Chapter 4 - The Crossfire
The peace lasted for six months. Six months of thriving business, beautiful ingredients, and the quiet, occasional midnight visits from Mikhail. He never stayed long, just enough to drink a cup of coffee, eat a slice of pie, and ask about my week. Misha visited on Sunday afternoons, flanked by two massive guards who politely sat in the corner booth while the boy ate pancakes and told me about his school projects.
I had begun to feel safe. I had begun to forget the violence that dictated their reality.
I was reminded on a freezing night in February.
I was in the back office, tallying the week's receipts, when the front window of the diner shattered violently. The deafening roar of automatic gunfire ripped through the building, tearing the vinyl booths to shreds and completely obliterating the neon sign above the counter.
I screamed, dropping to the floor, covering my head with my arms as glass and plaster rained down around me. The barrage lasted for ten agonizing seconds before the screech of tires echoed from the street.
I lay in the dark, my ears ringing, completely paralyzed by terror.
Suddenly, the back door of the kitchen was kicked open. Heavy boots pounded against the linoleum. I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the end.
"Clear the perimeter! Lock down the street!" a harsh, Russian-accented voice roared.
The door to my office swung open. I scrambled backward until my back hit the filing cabinet.
Mikhail stood in the doorway. He wasn't wearing his tailored suit. He wore a black tactical vest over a dark sweater, a heavy submachine gun strapped to his chest. His face was a mask of absolute, terrifying fury.
When he saw me on the floor, unharmed but trembling violently, the fury fractured. He dropped to his knees, his large hands grabbing my shoulders, pulling me roughly into his chest.
"Are you hit?" he demanded, his voice frantic, his hands quickly checking my arms and back for blood. "Tell me you are not hit."
"I'm okay," I sobbed, burying my face in his heavy vest, the adrenaline finally breaking. "I'm okay. What happened? Who were they?"
Mikhail held me tightly, pressing his face into my hair. "The Irish syndicate. They are making a push for the docks. They found out this diner was under my protection. They thought they could send a message by destroying it."
He pulled back, his gray eyes locking onto mine. The cold, calculating boss was gone. In his place was a man burning with a lethal, protective fire.
"They made a catastrophic miscalculation," Mikhail hissed, standing up and pulling me to my feet. He kept me entirely behind his body as we walked out into the ruined dining room.
His men were already swarming the street. The diner was destroyed, a graveyard of shattered glass and bullet holes. I looked at the counter where I had first fed his son, now torn to splinters.
"I'll have to close," I whispered, the devastation of losing my livelihood washing over me.
May you like
Mikhail turned to me, his jaw set. "You will not close. I will have a construction crew here by dawn. This building will be rebuilt with bulletproof glass and reinforced steel. It will be the safest fortress in Chicago."
He reached out, his gloved hand gently wiping a stray tear from my cheek. "They tried to burn down your sanctuary. Tonight, I will burn down their entire empire."
