1
Gemma
Sizzle.
Hot fryer oil meets cold steel. The acrid scent of burning diesel mixes with the sweet, ruined perfume of roasted cumin and orange zest. Smoke billows from the serving window of my food truck. Gray haze curls around the undeniable, metallic tang of fresh blood on the asphalt outside.
My ears ring with a high-pitched whine. The aftermath of deafening noise. Automatic gunfire.
Only minutes earlier, I’d been plating al pastor tacos for nursing students under the cheerful pink glow of my neon sign. I was an independent business owner with a functioning engine and a pristine flat-top grill.
Now, my dream is a metal carcass.
Glass crunches under my non-slip boots. I push myself up from the sticky floor of the truck. My knees ache from slamming into the diamond-plate steel when the first volley of bullets tore through the neighborhood. My favorite apron is covered in smashed avocados and spilled salsa verde.
Rage boils fast in my stomach.
Tears do not fall. Crying does not fix shattered windshields or buy a new commercial deep fryer. It certainly does not undo the damage caused by whatever low-life mafia turf war just rolled through my intersection.
The Bellantis. The whispers in the neighborhood always point to that name whenever an unmarked sedan rolls through with tinted windows. Some rival gang or family pissed them off, and the street became a shooting gallery. The intended targets sped away. The Bellantis kept firing. My truck absorbed the crossfire like a bright pink sponge.
I grab a clean rag from the dispenser above the sink. The dispenser has a jagged hole right through the center of the plastic. I stare at it. Ten thousand dollars in kitchen equipment. Gone. Three years of saving every single dime, denying myself vacations, working fourteen-hour days. Destroyed in forty-five seconds by men who probably wear suits that cost more than my entire business.
"Assholes," I mutter.
I wipe a smear of sour cream off my cheek. Stepping over the twisted metal of my ruined prep counter, I push open the warped side door. The hinges scream in protest. The door jams halfway. I kick it with the heel of my boot. It bursts open, clattering against the exterior siding.
The alley behind the food truck is deathly still. The nursing students scattered the second the tires squealed. The street is empty of pedestrians. Sirens wail in the far distance, trapped in Chicago traffic, entirely useless.
I step down onto the pavement. Cool night air hits my face, doing nothing to cool my temper.
Headlights blind me.
Three black SUVs turn the corner at the end of the block. They do not move like frantic civilians fleeing a crime scene. These men advance in formation. A synchronized, predatory glide. They cut the angles of the intersection, boxing in the street while blocking exits and securing the perimeter.
Not cops.
Cops have flashing lights and sirens. Cops announce themselves. These vehicles kill their headlights the second they shift into park.
Doors open in unison. Men step out onto the asphalt. Dark suits. Tactical vests. Weapons drawn but held casually, pointed at the ground. They fan out across the street, moving through the shadows with terrifying efficiency.
My spine stiffens. My grip on the dirty rag tightens.
A shadow detaches from the lead vehicle.
He moves differently than the rest. The other men are soldiers following orders. This man is the order.
The wind shifts through the urban canyon of the street. It cuts straight through the smog of burnt cumin and spilled gasoline. It carries a scent completely foreign to a South Side kitchen alley. Gun oil. Rain-soaked concrete. Black coffee.
The smell is aggressively masculine. Violently sharp. It slices through the chaos of the ruined street and anchors the air.
He steps into the flickering amber glow of the one streetlamp the shooters failed to destroy.
An imposing build blocks the light. He is built of muscle packed into a dark henley shirt. The sleeves are pushed up past his elbows, exposing solid forearms wrapped in ink. Intensely detailed tattoos track up his skin. Dense armor, detailed knotwork, and a stark compass claim his right arm. A menacing skull tangled in dark roses bleeds up his left.
A gold watch catches the amber light on his wrist.
The henley unbuttons at the collar, pulled tight across a solid chest. A small, jagged scar rests right at his upper collarbone, pale and stark against his olive skin. Short, dark hair frames a face of hard angles. A beard shadows an unyielding jaw.
