THE WAITRESS WHO BOUGHT ME SIXTY SECONDS OF LIFE

The hallway was narrow, leaving them nowhere to hide.

I fired three times in rapid succession. The silenced rounds made a dull thwip sound, barely louder than a handclap.

The two men closest to the elevator dropped instantly, clutching their chests. The third man managed to fire a wild shot that shattered the plaster above my head, raining white dust onto my shoulders. I stepped smoothly to the right, aiming down the sights, and put a bullet through his knee. He went down screaming.

The fourth man threw his weapon down and raised his hands, his eyes wide with terror.

“Don't!” he pleaded, backing away toward Sarah's apartment door. “I just follow orders!”

I closed the distance in three long strides, grabbing him by the collar and slamming him against the wall.

“How many inside?” I hissed, pressing the hot barrel of my gun under his chin.

“T-two!” he stammered, tears streaming down his face. “Just two! Plus Carlo!”

I hit him hard behind the ear with the butt of the gun. He slumped unconscious to the floor.

I stood outside apartment 1204. The door was slightly ajar, the wood splintered around the deadbolt where they had forced their way in.

Inside, I could hear Carlo pacing furiously, barking orders into a phone.

“Find the server! Tear the walls down if you have to! I want that camera destroyed!”

I kicked the door completely open and stepped into the living room.

The apartment was a wreck. Bookshelves had been pulled down, cushions ripped open.

In the center of the room, Sarah was kneeling on the carpet, her hands bound behind her back with zip ties. A bruised cut swelled on her cheekbone. She was sobbing quietly, staring at the floor.

Sitting on the couch, curled into a tight, trembling ball, was Leo. A massive enforcer stood behind him, a hand resting casually on the boy's small shoulder, a gun pointed at his head.

Carlo stood near the fireplace, frantically ripping a canvas painting off the wall. He turned, the ruined painting in his hands, as I walked in.

His face drained of color.

“Vincent.”

“There is no camera, Carlo,” I said, keeping my weapon leveled at the enforcer holding Leo. “You're getting old. You panic too easily.”

Carlo dropped the painting. He smoothed the lapels of his expensive Italian suit, desperately trying to regain his composure.

“A bluff,” he sneered, though his voice trembled slightly. “Clever. But ultimately useless. Put the gun down, Vincent. Or Marcus blows the boy's brains all over the designer couch.”

The enforcer, Marcus, cocked his weapon. Leo squeezed his eyes shut and let out a tiny whimper.

“Vincent, please!” Sarah screamed, struggling against her ties. “Don't let them hurt him! Please!”

I looked at Sarah. The woman who had worn my ring. The woman who had taken off the locket to signal my death.

“You set me up, Sarah,” I said, my voice empty of emotion. “You walked out of that restaurant and left me to burn.”

“I didn't know!” she sobbed, looking at me with wild, desperate eyes. “I swear to God, Vincent! Carlo told me it was an FBI raid! He said if I took off the locket and walked out, they would arrest you, and he would give me back Michael's files! I thought you were just going to prison! I never wanted you dead!”

I stared into her eyes. I had spent years reading people, looking for the lie.

She was telling the truth. She had been a coward, a pawn, and a traitor. But she wasn't a murderer.

“Touching,” Carlo mocked, stepping out from the fireplace. He pulled a silver revolver from his coat. “A tragic misunderstanding. Romeo and Juliet of the Chicago underworld. But the play ends here.”

He pointed the revolver directly at my chest.

“Drop it, Vincent. Now.”

I looked at Marcus, the enforcer holding Leo. His finger was tight on the trigger. If I shot Carlo, Marcus would kill the boy before he even realized what had happened.

I slowly lowered my gun.

“Good,” Carlo smiled. “Now kick it away.”

I nudged the weapon across the carpet with my foot.

“Now,” Carlo said, his eyes gleaming with triumphant malice, “Marcus. Kill the boy.”

Sarah let out a bloodcurdling scream.

“No!” I lunged forward, but Carlo fired.

The bullet tore through the fleshy part of my left shoulder. The impact spun me around, and I crashed into a glass coffee table, shattering it into a thousand pieces. Pain exploded through my arm, blinding and hot.

I hit the floor hard.

But I didn't stay down.

Because as Carlo had fired, someone else stepped through the broken doorway.

A small, dark figure in a soaking wet waitress apron.

Elena.

She had a heavy, black revolver in her hands, her arms extended perfectly straight, her stance wide and solid.

She didn't aim at Carlo.

She aimed at Marcus.

Before the enforcer could react to Carlo's order to shoot the boy, Elena pulled the trigger.

The boom of the heavy caliber weapon was deafening in the enclosed space. The bullet caught Marcus squarely in the side of the head. He dropped like a stone, releasing Leo.

“Leo! Run!” Sarah screamed.

The boy scrambled off the couch, slipping in Marcus's blood, and ran toward the hallway.

Carlo roared in fury, pivoting to aim his revolver at Elena.

But I was already moving.

Ignoring the agonizing pain in my shoulder, I grabbed a jagged, heavy shard of glass from the shattered coffee table. I drove my legs forward, launching myself across the bloody carpet.

Before Carlo could pull the trigger, I tackled him around the waist, driving the shard of thick glass deep into his thigh.

He shrieked, the revolver flying from his grip as we both crashed to the floor.

I rolled on top of him, grabbing him by the throat with my good hand, squeezing with every ounce of strength I had left.

“Twenty years, Carlo!” I roared, spitting blood onto his face. “You took my brother! You tried to take my life! And you used a child to do it!”

Carlo choked, clawing weakly at my hand, his eyes bulging.

“Vincent!” Elena yelled.

I looked up.

Elena was standing over us, her revolver aimed precisely at the space between Carlo's eyes. Her hands were shaking violently now, the adrenaline wearing off.

“Don't do it,” she said, her voice cracking. “My father died with blood staining his soul. Don't let this pig stain yours.”

I looked down at the pathetic, bleeding old man beneath me. The man who had orchestrated two decades of misery.

I wanted to crush his windpipe. I wanted to watch the life leave his eyes.

But then I looked past Elena.

Standing in the hallway, clinging to his mother's skirt, was little Leo. He was watching me. His eyes were wide with pure, unadulterated terror. He wasn't looking at a protector. He was looking at a monster.

I realized then that if I killed Carlo right here, in front of this child, I was no better than the ghost who had murdered my brother. I would be perpetuating the very cycle I had tried to escape.

I slowly released my grip on Carlo's throat.

I stood up, pulling the glass shard from his leg, ignoring his agonizing scream.

“Elena,” I panted, clutching my bleeding shoulder. “Call the police. Tell them you have the boss of the Chicago syndicate tied up with a confession journal.”