Oh God. I squeeze my eyes shut as bile rises up my throat. I’m never going to unsee that.
More gunshots ring out, sounding closer than before.
The thought I might meet the same fate as that musician in a few minutes makes me shake uncontrollably.
“Cleo, look at me.” There’s no fear in Rafaele’s voice.
I crack open my eyes.
His gaze is hard, and he looks completely in control of himself. “I’m going to get us out of here. As long as you do exactly what I say, you’ll be safe. Do you understand?”
My ragged breath puffs out against his lips. “Yes.”
“Good.” Rafaele snakes an arm around my waist and rolls us toward the closest wall. I clutch onto his strong body, fear and adrenaline mixing inside my veins as gunshots ring out around us.
When my back hits the wall, he lets go of me and moves to a crouching position with his gun at the ready. The expression on his face sends a shiver down my spine. That’s the expression of a man who first killed at age thirteen. One who will happily kill again now.
“Crawl behind the bar.” He nudges me with his free hand. “I’m going to take them out.”
My lungs constrict. “What? We’re splitting up?”
“Go, Cleo,” he growls.
His eyes meet mine, and it’s like someone pressed the mute key on the chaos around us. My mind quiets for a brief moment.
“Stay down, no matter what you hear,” he says, his voice ringing in my ears. “Got it?”
I give him a shaky nod. “Okay.”
He waits until I’m safely behind the bar and then springs into action. My stomach does a somersault when he throws himself into the center of the dining room and starts firing back.
What is he doing? There’s nothing between him and our attackers.
A few screams ring out. Rafaele runs to a table and flips it, using it as a shield. I hope it’s thick enough to block the bullets raining down on him.
He peers around the table and takes a few calculated shots. I like to think I hear someone grunt in pain every time he fires, but that’s probably just my imagination. Then he runs forward and disappears out of my field of vision.
I can’t see what’s going on. Time slows to a glacial pace. I chew on my nails. Is he okay?
That groan. Did that sound like him?
The gunshots are farther away now. Funny how a few minutes ago, I hoped they would stop, and now I’m hoping they won’t. At least if they’re firing at each other, it means Rafaele is still alive.
I can’t believe he’s trying to fight back on his own. I can’t see how many men are shooting, but he’s definitely outnumbered.
My chest tightens.
He’s going to die.
Fuck.
I can’t just sit here while he’s putting his life at risk.
We need backup. And if anyone’s going to call for it, it’s me.
I glance across the room. My purse with my phone is on the ground a few feet away from where my chair fell when the shots first rang out. If I get it, I can call Sandro.
Fear wraps its icy fingers around my stomach.
I can do this. We need help. Rafaele won’t be able to hold them off for long by himself.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I dart out from behind the bar and lunge for my purse. My body slides along the marble floor and sharp pain blooms along my belly.
What is that?
There’s no time to check. Ignoring the pain, I snatch my bag off the ground and crawl back to my hiding spot. My hands shake as I take out my phone and dial Sandro.
“Hello?”
“Get to Il Caminetto right now. We’re getting shot at.”
“What? Fuck. Okay, I’m on my way! I’m not too far.” He hangs up.
I drop the phone to the ground and realize it’s gotten eerily quiet.
Heart-crushing fear seizes me. Is Rafaele dead? He must have run out of bullets. He only had two guns on him.
The backs of my eyes prickle. Stupid idiot. We could have tried to escape out the back together.
Someone is walking toward me. The sound of their deliberate steps resonates through the room, growing closer and closer. I press my back against the bar and jerk my knees close to my chest.
Ow!
I glance down at myself and my heart drops. There’s blood all down my front.
Was I hit by a bullet?
Oh no. No, no, no. Was I shot? I must have been.
I’m so pumped up on adrenaline, I didn’t even feel it.
The footsteps halt. “What the fuck?”
I yelp, my gaze jumping to Rafaele. Relief floods through me. He’s all right. Somehow, he’s got less blood on him than I do.
He sinks to the floor beside me, his jaw clenched and his face pale, and clutches my shoulders. “Why are you bleeding?” There’s a strange waver to his voice.
“I don’t know.” My throat tightens with panic. There’s so much blood. “I think I was shot.”
Rafaele growls a curse and pulls out a knife.
I grasp his arm. “Tell Gem, Vale, and Vince that I love them.”
He ignores me, his expression a mask of pure concentration. He cuts through the glimmering cords of my dress and pushes them aside to expose my belly.
My gaze jolts back up to his face. I don’t want to look at the wound. I can’t. I’m going to be sick.
“Rafaele,” I breathe.
He grabs a cloth napkin from the bar and starts gently prodding my stomach.
“Ouch.”
“I’m sorry,” he says gruffly. “I need to clean up the blood so that I can see what’s going on.”
I’m dying, that’s what’s going on. How many times did I say I’d rather die than be a mob wife? Now, here I am, less than one week into my marriage, bleeding out on the floor of a restaurant, and I feel like an idiot.
I don’t want to die.
“You’re not as horrible as I thought you’d be,” I squeeze out.
Rafaele doesn’t answer. He’s so focused on what he’s doing, I’m not even sure he heard me.
“Maybe if we had more time,” I whisper. “Maybe if I got to know you better…” I don’t know what I’m trying to say. Everyone says you’re supposed to have clarity on your deathbed, but I’m more confused than ever. I reach for his wrist and wrap my hand around it.
Finally, he lifts his gaze to mine. There’s no coldness in it. Just relief.
“You’re going to be fine.”
I shake my head. He’s in denial. He couldn’t defend me, and made men don’t know how to handle failure.
“I’m dying.” My voice is weak. I use the last of my strength to cup his cheek. “Don’t let my death haunt you for the rest of your life. You did the best you could.”
His lips twitch. “You’re not dying.” He presses a kiss to the inside of my wrist. “Who knew you were so dramatic.”
My brows furrow. I don’t understand. “What? But I’m bleeding. I feel faint.”
“Flesh wounds. You somehow got shards of glass in your belly, but they’re not very deep. A lot of people feel faint when they see blood if they’re not used to it.” He kisses my palm this time, ignoring that it’s covered in my blood. “How did this happen?”
Is he serious? I glance down at myself even though I feel like I might puke. There’s no bullet hole. Only glass.