Page 54

“Get out,” I said, cutting him off. “Get out now before I call the police.”

He barked a short laugh. “Ah, don’t be like that, doll face.” He took a step toward me, leading with his belly, his eyes predatory. “We’re just getting to know each other.” He reached out a hand to cup my cheek.

I sidestepped out of his reach and moved to the other side of the kitchen, wiping at imaginary spills on the spotless counter, feigning distraction.

“Mmm, feisty. I like that in a broad.”

My gaze swept the kitchen, cataloging possibilities—the cast-iron skillet hanging over the island, the butcher knives resting in their wooden block near the sink, the weighty glass jars of flour and sugar, the percolator bubbling with scalding coffee.

I focused on the percolator’s glass knob as if it were a crystal ball, as if it might hold an omen—a glimpse of whether I’d survive this night.

It burbled and hissed, and the rich scent of coffee curled through the kitchen. I watched the steam rise, willing it to burn away the suffocating weight in the air. My hands were steadier now, my mind settling into the cold reality that I had no choice but to serve this brute before me.

I pulled a ceramic mug from the cabinet and poured the coffee into it in an unhurried stream. Turning, I set the mug on the counter in front of Kowalski. He didn’t touch it. Didn’t even look at it. His eyes stayed on me, his smirk curling at the edges like a bad habit.

“Where’s yours?” he asked.

“I don’t drink coffee at night,” I said. “It keeps me awake.”

Kowalski’s smirk darkened into something more sinister. “You think I’m stupid? Poison is a woman’s trick. I’m not that easy to put down.”

My pulse stuttered. Did he really think I’d try to kill him? The idea was laughable—I hadn’t even worked up the nerve to reach for a skillet, let alone lace his coffee like some femme fatale in a dime-store novel.

The telephone in the foyer shrilled—a sudden, jarring slash through the tension-filled silence. I flinched, my pulse spiking.

Kowalski’s gaze flicked toward the foyer, then back to me, unreadable. “Better get that.”

I let it ring twice, my eyes locked with Kowalski’s, neither of us moving. On the third ring, I turned toward the foyer, each step deliberate, my mind a riot of hope and fear. My hand hesitated on the receiver before I lifted it and cleared my throat.

“Hello?”

“Babs? It’s Edith.” Relief flickered, but it was fleeting. “You didn’t call when you got home. I was starting to worry.”

“Edie,” I said, smoothing the unease from my voice. “I just got in. It’s been…a long evening.”

I risked a glance at Kowalski. He had drifted to the edge of the living room, one thick hand hovering near a framed photograph of Frankie. My stomach turned cold.

“Barbara,” Edith’s voice sharpened. “Something’s wrong. I can hear it.”

“I just got caught up with a few things in the kitchen,” I said, forcing lightness into my tone. “I’m sorry I forgot to call.”

Kowalski gestured for me to wrap it up.

“Just stay on the line a moment,” Edith insisted.

“Look, I have to go. I’ll call you in the morning.”

“Babs, wait?—”

I set the receiver down, cutting off whatever protest Edith had poised on her lips.

The ache in my chest was sharp, desperate.

I wanted to tell her, to let her know the danger I was in.

But I couldn’t. She would try to intervene, and that would only make things worse.

I needed her to stay safe. To keep my son safe.

Kowalski sprawled in my favorite armchair, legs splayed wide, owning the space like he’d paid for it.

“Who was that?”

“My…sister.”

He examined his fingernails, bored. “She sounds nice. The kind of gal who’d do anything for family.”

A chill curled through me. “Nice enough.”

The low growl of an engine made us both turn toward the front of the house. Headlights slashed across the walls, casting long, jagged shadows. My heart slammed against my ribs.

The engine cut. A car door slammed, cracking through the silence like a gunshot.

I lunged for the window, but Kowalski was quicker than he looked. He clamped thick fingers around my wrist and yanked me back as he pulled a revolver from his waistband.

“Sit tight,” he growled, jerking the gun toward the chair beside the telephone table. My legs folded before my mind caught up.

