Page 11 of That Time I Accidentally Took Over the Mafia

She has a silencer and I have…sports equipment. My heart is pounding in my ears as I clutch it tightly, both hands shaking as I wait, listening to the sound of footsteps approaching.

The silence stretches, and it feels like the air itself is holding its breath. Then I hear the knob turning. Just a fraction of an inch. She’s preparing herself. She knows I’m in here.

I imagine her on the other side of the door. Gun raised to the ceiling, hand on the knob getting ready to fling the door open.

I steady myself, every muscle in my body tensed and ready. The only sound I hear now is my own breath, shallow and fast, but I’m waiting. I’m ready for this bitch.

This is the moment. When she opens that door, it’s either me or her.

The door is wrenched open, light floods the small dark space and I don’t waste a second.

The racket connects with her throat in an uppercut. She stumbles back, choking, her gun flying out of her hand.

“Another point for me,” I mutter under my breath, adrenaline surging as I jump over her and stomp on her hand.

“Oh, sorry!” I call out without thinking.

Shut the fuck up, you dumbass. She’s trying to kill you, remember?

We’re not polite to people trying to kill us.

I make a break for the stairs, taking them too fast. My foot slips on the last one, and I barely catch myself on the banister. My phone, naturally, decides this is the perfect moment to shoot across the floor like it’s the main character at Disney On Ice.

I dive for it, but just as my hand wraps around the phone, I hear the unmistakable hiss of a bullet cutting through the air. It whizzes past my ear, so close that I can feel its heat.

At least she’s a lousy shot.

Clutching my phone, I glance around like a woman who definitely does not have a plan. My choices are limited: kitchen utensils or my questionable survival instincts. I grab the first thing I see—a whisk—and hurl it at her.

It misses. Barely.

“Shit!” I hiss, grabbing a set of tongs next. They make a satisfying clang as they sail past her head, but Stacie dodges again, then barely has time to avoid the butcher knife I sent flying end over end. Her face twisting into something feral.

The sound of a bullet splintering the kitchen island snaps me back to reality. She’s circling it, trying to corner me. I spot her reflection in the stainless-steel fridge. My options are dwindling fast.

Think, Delaney, think.

My eyes land on the pantry door, and I bolt for it. If I can make it through to the laundry room, I might have a chance to get to the garage.

“Please, please, please let me survive this,” I mutter under my breath like a mantra as I throw myself into the pantry and slam the door behind me.

I hear her footsteps pounding down the hall. She’s close—too close—and I can almost feel her hand reaching for me.

Just as I make it to the laundry room door, she grabs a fistful of my messy bun.

“Oh, fuck no,” I snap, twisting around and swinging the spatula I don’t remember grabbing.

The slap lands squarely on her cheek, leaving a red mark that’s equal parts ridiculous and satisfying.

“You fucking bitch,” she snarls, stumbling back.

“That’s right,” I sneer. “Don’t forget it.”

I make a run for the back door, praying I can escape this madness. My hand is stretching toward the doorknob when I’m yanked backward. Strong arms wrap around my waist, and a hand clamps over my mouth, silencing my scream.

Fucking Enzo.

“Let go of me,” I hiss, thrashing in his grip, but he’s got me pinned as he presses us both against the wall.

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