Rivers of Orion

such a stupid, cockteasing—urk!”
Mike backed inside the doorway, stepping out just long enough to hit Bello in the throat. Retreating into the diner, Mike kept just inside the door and punched one of the goons in the solar plexus, elbowed another in the stomach, and as that fellow doubled over, brought his fist down on the back of his head.
Frantically, mutely, Bello held his throat with one hand and pointed at Mike with the other. The rest of his crew charged inside.
Mike grabbed a stack of plastic trays as he bolted for the kitchen, casting them down in his wake. Two of Bello’s goons slipped on them and fell. One cracked his head open on the edge of a table and collapsed on the tile floor. Mike hopped over the counter as the startled cashier fumbled for words. The cook barely looked his way as Mike dashed for the back door with three others in hot pursuit.
Bello finally found his voice and roared, turning his attention to Torsha. “I’m gonna kill you, bitch!” Raising his arms, he extended his claws and charged.
“No. You’re not,” growled Orin, and he balled his fists. He dashed around back, and as Bello drew close, Orin shoved the restaurant’s trash bin with all his might. It slammed into Bello’s flank, knocking him off balance. As the ocelini stumbled, Orin kept pushing until he pinned his opponent against a parked car. Turning around, he rooted in place, bracing the trash bin. Bello shoved and lunged, but Orin stood fast.
Nimbus scuttled along as Mike pushed the emergency exit’s release bar, triggering the alarm. Dashing outside, he instantly whirled around and slammed the door in the face of a pursuer. With a quick punch to the kidneys and a vicious head butt, the man went down, blocking the doorway. Looking to his companion, Mike said, “Nimbus, you could be more helpful!”
Nimbus barked at Bello’s goons.
“Great, thanks.”
Bolting back around to the main entrance, Mike leapt through the air and brought his knees down on the back of the man he had first struck. Dashing back inside the diner, he attacked from the doorway, laying out another brute, just as the two who had followed him through the kitchen stepped into view.
They glanced between Mike, their fallen comrades, and Bello as Orin struggled to keep the ocelini immobilized.
Mike smiled and beckoned to them.
Glancing to one another, they readied to strike, turned, and ran away.
The cook and the cashier looked on, dumbstruck. As the emergency alarm blared, the brute with the head wound climbed painfully to his feet. In a daze, he stumbled outside. Not long after, the alarm fell quiet as the last of Bello’s entourage ambled slowly from around back of the eatery, wincing and hissing as he trudged into view.
Calmly, Torsha approached Bello. “Too bad you didn’t bring more friends,” she jeered. “It was just starting to get fun.”
“Torsha,” sputtered Orin. “I need your help!”
“It’s okay,” she replied. “I’ll take it from here.”
“All right,” said Orin, and he jumped away.
Bello propped himself on the car at his back and pushed with his legs. The trash bin shot across the sidewalk, rolling back toward its recess. Savagely, Bello lunged at Torsha, but she extended her own claws, and a flurry of slashes left him face down on the sidewalk, dazed, with a shredded and bloodied suit. He moaned in pain.
Orin hurried close to grapple Bello in an inverted arm lock, and Torsha knelt upon his back. Leaning in close, she spat, “Teaching moment, asshole.” She dug her knee into the base of his neck. “No means no.”
Mike and Nimbus gathered beside her.
“You guys are the ones who attacked me,” he croaked. “Let me go, and I might not press charges.”
Still a bit out of breath, Mike crouched near Bello’s head. “Let’s get a couple things out of the way, first.”  Mike retrieved his wallet and dangled his identification card in front of the ocelini. “I’m part of the Falcon Sovereign Diaspora.”
“You want a medal, or something?” Bello grunted as he struggled against Orin’s vice-like grip. “Am I supposed to be impressed by that?”
“My father is Archduke Martin Santos,” said Mike. “Perhaps you’ve heard of him.”
“Is that name supposed to mean something to me?” Bello winced in pain as Orin reasserted his hold.
“Ah.” Mike flipped to a picture of him and his father on a fishing boat. “That’s okay. Maybe you only know him as El Sangron. I’ve been told we look a lot alike, but personally I don’t see it. Do you?”
A bitter wind gusted as Bello studied the photo. “Oh,” he breathed, and the strength fled his body. “Yes, actually. You do.” A chill rippled across his fur, and tears welled in his eyes.
“Go figure.” Mike closed his wallet and pocketed it. “It’s just one of those things, I suppose.”
“Please forgive me,” pleaded Bello.
“I’ll think about it,” said Mike. “Give me your ID.”
Bello stammered, “W… What?”
Mike nodded patiently. “Your ID.”
With his free hand, Bello strained to retrieve his billfold. It fell from his grip as he tried to pass it over. Mike snatched it up before Bello could react. “Sorry,” said Bello.
“No, you’re not,” said Mike, and he studied Bello’s identification card. “Bellogatto Della Pelliccia,” he read aloud. “You’re a Della Pelliccia?”
“I am,” said Bello.
Mike laughed. “Nice!” He dropped the billfold on the sidewalk, just out of Bello’s reach. “Then we both know you won’t press charges.” Mike squeezed Bello’s shoulder and stood. “Torsha, I think we have an accord. Bello’s got plenty to think about on the long drive home.”
Torsha stood, stepped back, and crossed her arms. She nodded toward Orin, and he released the ocelini from his hold. Orin got quickly to his feet.
“Thank you,” Bello squeaked. He hobbled up to stand, collected his billfold, and limped away. One by one, his crew followed.
“You’re just gonna let ‘em do you like that?” barked the thug with the head wound.
“Shut up!” Bello roared, and he swung wildly at his comrade. “You guys suck! All of you suck!