Kowalski moved to the window, peeking through the drawn curtains. “Looks like your white knight is here,” he said, his voice tinged with something like glee. He turned to me, the gun now pointed squarely at my chest. “Don’t get any crackpot ideas, or you’re both finished.”

Kowalski moved to the hinged side of the door, pressing himself into the shadows where he’d be invisible until it was too late.

The revolver in his hand looked absurdly small against his meaty paw, but I knew it was lethal enough.

My breath turned shallow as I imagined Victor stepping blindly into the lion’s den.

The sound of a key entering the lock sent my heart into a frenzy.

The door creaked open, and the sticky night air rushed into the foyer.

Victor stood silhouetted by the porch light, revolver in hand.

He scanned the room, and his eyes locked with mine.

Relief washed over his features, but it shattered the instant he took in my rigid posture and the fear etched on my face.

“Barbara,” he breathed, starting toward me.

“Victor—” I began, but it was too late.

Kowalski lunged from his hiding spot, swinging the revolver at Victor’s head.

Victor ducked and twisted just in time to dodge the blow, but Kowalski’s momentum carried him forward, sending both men crashing into the wall.

The force of their collision rocked the entire house.

Plaster cracked and rained down like snow.

Victor recovered first, spinning on his heel, revolver trained on Kowalski. A deafening crack split the air as Victor squeezed the trigger, too quickly to be sure. A bullet buried itself in the wall, inches from Kowalski’s head.

I screamed, hands flying to my mouth as the shot’s reverberations rang in my ears and sent my head spinning with terror and adrenaline.

Kowalski roared and swatted Victor’s hand, knocking the gun from his grip and sending it skittering across the hardwood floor and into the living room.

He swung a thick, meaty fist at Victor’s jaw, but Victor sidestepped, fluid and calculated, delivering a sharp elbow to Kowalski’s ribs.

The brute grunted in pain but didn’t buckle.

“You think you’re tough, Cardello?” Kowalski spat through clenched teeth, his face beet red, eyes bulging with fury.

He grabbed Victor by the lapels of his suit and slammed him against the wall again, the impact leaving a man-shaped dent in the plaster.

Victor’s head lolled for a moment, dazed, as his body hung limp.

“Victor!” I cried out, voice raw with panic. I jumped to my feet, hands trembling as I searched for anything to help.

“Shut up!” Kowalski snarled, his beady eyes flicking toward me for a split second. The menacing grin on his face widened, grotesque and gleeful. He was enjoying this.

Kowalski jammed the barrel of his revolver under Victor’s chin.

The cold steel bit into his skin, and Victor’s neck tensed as he tried to hold himself still, swallowing harshly.

My heart seized, the shifting, precarious balance of power beyond overwhelming.

The room fell deathly quiet—the kind of silence that hovers just before a storm breaks.

I had to do something.

If I stayed frozen—if I obeyed—we were finished. My eyes darted to Victor’s gun on the floor—just a few feet away from where I stood. It might as well have been a mile.

Still, with every ounce of backbone I had, I took a slow, measured step toward the gun. Then another. Kowalski, too absorbed in taunting Victor, failed to notice—until he did.

“Barbara, no!” Victor shouted as Kowalski dropped him and lunged at me.

His thick arm caught me across the chest, sending me sprawling backward.

Pain exploded in my shoulder as I collided with the doorframe.

He snatched up Victor’s gun from the floor and wheeled around, a grotesque grin splitting his coarse features.

He held two guns now, one in each of his beefy hands, and both barrels were aimed with deadly intent—one at Victor, who staggered to his feet, clutching his neck, and the other at me, where I pressed myself against the wall.

“Sit tight, doll face,” Kowalski sneered. “Wouldn’t want you to catch a stray.”

Terror surged through me like ice water in my veins. This was it.

Victor wiped a smear of blood from his lips, his eyes never leaving the twin barrels Kowalski wielded.

“I’m the one you want, Kowalski,” Victor said, his voice rough but measured. “This is between you and me. Let her go.”

“No, I don’t think I will,” Kowalski said, his grin widening to a deranged crescent—dangerous and feral. “Where’s the fun in that? I’m in the business of having fun tonight. Your pal Phil and I already had a grand old time. But I think you know that. Or, at least, I hope you do.”

