Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 52455 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52455 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
“It is an honor.” I bow my head.
The old woman narrows her eyes. “I knew your mother. Her name was Vera, was it not?”
“Yes.”
“You seek the truth, and you seek her. May you find both in the end.” She pats my cheek with a clawed hand.
The young red-headed woman leads me out the back door, where a discreet black car is waiting. A burly man in dark glasses sits in the driver’s seat.
“He will drop you off,” she tells me, the dark glasses turned to my face. I imagine her blind eyes underneath, big and wide and unblinking as an owl’s.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Consider services rendered,” she intones in that high-priestess voice. “Your tithe will be terminated at the end of the day.”
I don’t bother to tell her there’s no point, that I’ve left a significant portion of my will to the diner and the three women who run it.
My mother was the one who first took me to Three Diner when I was little. I sat in the booth and swung my legs, too short to reach the floor. I drank a milkshake as my mother spoke in whispers, first to the tattooed waitress and then to the Viking-blonde woman who came out of the back with the scent of fry oil. She never told me why we were there. To this day, I don’t know. But I’ll never forget what she told me.
“The diner is a place for women who need help.”
It gives me hope to know the diner will be there for women in need long after I am gone.
Once I’m safe in the backseat of the car, I give the driver the address of our destination. The car glides a few feet and turns onto the main road. As the diner’s dark neon sign disappears in the rearview mirror, I balance the briefcase on my legs and open it.
The weapons are packed in the foam like jewels, black and sleek and deadly. A fully loaded Sig 320 with a suppressor underneath. Extra bullets for my P365. A holster for both. And a small silver tube that turns out to be lipstick in my favorite dark red shade.
By the time we reach the rundown restaurant where Stephanos holds court, I’m fully armed, the Sig 320 deep in the pocket of the trench coat, my P365 strapped to my thigh, and a fresh coat of war paint on my lips.
“Cut through here,” I order, and the driver obeys, taking a sharp turn down an alley that’s barely an inch wider than our car. I hold my breath as if that will help us squeeze through. We reach the street, and he stops the car.
“Fates be with you,” he says.
I slide out of the car, tightening the belt of Victor’s coat so it’s secure around me, and march past the dumpsters to the restaurant where Stephanos waits. As I get closer, I slow my steps, letting my hips roll suggestively under my coat. The chilly air licks up my bare legs as I find a side door and slip inside.
Inside, dust motes dance in the air. The restaurant is dim and filled with faded decor and the stench of stale cigarettes. There are stains on the carpet that make me shudder to think of the state of the kitchens. The cooks and workers are too busy banging pots and pans and cursing to notice me. I float to the front and into the heart of the restaurant, past stacked chairs and an empty hostess stand.
The place isn’t open yet and probably doesn’t do much business besides host Stephanos’ business meetings and launder his money. He has a bunch of these places in his territory and moves between them constantly. His paranoia keeps him alive. It certainly kept me from tracking him down sooner and putting a bullet between his eyes.
There’s a light on in the back of the restaurant, and the sound of muttered voices filters out as I approach it. Two big men with unshaven chins stand guard outside a back room. They turn in unison and still as they clock me. Twin cigarettes flare in the shadows.
“Can I help yous, sweetheart?”
“I’m here about a birthday surprise?” I keep my voice low and purring, with a slight Jersey Shore accent. I pose, putting my weight on my left leg, the one with my small Sig Sauer strapped to my thigh, and let my right one peek out of the coat, flashing my knee and garter strap. Both men’s eyes snap down. I toss back my hair and part the top of the coat enough to give them a glimpse of the swell of my breasts without compromising the tight belt around my waist. I lick my lips and flutter my lashes.
Sexy call girl, that’s me.
“C’mere.” One of the men crooks his finger, and I sway towards him.