the total lack of panic. He doesn’t appear to be a man fighting for his life. He comes at his opponent like some angel of death sent to finish this guy.

Armando punches him hard in the face, follows to punch him again. The guy slashes with the knife at the same time, causing Armando to skirt to the side. Plants clatter from the table, pots crashing.

I whimper my dismay.

Armando picks one up and smashes it over the guy’s head. The guy goes down, and Armando follows, his fingers around the guy’s throat with one hand while he holds down the knife-wielding arm with the other. “Who sent you?” he demands.

The guy makes a gurgling sound but gets his arm away.

I scream when he stabs in the direction of Armando’s face. Armando shifts in time but loses his advantage. The other guy scrambles up and smashes a pot from my metal plant stand into Armando’s temple. He goes down hard, the crack of his skull against my tile floor making me cry out again.

I dial 9-1-1 on the phone but forget to press send because the guy launches himself at Armando with the knife.