Chapter 5 - Fire in the Night
“Get down!” Mikhail roared.
In a blur of motion, he vaulted across the counter, tackling me to the floor just as a volley of automatic gunfire ripped through the front windows. Glass rained down around us like lethal hail, chewing up the checkerboard tiles and shredding the diner menu board behind the register.
My ears rang with a deafening, high-pitched squeal. Smoke and the acrid smell of gunpowder instantly filled the room.
“Clara! Are you hit?” Mikhail demanded, pinning me beneath his heavy body, using his own broad shoulders and back as a human shield against the flying debris.
“I’m—I’m okay!” I gasped, my chest heaving, the adrenaline surging through my veins so hard my teeth were chattering.
Mikhail rolled off me in a single fluid movement, drawing a heavy, matte-black Glock from a concealed holster beneath his suit jacket. His face had transformed completely. The brooding, complex man who had touched my cheek moments ago was gone, replaced by an apex predator honed by years of brutal urban warfare.
“Hold position!” he shouted toward the back alley door.
Two of his guards burst through the kitchen doors, weapons drawn, returning fire through the shattered front windows. The staccato pop-pop-pop of silenced pistols echoed outside, followed by the screech of tires peeling away from the curb.
Silence descended on the diner just as quickly as the chaos had begun. The neon sign buzzed once, sparked, and died completely, plunging us into shadow.
Mikhail stood up slowly, keeping his gun raised as he peered through the jagged remains of the front window. He holstered his weapon, his jaw clenched so tight I thought his teeth would crack.
“Sterling’s men,” Mikhail whispered, more to himself than to me. He turned around, his eyes instantly locking onto mine where I was still huddled behind the counter. He rushed over, pulling me up to my feet by my arms, checking me frantically for injuries. “Are you bleeding? Tell me the truth, Clara.”
“I’m not bleeding!” I snapped, though my knees were shaking so violently I could barely stand. I pulled away from him, looking at the absolute devastation of my diner. The front windows were gone, glass covered the floor, and bullet holes riddled the walls where my grandfather’s framed diner license used to hang. “They shot up my home, Mikhail! They shot up my diner!”
“This is my war,” Mikhail growled, running a hand through his slicked-back hair in frustration. “I told you—the moment you sheltered Misha, you became a target to them. We are leaving. Now.”
“Leaving?” I stared at him in horror. “I am not running away! This is my life!”
“Your life won't be worth a damn if you stay here tonight!” Mikhail barked, his voice booming through the empty room. Before I could argue, he scooped me up bridal-style into his arms before I could even protest.
“Put me down! I can walk!” I protested, hitting his chest with my fists.
May you like
“Shut up, Clara,” he muttered fiercely, carrying me straight out the back alley door and into the armored waiting SUV.
As the vehicle roared into the rainy Chicago night, speeding away from my shattered diner, I realized with terrifying clarity that there was no going back. I had crossed a line into Mikhail Volkov’s dark world, and the fire was only just beginning.
