Page 12 of Petrichor

I turn toward the last Enzino man standing. One of his eyes is puffy and closed—Fly did a little damage. He looks pissed, holding a knife while advancing on Fly, who’s using a bar stool as a shield in front of him. His back is to me, and when I grab his arm to push him out of the way, the stool drops soundly on the floor, and he spins and showers my chest with a red drink.

Bloody fucking Mary.

His eyes widen with shock when he realizes it’s me. “Shit! Sorry. I thought you were?—”

My outraged growl cuts him off. “I told you to stay out of the damn way!” I shove him aside and dodge the knife the Enzino fucker slashes at me. I lower my body down and swing my hand out until my gold knuckles connects to the side of his knee. As heloses his balance, I straighten once again and take hold of the wrist brandishing the knife, squeezing it until I hear his cry of pain followed by the thud of the metal blade hitting the floor. I let his wrist go and?—

“Excuse me,” Fly utters, appearing at my side. Before I can snap at him, he knees the guy in the balls and then punches him hard in the face. “That’s for groping my ass, you damn perv.” He shakes his hand with a wince on his face.

Fucking amateur.“Was that your first punch?”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Holding something in your hand improves the punch,” I let him know for some unknown reason.

He looks at me with a pensive gaze, then he balls up his hand around a metal cocktail measuring cup from behind the counter and lands another punch on the guy’s face.

“Still hurts like a bitch. You sure you know this stuff?”

Know this stuff?Such an inane as fuck question. I glare threateningly at him, but he doesn’t look afraid in the least, meeting my gaze with a clear one. Stupidly cocky.

I focus on the Enzino man once again and let my anger flow out of my fists as I pound him to the floor. When I’m done a few minutes later, he’s bleeding from his nose and mouth, lying unmoving. I pull on the lapels of my jacket, the scent of tomato juice almost makes me gag as I put my gold knuckles to rest in my pocket once again.

“Better?” Fly asks, looking undisturbed by my violent behavior. I raise an angry brow at him as I study him once again. His unfazed acceptance reveals that he must be used to this level of brutishness.

He makes his way to the other unconscious man on the floor—Jerry, the one who claimed to be Fly’s boyfriend—and kicks him twice in the side, muttering curses over the still body. He then spits on him and, red-faced, he turns my way.

“You stood in my way and ruined my suit,” I coldly utter, while cleaning the blood off my hands. The sensation of the sticky, wet shirt on my skin is turning fucking intolerable. And I hate to feel uneasy.

“You don’t do what you’re told,” I hiss darkly.

He looks ready to give me a piece of his mind, but then he just nods. “I’ll pay for it.” He hops onto the counter and slides to the other side of the bar, disappearing through the door that leads to the owner’s office without looking back. Is he bolting? It doesn’t matter. Nobody can run away from me.

The bartender starts to clean the floor. She jerks back when I make a move toward the bar. No more alluring glances from her. It’s one thing to hear about me, another to witness it.

Fly comes out of the office with Phil, the owner. He’s holding a heavy-looking duffle bag, laughing at something Phil is saying. The brutish, old coot has an affectionate smile on his face. He pats Fly on the shoulder and then comes my way.

“Give me another.” I wave at the whiskey bottles on the shelves. “And send the cost of the damages to me as usual.” This isn’t my first fight at Rino's, Phil knows the drill. I drink here because I can count on the discretion of the employees and clients. The Enzino men, though, are rarely seen in this bar. This place stands between ours and the Coretti’s territory. Enzinos like to stay on their turf unless there’s a dirty job to do. My eyes move to the pretty guy behind the bar downing a glass. Is he the reason?

Fly comes my way, a huge duffle bag on one shoulder and another quite large one on the other. “Are you done here?” he asks, as I drop a hundred on the counter.

Feeling a headache coming on, I ignore him and tell Phil to call me a cab—can’t drive my car if it turns into one of those migraines. Without waiting for his reply, I let my feet take me outside. A light breeze refreshes my lungs as I stop on the sidewalk and grab a cigarette from the pack inside the suit jacket pocket.

“Nails in your coffin.” I hear Fly’s voice and the sound of his footsteps before he joins me.

I light my cigarette and take a long drag, blowing the smoke right in his face. He coughs and waves his hand in the air. This fucking guy doesn’t have any self-preservation.

The cig is still near my lips when he asks, “Nice cuff, by the way. Is it leather?”

I freeze for a moment keeping my eyes ahead, while the brown bracelet around my wrist feels suddenly like a restraint.

“There’s a pendant there. What is—?” He leans toward me to look closer.

“None of your fucking business,” I growl, and flick the cigarette on the sidewalk curb.

I’m starting to feel the familiar throb inside my head.Cazzo! “Where the fuck is the cab?”

“Oh, I told Phil not to call it. Give me your car keys. I’ll take you home.”

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