Chapter 13 Seneca #2
She smirked, then let it fade. “Not quite. I was supposed to be an asset, not a risk. But my mother, she’d whisper in my ear, ‘See that man? The way he holds his fork? Real Italians don’t eat like that. He’s watching your father.’ She could spot a fed from fifty paces.”
“Did you ever ask her how she learned it?”
“She said it was survival. You learned to trust your instincts, or you didn’t last.” She paused for a moment. “It’s the same way with relationships.”
I let the last comment fade into the night, though I agreed. There was still the thing with her and Jenna. Was that over? And why the fuck had I fucked Jenna? That would eventually have to be explained.
The cigarette burned down to the filter before she spoke again.
“I never wanted this life, Seneca. Not the blood, not the lies. But it gets in you, like black mold. You think you can keep it out, but one day you wake up and you can’t breathe anything else.
I always knew it would someday come back on me. ”
I reached for another cigarette, let her light it for me. The spark flared between us, brighter than the future.
“The Corps told me I was born for the job. Clearing houses, breaking down doors. It was all I was good at. But after I punched out, there was nothing waiting except the club. Bloody Scythes gave me a reason to stay alive, even if it was just loyalty and cheap beer. Even a man needs the trust and loyalty of other men.”
She laughed, soft but real. “What about now?”
I considered. “Now I think I’m good at protecting people who matter. Maybe that’s enough.”
She leaned against me, her head on my shoulder, not needing to pretend it was for warmth. “You’re a better person than you think, Seneca.”
I shook my head. “Doesn’t matter what I am. Only what I do next.”
We finished the cigarettes in silence, then watched the wind comb the grass. Somewhere, a coyote barked, then another answered from farther down the draw.
Catherine said, “If we live through this, let’s go somewhere. Not New York, not here. Somewhere with no ghosts.”
I let myself imagine it, just for a minute. “You think we could outrun them?”
She pulled her knees to her chest and gave a sly grin. “We could try.”
I thought about all the things that had ever mattered to me, and how most of them were gone or ruined. But Catherine was still here, and for the first time in forever, I felt like I had something to fight for that wasn’t just the club, or my own skin.
“We should get going,” I said.
She nodded, but didn’t let go of my arm as we mounted up.
The next stretch was quiet, but different. She rode closer, her arms locked tighter, the curve of her body molded to mine. The town lights got brighter, the night colder, but the old fear was gone, replaced by a kind of electricity.
We didn’t talk again until we could see the bakery’s flickering sign, a quarter mile away; the world condensed to just the two of us.
The bakery was a scar on the dark, a squat rectangle of stucco slouched at the edge of an industrial lot.
The sign, Reali’s Fresh Bread, flickered in and out, the neon casting green ghosts on the loading dock.
They’d parked two delivery vans at weird angles, their backs to the building, blocking off the alley like a cattle chute.
Three floodlights made everything look jaundiced and sick.
I killed the bike a quarter-mile out, let us coast to a stop behind an old pickup.
We ditched the helmets in the brush, then made our way in on foot, ducking between mesquite and broken concrete.
Every step forward, I counted the seconds, the rhythm of Catherine’s breath, the placement of her feet in the dirt.
She was quieter than I, more precise, every move calculated like a chess piece.
We had the element of surprise. The enforcers didn’t expect anyone to come on foot, not this late, not from the desert side.
But I spotted the lookout instantly—a guy in a suit, jacket open, tie loosened, face cut from the usual northeastern granite.
He leaned against a shipping pallet, eyes on his phone, but he did the same periodic sweep I’d been trained to do.
Every thirty seconds, scan the horizon, check the line of approach, and clock the doors and windows.
I respected the technique, but it made him predictable.
Predictability was a man’s worst nightmare in situations like this.
We dropped low, using a bush as cover. I slipped the binoculars from my pack and handed them to Catherine. “How many?” I whispered.
She glanced at the loading dock, then the windows. “Four, minimum. Two inside, two out. All of them are packing. One has a Uzi tucked under the shirt.”
I liked how her voice didn’t shake. “You see any sign of Jenna?”
She shook her head. “Not yet.”
We waited for a full rotation of the lookout’s scan, then moved closer, keeping low.
At thirty yards, we had a perfect view of the main event.
All four men, all dark suits, clustered around the loading dock.
They smoked, joked in low tones, but their hands never strayed far from their waists.
