Page 147 of Chicago Sin

Lorenzo grins at her. “That’s right. One for the wife and one for the goomba.” He winks at me.

Hannah heads to the cooler. I realize she’s wearing my Cubs shirt over her red short-shorts, and it floods my chest with warmth.

Feelings.

Feelings are fucking breaking through all over the place.

But that’s when the shit hits the fan.

Gunshots ring out, and the front windows and glass doors shatter.

“Get down,” I shout, lunging for Hannah and dragging her to the floor. Lorenzo draws a weapon but stays on the floor, crawling across the floor to where we are, behind the counter.

I’m usually cool as fuck in an emergency, but Hannah’s here, with my unborn child. When the shots stop, I say to Lorenzo, “Get her out the back. Please.” I take the gun from his hand because I don’t have a weapon on me.

Lorenzo doesn’t hesitate. He’s a soldier, like me. He grabs Hannah’s arm, hauls her up and books it for the back door. Glass from the windows falls in the eerie silence after the deafening shots.

“Lorenzo,” I call out, and he turns at the door. “Make sure she’s taken care of… if I don’t make it out.”

“No!” Hannah screams, and Lorenzo has to wrap his arms around her to keep her from running back to me.

“And my mom. Promise me.” I cock the gun.

“You have my word.”

“Lorenzo” —It seems so fucking important to say—“She’s pregnant.”

“Lo prometo,” Lorenzo says in Italian with the reverence of swearing an oath, and then he hauls Hannah out the back door.

I suck in a breath and flatten my back against the wall just behind the counter.

More glass breaks, and I hear the crunch of footsteps over glass.

“Armando,” someone sings. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

This is it.

This is where I die. Right when I found a reason to live. When I’m needed. To think I could leave Hannah and our child before we even got a chance rips my goddamn lungs out.

But I also can’t go on hiding. I can’t have her or our baby in danger because I have a price on my head. This ends now. Tonight.

I check the magazine of the pistol to count how many shots I have then swallow back the bile in my throat. In the reflection of the cooler door, I see three of them. I can take them all.

“Drop your fucking weapons, or we’ll mop the motherfucking floor with your blood.”

My heart double pumps. Arturo. Many footsteps. The guys would’ve been next door for Friday haircuts. La famiglia. My family.

I step away from the wall, my own gun leveled at the guy closest to me. Arturo, Marco, Leo and Emilio are all there, guns leveled at the backs of the three gang members’ heads.

“Nice and slow,” Arturo says. “I don’t know what the fuck you think you’re doing, but no one messes with a Pachino. You touch one hair on his head, Don Pachino will erase the existence of every one of you—every gang member, your mothers, your brothers, your sisters, and your fucking dogs—from the streets of this city.”

“Easy man.” I recognize the voice of the guy who called my name when he came in. He holds his gun out by the handle and slowly lowers it to the ground. His two friends do the same. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, man. The order came from Don Pachino. He hired us for this shit.”

My body flushes with ice. The fuck?

“Bullshit,” Arturo says immediately.

The guy slowly turns around. “Tell them.” He lifts his chin at Emilio, whose eyes dart all over the fucking place.