Victor’s eyes flickered—a subtle shift, but I caught it. He was calculating. “Phil had it coming,” he said, his tone dismissive. “He was a thief and a rat.” Victor shrugged and took a casual step forward. “You actually did me a favor.”

Kowalski’s laugh was a guttural bark, like a dog with a bone lodged in its throat.

“Is that right? Maybe I’ll do you another favor, Cardello, and take care of your little lady here next.

” He jerked his chin in my direction, swinging the gun barrel with it.

“Gals like that make a man weak, and she looks like a real liability.”

The threat hit me like a jolt of cold electricity. I tried to make myself smaller—to fold into the wall and disappear—but my eyes stayed locked on Victor. He had to have a plan. He always had a plan.

Victor’s jaw tightened, his voice cold and measured.

“Leave her out of this.” He took a cautious step forward.

“I clearly misjudged you.” Another step.

His gaze flicked briefly to me, then darted to the telephone table beside me.

“I thought you were a bigger man.” Another step.

Victor’s lips curled into a half-smile, steel in his gaze.

“I didn’t realize you needed to hide behind a broad. ”

Kowalski’s jowls quivered, eyes burning with rage. Like an arrow, Victor lunged at him. I dove under the telephone table and instinctively covered my head with my hands. Bodies crashed together as the two men grappled like titans.

I peeked out from my makeshift shelter. Fear gripped me, but I couldn’t look away.

The two men rolled and heaved, grunting and straining, each struggling for dominance.

Kowalski pinned Victor with his massive frame, but Victor’s wiry strength and agility gave him the upper hand.

He twisted free and delivered a sharp knee to Kowalski’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him.

Victor wrenched one gun free and twisted Kowalski’s arm, using the leverage to disarm him of the second. Both weapons clattered to the floor, and for a heartbeat, time froze.

Then, with a swift kick, Victor sent one of the revolvers skidding across the floor toward me. I scrambled out from under the table and seized it with surprisingly steady hands. The cold metal was heavy, solid, powerful. I stood and pointed it at Kowalski as his chest heaved like a bellows.

Victor leveled the remaining revolver at Kowalski’s head. His command cut like an unforgiving blade. “On your knees.”

Kowalski hesitated, his eyes darting between Victor and me.

His nostrils flared, breath coming short.

Then, with a reluctant exhale, he sank to the ground.

His face contorted with rage, but his bottom lip trembled—an unconscious betrayal of the fear he was desperately trying to swallow.

The balance of power had shifted again, but it was unsteady—a glass teetering on the edge of a table.

“Barbara,” Victor said, his eyes never leaving Kowalski, “you don’t want to see this.”

I didn’t move.

“Angel,” he pleaded. “Please go into the other room.”

It was like a bad car crash on the highway—I couldn’t pry my eyes away.

Kowalski spat on the floor, his lips curling into a sneer. “You’ve gone soft, Cardello. The old you would have put a bullet in me already and been done with it.”

Victor’s grip tightened on the revolver, the veins in his arm rising like angry rivers.

A shadow crossed the room.

Gino stood in the open doorway, pistol by his side.

“Everything okay, Boss?”

Relief crossed Victor’s face. “Yeah, we’re good.”

Gino stepped into the foyer and locked eyes with me. “Why don’t you come with me?” he asked, his voice gentler than I expected.

Victor nodded to me, and I reluctantly lowered the gun. I exhaled shakily. The adrenaline was wearing off.

Gino approached me slowly, his steps measured and calm.

I flinched as he reached for the gun, but his touch was gentle when he took it from my hands.

He turned it over, inspecting it briefly, before he uncocked the hammer and tucked it into his belt.

Relief washed over me, cooling the fevered fear gripping my chest.

“Come on,” he said, motioning toward the door.

I hesitated, looking back at Victor and Kowalski. Victor’s eyes were hard and unreadable, but he gave me a reassuring nod.

Gino slipped an arm around my waist, and I moved with him. The tension in my shoulders finally began to ease. I let out a shaky breath.

He tightened his grip.

The barrel of his pistol pressed against my temple—ice-cold and unyielding.