My Late-Night Shift Turned Into A Mafia War — Now I’m The Target

Part 1

Rain washed the blood from a stranger’s tailored suit in the alley behind my hotel.

I was a dead woman walking.

Or at least, that was the promise echoing down a burner phone line less than an hour later.

My feet screamed in protest after a brutal fourteen-hour double shift.

At two in the morning, the decaying establishment offered nothing but silence.

I dragged massive black garbage bags toward the rusted dumpster out back.

Visible puffs of exhaustion plumed in the cold air with every heavy breath.

Home was calling my name, promising a scalding bath and the soothing purr of my orange tabby, Pumpkin.

A sudden, sickening thud of a body hitting brick shattered the quiet.

My hands froze around the slick plastic of the trash bag.

Pressing my substantial back against the cold wall, I merged into the deep gloom.

Twelve men stepped into the narrow corridor of fire escapes and dumpsters.

Heavy iron pipes and switchblades glinted under the single flickering halogen street lamp.

A man built like a meat locker led the pack, dragging a baseball bat along the brickwork.

That scraping sound sent a horrific shudder down my spine.

The man they had cornered was tall and exceptionally broad-shouldered.

His bespoke charcoal suit hung in tatters, slashed at the shoulder and soaking wet.

Thick, dark blood poured from a wound in his side.

He spat red onto the cracked pavement and forced himself to his feet.

“End of the line,” the leader sneered over the pouring downpour.

“Tyler sends his regards.”

The bleeding stranger let out a low, humorless laugh.

“Tyler is a coward who sends dogs to do a lion’s work.”

Every instinct of survival screamed at me to dial emergency services.

Interfering in a mob execution had no place on my to-do list.

Yet an inexplicable surge of defiance rose within my chest.

Arrogant men moving in packs to destroy what they couldn’t control ignited a familiar rage.

My gaze dropped to the cleaning cart beside my hip.

A massive industrial-sized can of ozone-blast aerosol air freshener sat on the top shelf.

My oversized cardigan pocket held the heavy brass Zippo lighter inherited from my late father.

Thinking would have paralyzed me with fear.

With surprising agility, my left hand grabbed the aerosol while my right palmed the Zippo.

Metal wheels squeaked loudly as I stepped out from behind the dumpster.

Twelve heads snapped toward my bright pink cardigan.

The leader aimed a heavy revolver directly at my chest.

“Get lost, Shamu, before we put a bullet in your fat head.”

That deeply unoriginal insult sparked pure, unadulterated fury in my belly.

Planting my wide stance firmly, my thumb flicked the top of the lighter and spun the flint.

A bright orange flame roared to life against the heavy rain.

“I am the night auditor of this hotel, and you are loitering.”

My thumb pressed hard on the aerosol nozzle.

Pressurized chemicals shot out in a thick white mist, instantly catching the open flame.

A massive, roaring jet of blue and orange fire erupted from my hands.

The makeshift flamethrower illuminated the alley like midday, shooting a terrifying fifteen feet forward.

The front line of hitmen shrieked in absolute terror.

Intense heat singed their eyebrows and melted their synthetic jackets.

Panic erupted among the pack as they trampled each other to escape the fire.

“Run!”

My fierce gaze turned to the stunned, bleeding man.

He pushed off the wall, adrenaline overriding the agony of his wounds.

Plush fingers digging into his ruined silk shirt, I grabbed his uninjured arm.

We plunged into the labyrinth of darkness away from the alley.

The escape became an agonizing blur of rain, shadows, and burning lungs.

Every step sent shockwaves up my shins, and my heart battered against my rib cage.

Fear of the twelve armed killers served as a far greater motivator than physical discomfort.

Hauling the massive stranger through slick, narrow walkways, I finally dragged him down a flight of concrete stairs.

Trembling fingers jammed my key into the rusted lock of my basement apartment.

We collapsed onto the worn linoleum floor in a tangle of wet limbs.

Thirty grueling minutes later, my hands were covered in his blood.

Cheap vodka served as an antiseptic while I stitched a superficial knife wound on his thigh.

He introduced himself as Dominic.

Instead of apologizing for my size when I leaned over him, I simply shifted my weight for better leverage.

He didn’t pull away, nor did he look at me with the usual performative pity I received from most men.

Suddenly, a sharp vibration broke the quiet of the small room.

Dominic snatched a burner phone from his ruined jacket pocket.

His associate, Brian, sounded frantic on the other end, his raspy voice crackling.

Tyler had aligned with a rival cartel overnight and taken over the docks.

Worse, Tyler’s men were tearing apart the neighborhood looking for the massive woman who had ambushed them.

Dominic’s face turned terribly pale as he ended the call.

“They have orders to burn you alive.”

The heavy reality crashed down onto my shoulders, suffocating the air out of my lungs.

My sanctuary, built over years of grueling labor, suddenly felt like a death trap.

I looked around at my mismatched mugs, the secondhand rug, and the little cat bed in the corner.

“We are leaving right now,” Dominic commanded, forcing me to look into his dark, intense eyes.

Tires screeched from the street above, followed by slamming car doors.

Heavy booted footsteps pounded down the exterior concrete stairs leading to my basement entrance.

The heavy wooden door frame splintered under the weight of their boots, and Craig’s aggressive voice echoed through the crack.