Emilio DeLuca by Lyndell Williams EPUB & PDF – eBook Details
- Author: Lyndell Williams
- Language: English
- Formats: PDF / EPUB
- Status: Available For Free Download
- Series: None
- Price: Free
- File Size: 1 MB
“Son of a…!” Emilio fell on the leather seat in the back of his
Mercedes, pressing a hand against the searing pain at his bleeding side. It was
as if the knife was still inside, more like a hot poker. He bared his teeth,
moving a hand back. Bad move. More blood spread through the fabric of the
white dress shirt, filling the fibers with crimson.
He slammed the door shut. “Drive!” he shouted at the driver. The man
shook in the seat, turning the ignition. Bullets flew around them, one straight
into the windshield. The driver slumped over the steering wheel. The horn
blared like a siren, signaling anyone looking for him to the car.
“Crap!” Emilio pulled on the door handle, but it slipped between his
bloody fingers. More shots rang around him, his heart racing. A figure
appeared in the window. Emilio ducked and searched for the extra piece that
Leopold kept under the passenger seat. That’s why they used smaller cars. He
wiped his hand on his pant leg, ignoring the piercing agony while feeling
under the seat. Cold metal met his hand. He unstrapped it as glass shattered
above his head and put his hand on the trigger. His door flew open. He bolted
up and onto his back, pointing, stopping when the figure held up his hands in
the streetlight’s dimness.
“Yo!” Leopold shouted, backing up his large frame. “It’s me, man.”
Emilio let the gun go lax in his hand and dropped it to his side. “Leo,”
he huffed, “that’s how people get killed. Where’s the other guy?”
Leopold laughed, pushed Emilio’s legs and flopped on the seat. “On
the ground, dead. He got some shots off, but I got him.”
The driver’s door opened. “I guess I’ll be driving then?” André asked,
grunting as he pulled the dead driver out of the car. The dome light shone on
his brown face. “Got the Black man driving. Y’all so racist.”
Leopold chuckled. “Shut up with that bull. The original driver is
Sicilian.”
“All I know—” André started the ignition “—is that the driver is
dead, and I’m behind the wheel.”
“They shot Emilio,” Leopold said. “You want him to drive with a
bullet hole?”
Emilio held up a hand, and the men went silent. “I’m not shot. The
guy cut me with a steak knife.” He glanced at Leopold. “I thought there was a
thorough sweep of the restaurant. There were a lot of them, like they knew
we would be there.”
André put the car in gear and pulled off. Emilio winced. “Careful,
man.”
“Sorry,” André said, screeching out of the parking lot. “I’m not used
to driving getaway cars from gun fights.”
“The crazy driving isn’t necessary.” Leopold asked. “The ones we
didn’t get ran off like a bunch of punks.”
“Not taking any chances.” André turned the corner and drove down
Riverdale Street, a quiet neighborhood where he and his father could enjoy a
meal, until now.
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