Chapter 3 - Bullets and Broken Coffee CupsEmma hit the sidewalk hard.
Dominic landed over her, one arm braced beside her head, shielding her with his body as another shot cracked through the morning.
The pharmacy window shattered.
People screamed.
Coffee-colored glass rained across the pavement.
Cole came out of nowhere.
One second the street was chaos, the next he was firing back from behind a parked truck, his face calm in a way that made Emma’s stomach twist. The black sedan sped away, tires screaming.
Then everything went quiet except for Emma’s breath.
Too fast.
Too loud.
Dominic looked down at her. “Are you hit?”
She stared at him.
“Emma.”
“I’m on the sidewalk.”
“Are you hit?”
“I don’t think so.”
His eyes moved over her body with sharp focus, searching for blood. His hand touched her shoulder, then her arm, then stopped near her wrist.
“You’re shaking.”
“I was just shot at. I’m allowed.”
He nodded once. “Yes.”
The simple agreement almost undid her.
Behind them, Rosie screamed her name.
Dominic stood and pulled Emma up, keeping himself between her and the street. Rosie and Sarah rushed from the diner. Sarah grabbed Emma so tightly she could barely breathe.
“You absolute nightmare,” Sarah cried. “You walked outside for five minutes.”
Emma tried to laugh, but it came out wrong.
Rosie stared at Dominic. “Was that Moretti?”
Dominic’s face went cold. “No.”
That answer frightened everyone.
Cole approached, phone in hand. “Plates were covered. Driver wore a mask. Three shots. Clean exit westbound.”
Dominic looked toward the broken pharmacy window.
“Not Moretti’s style,” Cole added.
Emma found her voice. “There are multiple styles of being shot at?”
Cole glanced at her. “Unfortunately.”
Dominic took off his suit jacket and wrapped it around Emma’s shoulders. She was about to reject it out of pride, but her hands would not stop shaking.
“Who was it?” she asked.
Dominic didn’t answer.
That was becoming his most annoying habit.
Sirens wailed in the distance.
Dominic turned to Rosie. “Tell police Rourke came. Tell them about the shots. Nothing else.”
Emma stepped away from Sarah. “Absolutely not. You don’t get to manage a crime scene.”
His eyes returned to her. “If you say Moretti’s name without protection, you put Rosie in more danger.”
“And if we say yours?”
“Same problem.”
She hated how reasonable that sounded.
Two patrol cars arrived. Officers spilled out, hands near their weapons. One recognized Dominic and slowed immediately.
Emma saw it.
The hesitation.
The calculation.
Dominic Vale was not just feared by criminals. He bent the air around law enforcement too.
An older detective stepped from an unmarked car moments later. He had tired eyes and a cheap tie.
“Vale,” he said.
“Detective Harris.”
Harris looked at the shattered glass. “Trouble follows you.”
“No. Trouble was already here.”
Harris glanced at Emma. “You the waitress?”
Emma lifted her chin. “I’m Emma Reed.”
“You see the shooter?”
“No.”
“You know why anyone would shoot at you?”
Before she could answer, Dominic said, “They shot at me.”
Emma turned on him. “You don’t know that.”
“Yes,” Dominic said. “I do.”
Harris watched them both carefully.
“Miss Reed,” he said, “why don’t you sit inside while I take statements?”
“I can stand.”
“Not asking because you look weak. Asking because shock has a delay.”
Emma wanted to argue, but the broken glass, Rosie’s pale face, Sarah’s trembling hands, and Dominic’s bloodless expression suddenly became too much.
She went inside.
Ten minutes later, she found a small cut on her cheek where glass had kissed her skin.
Sarah cleaned it with antiseptic behind the counter.
“You need to quit,” Sarah whispered.
“I need rent.”
“You need a pulse.”
Emma looked toward the window.
Dominic stood outside with Detective Harris. They were not arguing, but nothing about their conversation looked friendly.
“Did you know Rosie had borrowed money?” Emma asked.
“No.” Sarah pressed a bandage to Emma’s cheek. “But I knew something was wrong. She started sleeping in the office last month.”
Emma closed her eyes.
Guilt settled heavily in her chest.
She had been so busy surviving her own life she had missed Rosie drowning right beside her.
The diner door opened.
Dominic stepped in alone.
Sarah immediately stepped between him and Emma.
It was ridiculous. Sarah was five-foot-four and holding a first-aid wipe. Dominic could probably command armies with a glance.
Still, Emma loved her for it.
“I need to speak with Emma,” Dominic said.
Sarah folded her arms. “So speak.”
“Privately.”
“No.”
Emma sighed. “Sarah.”
“No, don’t Sarah me. This man arrives, inspectors arrive, bullets arrive. I am seeing a pattern.”
Dominic looked at Sarah. “You’re right.”
That shut her up.
He looked back at Emma. “The men who fired this morning were not Moretti’s.”
“Then whose?”
“My brother’s.”
The diner seemed to shrink.
Emma blinked. “Your brother shot at you?”
“Half-brother. Adrian.”
Sarah whispered, “That distinction does not comfort me.”
Dominic’s voice remained even. “He wants Chicago. Moretti wants this block. Someone is trying to make those problems collide.”
Emma sank onto a stool.
“So Rosie’s diner is what? A chessboard?”
Dominic’s silence answered.
Anger burned through her shock.
“No,” she said.
Dominic frowned. “No?”
“No. You men can play empire games somewhere else. This is a diner. People eat pancakes here. Rosie pays bills here. Sarah steals fries here. I cried in the freezer here when my mother died. This place is not a square on your board.”
Something in Dominic’s eyes shifted.
Not amusement.
Not respect.
Something deeper.
“I know,” he said quietly.
“Do you?”
“Yes.” He looked toward the kitchen. “This is the first place in Chicago where I was treated like a human being.”
Emma’s anger faltered.
Dominic reached into his pocket and placed another black card on the counter.
“I’m assigning protection.”
“No.”
“This is not a request.”
Emma stood. “Then hear my answer as a declaration.”
His eyes sharpened.
She stepped close enough to lower her voice. “You don’t own this diner. You don’t own Rosie. And you definitely don’t own me.”
Dominic stared at her for a long time.
Then he picked up the card, turned it over, and wrote something on the back.
His private number.
Not the silver one from before.
His.
“Then call this,” he said, “when declaring stops being enough.”
He left before she could throw it back at him.
Emma looked down at the number.
May you like
Her hands were still shaking.
This time, she didn’t put the card away.
