Chapter 3 - Blood in the Bistro
Vincent did not flinch as the barrel of the gun hovered inches from his heart.
"You always were impatient, Marcus," Vincent said softly.
In a blur of motion, Vincent swept a heavy crystal ashtray off the table and smashed it directly into Marcus's wrist.
The suppressed pistol went off, the bullet shattering the expensive mirror behind the bar.
Chaos instantly erupted inside the bistro.
Vincent's remaining loyal bodyguards drew their weapons and opened fire.
Marcus's secret accomplices inside the crew fired back, turning the luxurious dining room into a war zone.
Vincent grabbed my mother by the collar of her uniform and shoved us both toward the kitchen doors.
"Keep your head down and run to the back alley!" he roared over the sound of gunfire.
We scrambled through the stainless-steel kitchen, slipping on spilled soup and shattered plates.
I held onto my mother's hand as tightly as I could.
We burst through the heavy metal exit doors into the cold Chicago alleyway.
A black SUV with tinted windows was already idling by the dumpsters.
Vincent burst out of the doors a second later, bleeding from a graze on his shoulder.
He pushed us into the back seat of the vehicle and jumped into the driver's seat.
The tires squealed against the pavement as we tore out of the alley.
"We are going to my secure safe house in the North Side," Vincent breathed heavily.
"They will never find us there."
As we sped down the dark streets, the wail of police sirens filled the air.
Two police cruisers pulled out of a side street and began tailing us with their lights flashing.
Vincent looked in the rearview mirror and cursed under his breath.
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"They aren't real cops," he realized with a deadly tone.
"The Volkovs just activated every dirty officer on their payroll to hunt us down."
