Those were my Italians.
My famiglia.
I didn’t think. Didn’t plan. My body moved.
I slammed my foot on the gas. The engine roared. The truck shot forward as I clutched the wheel with both hands. My knuckles went white. I aimed for the space between the first two vehicles. The enemy there were trapped in what they thought was shelter, and they didn’t see me coming at them from behind. The row rushed toward me in a blur. Shouts rose in surprise, then alarm. They came too late.
At the last second, I squeezed my eyes shut.
The impact was violent. A jolt that traveled up my arms and into my teeth.
I mowed over something.
More than one something.
The truck didn’t slow. It tore through an open SUV door, metal shrieking as it snapped off and spun away. I forced my eyes open just in time to see the cement barrier rushing toward me. I slammed the brake before I smashed into it.
The seatbelt caught my chest hard, knocking the air from my lungs as I lurched forward.
Bile rose to the back of my throat. My stomach rolled, hot and sour. I stared at the murky seawater in front of me.
Did I just—
Behind me, through the open window, gunfire rattled.
They hadn’t stopped. The danger was present. They weren’t safe.
My whole body shook as I peeked into the rearview mirror. The Italians surged from the building, weapons raised. Chaos reigned behind me.
“Oh, hell no!” I threw the truck into reverse.
Adrenaline narrowed my vision. The world tunneled. It took conscious effort to breathe, to keep my thoughts from spiraling into panic.
This was not what I set out to do when I decided to become a mobster.
It was what I had to do.
Driving backward at full speed made the truck rock violently. My teeth clacked together as I fought the wheel that didn’t want to stay straight. It wanted to jerk. To go anywhere but the narrow trajectory between the SUVs—the other gap that I hadn’t hit.
I plowed into the other pair of doors, metal crunching, glass shattering. Away from the Italians. Toward the narrow space where their enemies hid.
The sickening bumps came first.
Then the heavy thumps beneath the wheels.
This time, I did retch.
A humiliating spew of liquid went everywhere. Lunch, which I’d eaten happily, covered the passenger seat. It burned my throat. Tears streamed down my face as I gagged again, the smell of smoke and blood and vomit overwhelming.
Mid-heaving, something snarled through the open window.
I choked and twisted toward the sound. I hadn’t backed the truck far enough away before the sickness overpowered me.
A man in a balaclava came at me. His gun was already raised. Pointed at me.
There was no time to think. No time to duck. He was going to shoot me. And my stupid stomach was still trying to puke.
Before I could draw my last breath, a pop rent the air.
