Chapter 3

Chloe ended the call and tossed her rose-gold phone casually back into her designer purse.

She adjusted the pink fox-fur collar around her neck, looking down at Carmela and me like we were stray rats cluttering her private driveway.

"Did you hear that, tramp?" Chloe laughed mockingly, her high heels clicking loudly against the asphalt as she strutted in front of us.

"Dante is coming with two carloads of shooters. When he pulls up, he'll personally break your legs, tear out your tongue, and feed your guts to the pigs down at the stockyards."

"Nobody disrespects me in this town and lives to tell about it."

Carmela lay trembling in the dirt, her shallow breathing rattling faintly in her throat.

Beside her, Barnaby whimpered softly, pressing his bloody nose against her limp fingers.

My fists clenched until my fingernails pierced my skin.

I tried to push myself up to carry Carmela away, to get her to a clinic before her heart stopped completely.

"Where do you think you're going, garbage?" Rico growled.

Before I could gain my footing, Rico stepped forward. He swung the heavy steel butt of his Beretta directly into my collarbone.

Crack.

A jolt of white-hot agony exploded across my chest. The brutal impact knocked me flat onto the concrete curb.

Before I could catch my breath, Rico drove his heavy leather combat boot into my left ribs.

The air was violently expelled from my lungs in a ragged gasp, and the taste of metallic copper flooded my mouth.

"Stay down in the dirt where you belong," Rico grunted.

He planted his muddy heel onto the small of my back, pressing down until the rough asphalt dug into my cheek.

Chloe stepped over Carmela's limp form, her lip curled in cruel amusement.

As she looked down at the old woman struggling for oxygen, her sharp eyes caught the subtle glint of polished metal on Carmela's wrist.

It was an antique silver timepiece--an heirloom commissioned half a century ago, engraved with the crest of the Moretti dynasty.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" Chloe sneered, crouching down.

"What's a bag lady doing with a piece like that? You steal it?"

Chloe grabbed Carmela's frail, paper-thin wrist and yanked violently.

Carmela groaned in pain as the metal clasp snagged on her flesh, tearing delicate skin before Chloe ripped the watch free.

Chloe wiped the blood off the silver on Carmela's sleeve and tossed the priceless heirloom casually toward Rico.

"Catch," Chloe laughed. "Pawn it later for cigarette money and cheap whiskey."

Carmela's eyes fluttered weakly. Her lips moved, trying to form words, but only a dry wheeze escaped.

"Look at you, rotting old hag," Chloe hissed, kicking Carmela's fallen white cane across the pavement until it rolled into the storm drain with a hollow clang.

"You smell like rotten garbage and sewer water. Rico, Dante will be here in less than two minutes. We can't let these two disgusting faces ruin his morning mood."

"What do you want to do with them, Miss Chloe?" Rico asked, pocketing the antique watch with a grin.

"Go to the Ferrari trunk and get those burlap sacks," Chloe commanded, a sinister giggle bubbling in her throat.

"The grease-soaked ones from the spare tire tools. Put bags over their heads."

"Cover their pathetic, bleeding faces so Dante doesn't have to look at such ugly trash when he arrives."

Rico marched to the rear of the pink sports car, popped the carbon-fiber trunk, and returned carrying two heavy burlap sacks.

They were stiff with dried motor oil, road salt, and grease.

Rico grabbed Carmela by the gray hair--an eighty-year-old matriarch suffering a massive heart attack--and shoved the coarse burlap sack roughly over her head.

He dragged the opening down to her shoulders, wrapping a length of industrial wire around her throat and twisting it tight.

"Don't touch her, you animal," I snarled, adrenaline tearing through the agony in my broken ribs.

I lunged forward with my bare hands, aiming for Rico's throat.

Rico spun on his heel and drove a brutal fist straight into my solar plexus.

The strike doubled me over, dropping me instantly to my knees as I choked on bile.

Before I could recover, Rico shoved the second burlap sack down over my head.

Instant, suffocating darkness swallowed me.

The choking stench of rancid motor oil, dirt, and dried animal blood filled my nose and mouth.

Every breath scratched against my throat.

Before I could reach up to tear the coarse fabric away, Rico grabbed my arms, yanked them behind my back, and fastened heavy industrial plastic zip-ties around my wrists.

He pulled them with a harsh zip, tightening the nylon until the edges sliced through my skin.

"Carmela," I called out through the thick, scratchy fibers, blindly crawling forward on my knees across the rough pavement.

My forehead bumped against Carmela's cold, trembling shoulder.

"Mother... breathe... please, hold on... stay with me."

Beneath the rough cloth, Carmela's body shuddered with faint gasps.

She was slipping away in the dark, suffocating beneath grease and dust while her dog bled out beside her.

Around us, the drivers trapped in the drive-thru line watched the horrific scene unfold.

Ordinary citizens, fathers on their way to work, delivery drivers--all frozen in sheer terror behind their locked doors.

No one dared honk. No one dared dial 911. The sight of Rico's pistol had silenced the entire street.

Less than two minutes later, the screech of burning rubber tore through the damp morning air.

Two massive, midnight-black Cadillac Escalades swerved violently into the entrance of the diner drive-thru, jumping the curb and blocking both exits with military precision.

The heavy doors flew open in rapid succession.

Heavy leather boots hit the wet pavement with thunderous weight.

Dante Moretti had arrived.

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