Chapter 4 - The Collision at the Ice Cream Parlor
The man in the leather jacket didn't rush. Amateurs rush. Professionals close the distance with measured, unhurried confidence, letting adrenaline do the heavy lifting while they calculate their exits.
I didn't panic. My hand slid quietly into the deep pocket of my cashmere sweater, closing around the cold, checkered grip of a compact Smith & Wesson J-frame revolver I always carried as a backup when I wasn't wearing my holster rig.
“Maria,” I said, my voice dropping into a low, even command that left no room for argument. “Take Sophia under the table. Stay down. Do not look up.”
Maria didn't hesitate. She had worked in my house long enough to recognize the acoustic signature of impending violence. She grabbed Sophia by the waist, shoving herself and the child beneath the heavy red vinyl booth just as the first shout echoed across the parlor.
“Dominic Moretti!”
The man with the scarred neck ripped back his leather jacket, his hand diving toward his waistband.
He never cleared leather.
Before his fingers could wrap around the grip of his pistol, the glass front window of the ice cream parlor exploded inward in a cascade of glittering shrapnel.
Crash.
Marco hadn't waited for permission. He had vaulted through the plate-glass window from the street, landing in a rolling tactical crouch directly behind the intruder, a suppressed Walther PPK already extended in his right hand.
“Drop it!” Marco roared.
The man with the scar froze, his hand hovering inches from his holster. For a second, he tried to pivot, calculating whether he could draw faster than Marco could squeeze the trigger.
“Don't even think about the math, pal,” I said, sliding out of the booth, my J-frame clearing my pocket and leveling squarely at the man’s chest. “The numbers don’t work in your favor today.”
The intruder slowly raised his empty hands, his chest heaving beneath his leather jacket. He spat a wad of phlegm onto the shattered glass on the floor, glaring at me with undisguised hatred.
“Vance sends his regards, Moretti,” the man sneered, his voice raspy and cruel. “He says Brooklyn isn't big enough for two kings.”
Vance. Arthur Vance—a rising syndicate boss out of south Brooklyn who had been trying to muscle in on my shipping lanes for six months.
“Tell Vance his timing is terrible,” I replied coldly, stepping closer. “He interrupted my daughter’s ice cream.”
Before the man could reply, Marco stepped forward and brought the heavy polymer grip of his Walther down hard across the side of the intruder's skull. The man collapsed like a sack of wet cement onto the floor, unconscious before he even hit the glass.
The parlor was dead silent, save for the hum of the broken neon ice cream sign overhead. A terrified teenage cashier cowered behind the counter, clutching a metal scoop like a medieval weapon.
“Everybody out!” Marco yelled, scanning the street outside through the shattered storefront. “Clear the area! Now!”
I holstered my revolver, stepped back to the booth, and crouched down. Maria was holding a trembling Sophia tightly against her chest, both of them covered in a fine layer of dust and powdered sugar.
“You okay?” I asked, my voice softening slightly as I looked at the child.
Sophia nodded silently, her big eyes wide with shock, tears glistening on her eyelashes.
“It’s okay, sweetie,” I said, gently touching her dark curls. “The bad guys are gone. The ice cream trip is over, but nobody got hurt.”
I looked up at Maria, whose face was ghostly pale.
“Get in Marco’s car,” I commanded gently, helping her crawl out from beneath the booth. “He’ll take you both to a secure safehouse in Manhattan. You won't return to the brownstone until I give the word.”
“Mr. Moretti... I’m so sorry,” Maria choked out, tears finally breaking free. “I didn't know... I swear I didn't know they would follow us here—”
“Nobody followed you, Maria,” I interrupted quietly, standing up and towering over her. “They followed me. And right now, we have a very important conversation to finish.”
I turned toward Marco, who was dragging the unconscious hitman by his ankles out through the shattered storefront toward the alleyway.
“Marco!” I called out.
May you like
“Yeah, boss?”
“Throw him in the trunk of my sedan. We’re taking him to the warehouse on 4th Street. It’s time to find out why Arthur Vance thinks he can ruin a little girl’s birthday.”
