Tempted by the Sinner

“Not at all,” Vince said. “Thanks for our little chat.”

“Like I said, I’ll do what I can, but no promises.” Steven stood and shook Vince’s hand. “It’s good seeing you again. Come visit more often. I’m sure New York is fine without you.”

“That’s just it,” Vince said. “New York is dull without me. They won’t let me stay too long.”

Steven laughed. I stood up, shook his hand, thanked him, and followed Vince out. We headed down the steps, through the back hall, and into the main bar. Colleen caught my eye and waved.

“Nice meeting you!” she said.

“You too.”

“Come stop by again soon,” she said. “And we can chat about these idiot mafia men.”

“I will,” I said.

Vince shook his head. “You’re putting ideas in her head,” he said. “Don’t forget, she’s the enemy.”

Colleen rolled her eyes at him, and I followed him outside into the brightening afternoon.

He opened the car door for me and gestured. “My lady,” he said.

I sighed and hesitated before getting in. “You know, I can’t believe you drive this thing,” I said.

“Why not?” he asked. “It’s nice, right?”

“It’s really nice,” I said. “But it’s so obvious. Like, aren’t you supposed to be on the down-low?”

He laughed and shook his head. “I’m a gangster, my darling. I can’t hide that fact any more than a fish can choose not to swim.”

“I like that you’re just openly admitting it now,” I said.

“Listen, the cars, the clothes, it’s an image,” he said. “It’s a way to project strength. We show that we have money and power so our enemies don’t think they can just come fuck with us whenever they want to.”

“I didn’t know this old BMW scared people off.”

He gave me a flat look. “Get in the car,” he said. “You can insult me all you like, but my baby’s off limits.”

“Never call your car your ‘baby’ again,” I said.

“I’ll start calling you baby if you don’t get in.” He made a sharp gesture to the seat. “Sit your pretty ass down.”

I sighed and climbed inside. He shut the door with a pleasant smile, walked around to his side, and got in. The engine fired up and he pulled out into traffic.

“Seriously,” I said, running my hand along the dash, “this car is just too obvious. If you really were serious about—”

The sentence was knocked from my throat and the words came out a strangled gasp as a huge crashing crescendo filled my ears and we were thrown sideways. I smashed up against the door and only managed to avoid getting thrown through the windshield because I was smart enough to wear my seatbelt. Broken glass scattered all over my face and lap, and I heard a grunting shout as the world rang in a high-pitched squeal.

“Mona,” I heard.

I looked around, dazed, blinking. “What?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”

“Mona, get the fuck down.” Vince swam into my vision. He unclipped my seatbelt and shoved me toward the floor. “Get the fuck down.”

“What’s going on?” I asked but dove down, curling up into a ball.

I watched as he reached behind his back and pulled out a gun.13VinceIt took me half a heartbeat to throw Mona down to the floor. She was dazed, cut by glass, but otherwise seemed fine. I made sure she was down and as safe as she could be before I pulled my Glock and pulled the slide back, chambering a round.

I could see the airbags had deployed in the van that smashed into our car. It was a white windowless van, the kind painters and laborers drive around, with rust around the bottom and one cracked headlight. The thing looked like it barely worked, and I guessed that’s why they chose it.

The guys inside had dark skin, and they struggled to get free of the airbags. If those bags hadn’t deployed, they’d be out already, and I don’t think I would’ve been able to stop them.

Fucking lucky.

I struggled past my own seatbelt, kicked the door open. Good thing these old cars barely gave a shit about safety. I got outside just as the one door popped open and the passenger side guy hopped out, a small submachine gun in his hands, blood tricking down his forehead.

The morons were going way too fast and weren’t halfway prepared when they slammed into my car.

My fucking beautiful car.

I put two bullets in his chest. He staggered back and I popped him one more time, firing into his skull. His head snapped back and he dropped, blood pooling on the ground. I ran to his side of the car, keeping low, as the driver jumped out.

The dead guy was definitely Latino, wide dark jeans, light brown t-shirt. The submachine gun meant they were serious players, not some dime-store gangsters that wanted to get a little score. These were no joke muscle.

The driver opened fire, bullets scattering over my head. I moved toward the back of the car as glass shattered. I didn’t know if there was anyone inside, and I couldn’t take the risk. The back door remained shut, and I grabbed the handle, yanking it open.