A couple of men stumble out of a bar and bump into me.
“Watch where you’re going, idiot!” they yell at me. I’d deal with them, but I’ve got more important things on my mind right now. The most important thing. Her.
“That’s right. You don’t want nonna this,” one slurs, his drunken voice echoing into the night.
Her footsteps pitter patter faster as she picks up speed, obviously hearing the men but like someone who’s familiar with this kind of lifestyle she wisely doesn’t look back over her shoulder, just keeping her head and eyes forward and minding her own business…just as I’ve been doing for six months, since I moved into this part of the city that’s long been forgotten about.
She’s got street smarts. I like that, but I hate that she’s lived a life that’s required her to build up this kind of knowledge, this kind of tough outer shell, even though I’m glad she finds a way to smile and be happy, to look at the bright side each and every day in that diner where she works.
I know because I’ve suddenly developed an addiction to having steak and eggs with a coffee black, three meals a day, knowing it will give me the opportunity to see my angel each day.
And that’s what she is, an angel. My angel. And I’m going to help her spread her wings and fly to heights she might not even know she was capable of soaring to.
I swear it’s like divine intervention, or some other nonsense Hallmark puts on cards and inspirational posters. All of it’s garbage, or at least it was until I finally understood what it all meant, and she is the key that unlocked those feelings within me for the first time in my thirty-seven years.
My age, three followed by seven, again…divine intervention. Three and seven are the most frequently chosen numbers as lucky numbers, and it can’t be a coincidence that this happened to me, that she happened to me, at this particular age.
God, I can’t believe I even make connections between things like that in my brain, but everything’s just so much clearer now except for the most important thing possible.
How to tell her she belongs to me without scaring her off, without leading her to call the cops the moment she looks into my eyes and sees the possessiveness behind them.
She stops and I freeze in place, widening my stance wondering why she’s suddenly not moving forward. Her pace is always brisk, but not now. There’s no reason for her to be acting this way.
My nostrils flare and I subconsciously take in more oxygen, my body ready to fight to the death for her if someone, anyone, is in her way. My stance widens and my eyes scan the area, until they finally lock onto the problem.
“The purse, bitch. Hand it over and nobody gets hurt.”
The voice is attached to a douchebag coming out of an adjoining alley, the light from the moon reflecting off the blade he’s holding in his hand. It’s not even a proper knife, more like a homemade shank, letting me know this guy is desperate and won’t stop at anything to get his hands on her purse…and maybe more.
I snarl, my knuckles cracking as I squeeze my hands into fists so hard they’re solid as concrete.
Rage shoots through me, every muscle in my body firing as I calculate the distance knowing I can get to her before he does, if I take off immediately.
No way in hell it’s even a decision.
I d
art in his direction, throwing my body at him like a caged animal, tackling him so hard I hear the knife blade bounce off the cold alleyway beneath us.
“Get off, —“
But before another word leaves his mouth, I’m filling it with my fists. Over and over and over again, for even thinking he could touch what’s mine. He’ll live to regret this day, if I decide to allow him to live at all.
Out of nowhere I feel my spine crack, my body buckling forward as I see a two by four hit the floor.
“Run, Darryl!” the man yells the moment my neck turns back and the narrowed slits of my now bloodthirsty eyes lock on his.
I turn, looking at this Darryl clown, realizing he’s more than down for the count.
I stand, gingerly, straighten my back and before the other prick knows what’s going on I summon all my strength and take off after him, grabbing him by the back of the collar after the shortest chase in human history.
I horse-collar tackle him to the ground, his knees buckling as his body folds in half due to the angle of the takedown.
The sound of bones snapping is quickly replaced with the sound of sires, and to my surprise I know the cops will be here soon.
But everyone knows what happens when the cops come into neighborhoods like this one. Shoot first, ask questions later, and I’m not going to get caught in the crossfires, let alone allow my woman to feel or witness any harm.
I look back to where she was standing, knowing I can’t go to jail anyway, because that would mean I’m not out here in society, able to protect her. Not to mention my past wouldn’t bode well for me in the court of public appeals. I’d be jailed for life as soon as my rap sheet hit the district attorney’s desk, let alone the local news on the Internet.