Danny

Danny’s game of round robin with the two Russians, his turn out to roll the doob, was interrupted by Angel bursting into the bedroom, screaming loud fuck you Danny, fuck you. Angel made two nine mill holes above the bed with her baby Glock, the redstone taking the slugs an inch or two in. Instinctively, Mink and Roza separated and rolled off each side of the bed, which was just as well because two more loud pops went off and two pillows vaporized into a single cloud of duck feathers.
Danny dived to Mink’s side of the bed, her going oomph as she broke his fall, her eyes frozen open thinking she was going to die. He unstrapped his double-action Sig from under the bed, ready to shoot and kill Angel if he had to. He heard Angel’s Glock click repeatedly on an empty chamber. Danny strapped the Sig back in place, stood up, and took Angel into his arms.
Mink and Roza disappeared under cover of the fog of feathers so quick it was almost as if they had not been there at all, wearing just their short fur coats and leaving their clothes behind as they scrambled into their limo, speeding off downtown, laying down tyrewall, back to their appartment, lower Manhattan.
A feather landed on Angel's nose. She pushed her bottom lip forward and huffed it away. Then she shrugged Danny off, clicking her empty gun to his head.
“Fuck you Danny,” she said.
Danny scooped up a twig of Mexican skunk, calm her down.
“Why you mess with those whores, Danny. I catch them one more time in my bed and I swear I’ll cut their hearts out. And yours too.”
Danny passed Angel the doob. She toked half, one hit. Two more hits and she passed back a small Bogart that needed a clip. She streched out on the bed, arms folded above her head, still holding the Glock.
“Angel,” said Danny, “Let’s not forget who’s the whore. Those girls are class.”