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.
Five minutes ago, I was plating three orders of al pastor tacos for a group of nursing students off their shift at the nearby clinic.
Five minutes ago, the neon sign flashing La Diosa above my awning cast a cheerful pink glow over the South Side sidewalk.
Five minutes ago, I was an independent business owner with a fully functioning engine, a pristine flat-top grill, and zero bullet holes in my livelihood.
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 massive 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 heavy 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 heavy air.
He steps into the flickering amber glow of the one streetlamp the shooters failed to destroy.
An impossibly wide build blocks the light.
He is a mountain of muscle packed into a dark henley shirt.
The sleeves are pushed up past his massive elbows, exposing thick forearms wrapped in ink.
Intensely detailed tattoos track up his skin.
Thick armor, intricate knotwork, and a stark compass claim his right arm.
A menacing skull tangled in dark, heavy roses bleeds up his left.
An oversized gold watch catches the amber light, flashing like a warning beacon on his thick wrist.
The heavy henley unbuttons at the collar, pulled tight across a broad, violently 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 carved from granite. A rugged, messy beard shadows a strong, unyielding jaw.
Obsidian, empty eyes scan the street.
He does not look at my ruined food truck or the smashed salsa containers on the sidewalk. He does not look at me.
He clears the space.
His movements are clinical. Calculating.
A machine operating on pure tactical assessment.
He points two thick fingers toward the northern alley.
Two men break off and vanish into the dark.
He gestures toward the roofline of the abandoned building across the street.
Another man raises a rifle, checking the sightline.
He treats my destroyed livelihood like a coordinate on a tactical grid—a battlefield objective to be cleared.
Anger, hot and fierce, spikes over my initial shock.
He thinks he can just roll in here and take over the street?
He thinks he can ignore the absolute devastation of my business?
Please. I have dealt with territorial men my entire life.
Broad shoulders and a lethal, rugged beard do not give him a free pass to treat my disaster zone like his personal playground.
I march forward. The glass under my boots grinds loudly into the pavement.
"Hey," I snap.
He does not flinch. He does not turn his head. He continues tracking the sightlines down the southern block.
"Hey. G.I. Joe. Are you deaf?"
A man in a suit steps toward me, raising a hand. "Ma'am, step back."
"I am not stepping back," I bark, glaring at the suit before turning my attention back to the massive mountain of a man ignoring me.
"This is my permit zone. That is my truck bleeding coolant all over the storm drain.
And you and your little tactical squad are currently tracking broken glass all over my ruined cilantro. "
The mountain freezes.
The clinical sweep stops. The tactical assessment halts.
Slowly, deliberately, he turns his head.
His dark eyes lock onto mine.
The absolute stillness of his body is terrifying.
He does not blink. He does not offer a polite apology.
He just stares. The clinical detachment in those obsidian eyes strains under a heavy, mounting pressure.
Something else presses against it from behind, not breaking through—not yet—but unmistakably there. Something heavy. Something too focused.
The street goes dead silent. The men in suits stop moving. The distant sirens fade into absolute nothingness.
The wind kicks up again, blasting that scent of gun oil and black coffee directly into my lungs. He takes one slow, heavy step toward me. The oversized gold watch catches the light again.
He studies the flour on my cheek. He tracks the salsa stains on my apron. His hungry gaze drags down the curve of my hips, the sturdy stance of my boots, and snaps right back up to my face.
A muscle feathers along his bearded jaw.
"Your truck," he says. His voice is a low, gravel-heavy rasp.
"My truck," I confirm, crossing my arms over my chest. I refuse to cower. I refuse to back down. "Three years of my life. Ruined. Because you mafia assholes cannot shoot straight."
The men in the suits tense. One of them reaches for his weapon.
The mountain simply raises a single, tattooed finger. The men freeze instantly.
He does not break eye contact with me. He steps closer. His mountain of muscle eclipses the streetlamp. Shadows fall over my face. The heat radiating off his massive chest combats the chill of the Chicago night.
"You were inside." It is not a question. It is a statement of fact. A realization dropping like a lead weight in the space between us.
"Obviously." I gesture wildly to the bullet holes riddling the pink metal of La Diosa. "I was prepping for the late-night rush. Now I am prepping for bankruptcy."
He takes another step. He is too close now. The scent of rain-soaked concrete is intoxicating. The violent energy rolling off him demands submission and caution, along with a healthy dose of fear.
I refuse to give him any of it.
"Who did this?" he demands.
"Like you do not know." I scoff, throwing my dirty rag onto the hood of his shiny black SUV. "The Bellantis. They rolled through spraying bullets at a silver sedan. Missed the sedan entirely. Nailed my deep fryer. It is a tragedy of epic culinary proportions."
His eyes darken. The rugged beard twitches as his jaw clenches. The small scar at his collarbone shifts with the sudden, harsh intake of his breath.
"You are injured," he says, his voice dropping an octave, turning rougher. Darker.
"I am annoyed," I correct him. "I have a scrape on my knee and a ruined business. Do not act like you care. You just want to clear your territory or whatever it is you people do."
"My people," he repeats slowly.
"The Costas, I assume. Unless there is a third mob family running the South Side that I am unaware of."