Bugger.
Suddenly, a black cat raced in the door, whirled past Jagger, and sprang onto my table, his feet missing the platters, his feral green eyes like emeralds. He hissed at the kitchen, fangs bared. He hissed again, a much louder noise than his small body should be able to make. He was staring at the concierge, one of Marconi’s sons. The man was racing from the kitchen toward Jagger. Pulling something from his apron.
The black cat hunched back, gathering himself. He hurtled at the concierge. Landed with legs straight out on the man’s crotch and dug in with his claws. Bit. Hard. The man screeched. Backed up fast. Beating at the cat. The cat screamed a war cry and bit again. More cats dashed in from the night.
Marconi siblings raced in, all behind the man, knocked into him, tripped over him, spreading out into a wedge. Falling. Rolling. Banging into tables. Cats and humans screeching.
My weapons were already in my hands. Without thinking, I had moved, crouching behind the low wall at my side.
Our bodyguard appeared from the darkness, kneeling, taking cover behind the wall at the door, holding it open, his weapon sweeping for a target. More armed protectors gathered there.
Cupcake ducked behind me.
Dishes clattered. People screamed. Diners raced into the night followed by their bodyguards.
The Marconi boys rolled on the floor, drawing knives and guns. Scooting into firing positions.
Jagger had drawn two weapons from God-knew-where. Aimed one at the brothers. The other through the open window into the kitchen, at the chef, Old Marconi. My bodyguard stood up behind him, one weapon aimed at the brothers, one at Jagger. “He’s ours,” I shouted to the bodyguard.
Cupcake had whipped out a tiny pistol from her cleavage and another from her hip.
Marconi’s injured son screamed so high it hurt my ears. The black cat screeched again and tore for the door like a flying shadow.
The cat was gone, but the man covered his privates. There were long bloody scratches on his arms and hands. Thank goodness the black cat wasn’t a queen. Unlike Tuffs, back at the scrapyard, he couldn’t transmit nanos.
I dropped low, scooting on my toes into a better firing angle. I glanced back to see Cupcake in my peripheral vision. Returned my eyes to the doorway and Jagger. Remembered Spy’s vision of the motorcycles.
MS Angels?Maybe tracking Jagger? He would be an enemy the Angels would know. But why did the Marconis—
The injured son curled into a ball, his screams going silent in agonized gasping.
“He’s the top OMW enforcer,” one of the Marconi daughters yelled from behind me.
“I’ll put a pretty little hole in your pretty little eye, bitch,” Cupcake said, her tiny pistol aimed in steady hands. “You take care of the others. I got the chick,” she said, I assumed to Jagger and me.
Where had Cupcake’s panicked tears from the morning gone to?
Old Marconi shouted from the kitchen, “My friends. My friends. No violence in my establishment.”
Into the odd silence after Marconi’s words, Jagger spoke. “I just wanted some nice Italian,” he said, sounding reasonable and calm, despite the weapons, one of which was still centered on Old Marconi, as the man wandered from the kitchen, deceptively calm. “Maybe have a nice conversation with you, the Charleston chapter president of the Hells Angels, over a nice bottle of wine. I thought we could talk about theMara Salvatrucha, working their way into the area, taking out the competition, see if there was any interest in working together for a little while. The enemy of my enemy and all that shit.” Jagger grinned atMarconi. “In my jacket pocket I have four Montecristo cigars. The real thing. From Cuba. A peace offering.”
Old Marconi looked around at his empty restaurant. “You could have asked,” he said. “Call me. Send a little a note. You didn’t have to ruin my night’s business or castrate my heir. He’s a good a boy.” He flapped his hands at his family. “Put it away. I don’t want to clean up blood tonight. Gunfights make such a mess.”
“Papa,” the girl behind me warned.
Marconi sent her a look. Then back to Jagger. “These women are yours?”
“No. I don’t own women. Think of it like two birds, one stone. I get a nice meal as well as a nice chat with the Chapter prez. An important man. And maybe I get lucky after.”
I narrowed my eyes at Jagger. Who was now officially back to being called Asshole.
“Four Montecristos?” Marconi asked.
“Limited editions. Two for us to enjoy after the meal, and two to leave with you as a gift.”
“And my patrons?”
“Marconi’s is too delightful for anyone to stay away,” Jagger said, “though I do offer my sympathies for tonight’s lost business. It’s my hope our discussion will make up for it in some small way.”
