The ice was melting, the gun was loaded, and Rudolfo was finally crossing the line.
Writer’s Prompt
The ice in LaToya’s tea hadn’t just melted; it had vanished, leaving a sweating glass of amber water that
mirrored the humid haze of the Georgia afternoon. On her lap sat a tattered copy of The Count of Monte Cristo, its spine cracked, hiding the cold, heavy weight of a snub-nosed .38.
Grandmother’s porch was a sanctuary of peeling white paint and hanging ferns, but today it felt like a sniper’s nest.
Then came the sound: the low, rhythmic thrum of a dual exhaust. Rudolfo’s black sedan rolled to the curb like a shark breaking the surface. He stepped out, adjusting a silk tie that cost more than the porch he was about to tread upon. He didn’t rush. He never did. He liked the theater of it.
LaToya didn’t move. She watched him through the screen of her eyelashes as he clicked the gate shut. One step. His polished oxfords hit the cracked concrete of the walkway. Two steps. He was over the property line now, trespassing on a legacy he intended to bleed dry.
“LaToya,” he purred, leaning against the porch railing. “The old woman’s late. And you know I don’t like late. It suggests a lack of respect.”
“She’s sleeping, Rudolfo. Walk away.”
He laughed, a dry, jagged sound. He reached into his jacket, not for a weapon, but for a cigar, his eyes glinting with a predator’s boredom. “If I walk away, I come back with the matches. You want to see this wood rot, or you want to see it burn?”
LaToya’s fingers slid beneath the book, the serrated grip of the revolver biting into her palm. Her heart was a steady drum. He leaned in closer, his shadow falling over the pages of her book.
“Give me a reason,” she whispered.
Rudolfo smiled, reaching out to tilt her chin up. “I’ll give you more than that, little girl.”
Finish the Story
Does LaToya pull the trigger the moment his hand touches her, or does Rudolfo have a backup waiting in the sedan? The safety is off—you decide how the lead flies.