The lead man had a face you didn’t forget, especially the pug nose, cauliflower ear, and a set of eyebrows that met in the middle.
He turned to the others and muttered, “Nobody moves until I say.”
Catherine took her cue. She stood, not slow, not dramatic, just purposeful. “You want to do this, or me?” she asked, eyes locked on the men.
I had to smile. “You’re the judge. Your call.”
We stepped out of cover, weapons hidden but ready. The gravel under our boots crunched like breaking bones. The enforcers tensed as one, their cigarettes dropping, hands going to the small of their backs.
“Evening, gentlemen,” I said, letting my voice carry. “You waiting for the bread man, or just here to make a mess?”
The lead man’s eyes narrowed. “Wallace, right?” He glanced at Catherine, and his mouth curled up in something like real humor. “And Judge Bellini. Small world.”
Catherine’s tone was pure ice. “Your grandfather would be disappointed. Sending you all the way to New Mexico to play at tough guys.”
The man shrugged and took a step forward, slow and deliberate. “You going to make this easy, or do I have to spill you on the asphalt?”
Catherine met his stare. “My grandfather respected boundaries. You’re the one trespassing.”
One of the others, a thick-necked bruiser with a shaved head, shifted to the side, flanking us. I saw the move, clocked the angle, and mirrored his step. We’d done this dance before, different partners, same end.
The lead man said, “We don’t want her. Just the guy.” He nodded at me, but I could see the lie. “You walk away, Judge, and nobody needs to get hurt.”
Catherine didn’t blink. “If you want him, you’ll have to get through me.”
It was almost funny how little the mobsters respected her. Their whole lives, women were decoration or distraction, not a threat. But Catherine carried herself differently. She was an untamable beast. She didn't give in and certainly wasn't going to be pushed around.
The lead man realized it at the same time I did. He looked at her, then at me, and for a second, I could see the calculation flicker in his eyes.
I put myself half a step in front of her, but she pushed forward, not wanting cover. “You sure about this?” I murmured.
She cut me a sidelong look, just long enough to let me know there was no fucking way she’d let me play shield. “I was born for it,” she said, and I heard the Yonkers in her voice, the vowels sharper, the r-ends cut with a switchblade.
The second man, the one with the shaved head, made his move, which was quick for a guy his size.
I caught the blur of motion from the corner of my eye.
A hand dropped, the jacket flared, the glint of a compact pistol coming up.
Nothing special, just a Beretta, maybe. I’d lost count of how many I’d seen pulled in strip-mall parking lots after midnight.
I let my own training take over, shifting to the left and letting my arm sweep Catherine safely behind me.
She cursed under her breath, but moved in time for me to get a clean line.
I didn’t draw my weapon yet, not until I saw the finger on the trigger.
Then I stepped into the arc of his swing and snapped the guy’s wrist with a palm strike, feeling the bone give under my hand like a green branch.
The gun clattered to the ground, but the man’s other hand came up fast, knuckles already bloodied for tonight.
“Get down!” I shouted to Catherine, but she ducked left instead, making herself a smaller target and grabbing the Beretta in the same motion. Her movements were crisp, not judge-like at all.
The third man was already on me, and I took a gut punch that would have dropped a lesser asshole.
I spat blood and went low, driving my shoulder into his abdomen and shoving us both against the loading dock’s metal stairs.
He grunted, lost balance, and I heard the satisfying thunk of skull on steel.
Catherine didn’t hesitate. She fired once, a warning shot into the dirt just shy of the lead guy’s feet. He froze, eyes wide. He’d underestimated her, and now he knew it.
“I don’t think you want to do this,” she said, voice steady. “There are men with longer memories than mine who owe the Bellinis favors. Don’t die tonight just to impress a boss who’ll forget your name at the funeral.”
The words rattled him, but not enough. He lunged at her anyway, all teeth and unshed resentment. She sidestepped, used the Beretta as a club, and cracked him across the jaw. Not elegant, but effective. He went down, more from shock than pain.
I put an elbow into the third guy’s throat, then let him slide to the ground. For a moment, the world stilled.
Catherine and I locked eyes, both of us waiting for the real move. But it didn’t come. Whether the enforcers were too green or just not paid enough to bleed, they sagged against the stucco and only glared at us, waiting for new orders.
Catherine tossed the Beretta into the dirt at the lead man’s feet. “Go home,” she said, and just like that, they left.