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.