"Oh, that's easy." He makes a face, like I'm unnecessarily worrying, as he reaches into his pocket. "I've got a grenade."

I look at him incredulously. "You've got a grenade."

A grenade.

He's carrying a fucking grenade.

And not a smoke grenade, like logic would say he meant. The son of a bitch pulls his hand out of his pocket, and he's clutching a round green grenade. It's small, maybe the size of a golf ball, but there's no mistaking what it is.

"What, like you've never carried one before?" he asks.

"Can't say I have."

"Ah, well, they come in handy," he says, shrugging me off. "Just pull the pin and ka-boom, bye-bye problem."

I don't even know what to say about that.

I don't know where he got his hands on it.

Cuba, probably, like everything else.

"And how is a grenade getting me out of here? Preferably with all of my limbs."

"Easy," he says. "Just watch."

Lorenzo turns around and heads straight to the door, flipping the lock before stepping back. I move away from him, back toward the table, and reach over, snatching up one of the guns still lying there. I check it, finding it loaded, and turn back to the door in just enough time for it to fly open.

Men appear.

There are only three of them. The rest, I figure, probably fled the gunfire. They burst in, wielding guns, and I point my weapon right at one of their heads, my finger on the trigger.

Lorenzo holds his hands up in front of him before they can think to fire, before they can see the bodies, before they even have time to riddle out what happened. He holds the grenade with one hand, a finger from the other slipped through the pin, ready to pull it.

"Gentlemen," he says loudly, "unless you want blown to fucking pieces, I suggest you vamoose."

Panic seizes them. Two run. The last one just stands there, staring at us. The loyal one. No, he's not afraid to die, not if it means he takes us out long with him.

He points at Lorenzo.

He's going to shoot.

I aim right for him, pulling the trigger, round after round.

BANG

BANG

BANG

All three bullets hit him. He squeezes the trigger as a reflex, firing off a round, damn near hitting Lorenzo, who doesn't have enough sense to duck. As soon as the guy drops, Lorenzo looks down at him. Two bullets struck the guy in the chest, the third hitting his temple. "Nice job, Han Solo. Always knew you shot first."

I have no desire to figure out his nonsense.

I'm stepping over the guy and out into the hallway in the next breath, heading right for the door. Lorenzo follows me without a word. I can hear his hurried footsteps racing to keep up.

I veer a different direction, taking the back exit instead, not wanting to be seen. I step out into the back yard and look around, turning toward Lorenzo, about to say something, when I see it.

I see him.

I see exactly what he's about to do.

Clutching the grenade, he squeezes the safety, his finger snaking around the pin. Son of a bitch.

Not again…

"Lorenzo," I growl, but that's all I have a chance to say, before he pulls it.

He pulls the pin.

Motherfucker.

I turn and run through the yard, run away from the house, as he tosses the grenade right in the back door. Four seconds. That's all the time we've got. I throw myself down into the grass, covering my head and holding my breath.

BOOM

The ground shakes as it explodes inside the house. It's not enough to take it down or even do that much damage, just enough to destroy the walls around it, blowing out a few windows. Lorenzo lands in the grass right beside me, laughing.

I glare at him as I climb to my feet. "You know, sometimes I really hate you."

He glances at me. "Only sometimes."

"Most of the time."

"But not always."

I don't dignify that with a response.

Turning around, I walk away, making a speedy escape from the yard, slipping around a few neighboring houses, to make my way to my car. Neighbors are out, gathering in the street, panicking about the ruckus, about the explosion that rocked the brick house. I know they had to have felt it. I slip through the crowd, keeping my head down, refusing to make eye contact with anyone. Lorenzo jogs to catch up with me, making a point to smile and greet people.

"You shouldn't draw attention to yourself," I tell him, pausing beside my car. "Makes it easier for the cops to identify you."

"I'm not worried about the cops."

"You ought to be."

"Nah, not when I've already got a few of them in my pocket."

I shake my head. "Good luck, Lorenzo."

"Hey, wait," he says when I start to get in my car. "Can you give me a ride?"

"Walk," I tell him.

"It's like, eight miles. It'll take me forever."

"Then jog."

He mutters under his breath before stepping away. "I'm gonna miss these adventures of ours, Ignazio. You sure you won't reconsider, stick around, maybe help me run this city?"

"I'm sure."

"Pity."

"Piece of advice, Lorenzo? It's not the titles that honor the men… it's the men that honor the titles. It'll do you good to remember that."

He stares at me. "You're quoting Machiavelli to me?"

"What can I say? It's my favorite."

Getting in my car, I start the engine and drive away without looking back.

He wanted control of the city. He wanted to be the boss.

I just hope when it's all over, the kingdom is still worth having.

* * *

Stepping into the deli, I pause, turning my head to stare at the door. Silence. Ever since I was old enough to walk, stepping inside this place was always accompanied by a noise, the obnoxiously loud jingling.

Today, there's nothing.

The door closes when I let go of it. Still nothing.

The bells are gone.

Huh.

My eyes scan it for a moment before I turn back around and look through the deli. Guess the sign out front wasn't the only change he made. Most of the place still looks the same—tables and chairs aren't any different, neither is the counter, and I imagine the kitchen hasn't changed, because I know the man would be peculiar about that, but there, along the far side of the wall, is something I've never seen before in here.

A television.

I blink a few times at it.

You see, my father never saw the point of television. He always said it did nothing but rot the brain. My mother, she was more lenient. After all, she loved her soap operas. They only ever had a television in the house so she could watch them.

Over at the deli? Strictly off limits.

But there one is, hung up on the wall, tuned into the twenty-four-hour news station, utterly silent but still playing away. Strange.

Shaking it off, I look around, seeking Karissa out. She sits at a small table in the middle of the deli, across from my father, the two of them chatting. What they're saying, I'm not certain, but I can make a guess that the conversation is probably about me. Because as soon as they notice my presence, all conversation ceases.

Karissa smiles, relief shining in her eyes, as she calls for me. "Naz!"