Chapter 2 - The Sound of Gunfire
The gunshot exploded inside the cramped interior of the Blue Moon Diner like thunder trapped in a tin can.
Delphine did not aim with the calm precision of a trained marksman. She squeezed the heavy, cold trigger with the panicked, white-knuckled force of a woman who knew that if she missed, she would never hear the rain hit her bedroom window again.
The recoil slammed straight up her thick wrists, jerking her arms back and sending an electric shock of vibrations through her shoulders. Her heavy work shoes slid two inches across the grease-slicked linoleum.
The bullet did not hit Hector Reyes in the chest. Her aim was low, thrown off by fear and the sheer weight of the weapon. Instead, the heavy 9mm round tore straight through Reyes’ right knee.
The sound of shattering bone was sickeningly clear beneath the deafening bang.
Reyes let out a high-pitched, wet shriek as his leg buckled sideways at an impossible angle. He crashed heavily into the red vinyl booth, bringing down a glass salt shaker, two laminated menus, and a bottle of ketchup that shattered on the floor, splashing red sauce like blood across his leather shoes. His gun slipped from his fingers, spinning away toward the counter.
“What the hell?!” the gunman near the front entrance screamed, swinging his weapon away from the rain-streaked windows.
“Shoot her!” Reyes howled from the floor, clutching his ruined knee while crimson pooled rapidly over the checkered tiles. “Kill the damn bitch!”
Delphine didn't freeze. She didn't have time for fear to turn into ice. The survival instinct that had kept her safe through nine years of midnight drunks, desperate addicts, and angry men on South Philly streets took complete control. She swung the heavy black pistol toward the door and pulled the trigger again. And again.
BANG! BANG!
The first shot went wide, punching a jagged hole through the glass display case behind the counter and showering the floor in sparkling shards and ruined lemon meringue pie. The second shot caught the gunman squarely in the shoulder. The force of the impact spun him around, slamming his back hard against the entrance doors before he slid to the floor, gasping.
“Get down!” a raspy, gravelly voice barked from the floor.
It was Victor Ashford.
Despite the deep bullet wound beneath his ribs and the dark blood soaking through his bespoke charcoal suit, the mafia boss moved with frightening speed. He dragged his massive six-foot-two frame off the booth, ignoring the agonizing tear in his side, and lunged across the floor like an injured predator.
He didn't go for a weapon. He went for the third gunman—the one near the kitchen door who was bringing a silenced pistol up toward Delphine’s head.
Victor grabbed the man’s tactical vest from behind, driving his thumb hard into the assassin’s carotid artery while sweeping his heavy leg around to kick out the back of the man’s knee. The gunman buckled. Victor grabbed the back of the man’s head and slammed his face down onto the edge of the stainless-steel counter with a brutal, sickening CRACK. The man went instantly limp, crumpling into an unconscious heap beside the trash cans.
Silence fell over the diner, heavy and suffocating.
The only sounds remaining were the buzzing of the broken neon sign outside, the patter of rain against the windows, and Hector Reyes’ ragged, tearful groans as he lay bleeding on the floor.
Delphine stood frozen in the center of the room. Her hands were shaking so violently that the heavy pistol clattered against her knuckles. Wisps of blue smoke curled slowly from the barrel into the damp air.
Victor leaned heavily against the counter, his chest heaving, his dark hair soaked with sweat and rain. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. His dark, sharp eyes—cold, lethal, and unreadable—locked onto Delphine.
He looked at her broad shoulders, her coffee-stained yellow apron, her thick waist, and the heavy orthopedic shoes planted firmly on his floor.
“You shot him,” Victor rasped, his voice low and incredulous. “You actually shot him.”
“He... he was going to kill us,” Delphine stammered, her voice cracking as the adrenaline began to drain from her veins, leaving her knees feeling like wet cardboard. “And he called me big girl.”
“Give me the gun,” Victor ordered softly, taking one slow, painful step toward her.
“No!” Delphine flinched, pulling the weapon back toward her chest. “I don't know you! You brought these men into my diner!”
“I am the only reason you are still breathing, sweetheart,” Victor growled, holding out a large, blood-stained palm. “And right now, the man by the door is reaching into his jacket for a backup piece.”
Delphine’s eyes darted toward the entrance. The gunman with the shattered shoulder was indeed crawling on his belly, his right hand sliding beneath his coat.
Victor didn't wait. He closed the distance between them, grabbed Delphine’s wrist with surprising gentleness, and guided her hands. He didn't take the gun from her. He stood directly behind her broad frame, his broad chest pressing against her back, his warm, metallic scent of blood and expensive cologne wrapping around her, and whispered in her ear:
“Squeeze.”
BANG.
The bullet struck the floor an inch from the gunman’s fingers, sending concrete dust spraying into his face. The man froze, raising his hands in immediate surrender.
“Good girl,” Victor murmured into her hair. His grip on her wrist loosened, and his massive body suddenly went limp.
Delphine turned just in time to catch him as he fell.
The weight of two hundred and twenty pounds of solid muscle and bone crashed directly into her arms. Any other woman might have been flattened, but Delphine dug her heavy heels into the floor, caught him against her broad hips, and held him upright.
“Hey!” she yelled, slapping his cold cheek. “Hey! Don't you dare die on my shift! I haven't even clocked out yet!”
May you like
Victor’s eyelids fluttered. A faint, dark smirk touched his bloody lips. “You're... heavy-handed, waitress...”
“I'm a size sixteen, you mobster asshole,” Delphine growled through her teeth, hooking her strong arms under his shoulders and dragging him toward the back kitchen door. “And right now, I'm your only way out of South Philly.”
