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[ excerpt: ]
... In through the kitchen doorway came Jean-Baptiste, our confectioner, clutching a sawed-off shotgun in his marzipan greased hands. He could smell hired muscle a mile away and had swiftly grabbed the gun he kept stashed away on top of the frame of the heavy door.
My uncle raised a revolver out of no where. My father was holding a bag of sugar and a tray of pralines that tumbled to the floor around him.
Just inside the front door stood three heavy set men with long coats and a very determined look in their faces - and the guns halfway out of the fiddle cases to back it up. My family was outnumbered in both weaponry and skills....
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