I feel the sting of a bullet hit my arm, and I draw in a sharp breath through my teeth—the three remaining Cleaners are getting bolder, and I turn to see they’ve found cover behind the dumpster.
My adrenaline is pumping, I’m exposed, and I don’t have time to think. In a fluid motion, I seize the car door and lift it up like a shield to cover my body. I hardly feel its weight with the rush of the fight coursing through my veins. It’s by no means good protection, but it’s better than nothing.
Nothing else to lose, I charge them.
I see one of them peek around the corner, and his face goes white at the sight of me, battered, half-covered in blood, furiously rushing them with a car door for a shield. I must look like some lunatic barbarian warrior, out of time and place in reality.
Bullets start raining in on my barrier, and some ricochet off to the brick walls around us, while some make it through, and I feel the hot sting pierce my other arm and my shoulders as bullets graze them.
But by the time I make it to them, two of them stagger back when I hurl the thing at them. One man gets the full force of it, and the others stagger back for fear that I’m going to charge through the lot of them.
I put a bullet in one of the two while Nico picks off the other.
Before he can struggle for his gun, I put my foot on top of the car door, pinning the man under it with a pained grunt as I point my pistol at him. I don’t know when I dropped my other one, but at this point, I don’t care.
“Lorenzo,” I bark, bloodthirsty eyes boring into his pained face. “Where is he?”
“Vaffanculo,” he spits, and I have no patience to twist him for information.
I pull the trigger, leaving his brains on the asphalt.
I hold my weapon pointed at the body for a few moments before I realize I can hear the ringing in my ears, feel my chest rising and falling, the tension in my gritted teeth. I lower my gun, looking around at the scene.
Eight bodies, two wrecked cars, walls and ground riddled with bullet holes, and more blood than I’ve seen in a long time. The Cleaners’ car is devastated, but somehow, mine looks...well, it’s serviceable. I hear the engine still running, at least, and there are only a few bullet holes in it.
For a moment, everything around me feels like it’s dulled by the ringing in my ears, but that soon fades as I realize I can hear the buzz of my phone from my car. I stride toward it, broken glass crunching underfoot. I calmly pull the car door open and reach to the floorboard to pick up the phone.
It’s Nico.
I put the phone to my ear and look up to his location. “Still with me up there?”
“Bruno, what in the everloving fuck was that?!” he snaps, but I just grin up at him and wink.
“Come on, dinner with Rafaela’s parents can’t be much worse than this,” I say. There’s a solid five seconds of silence from the other end of the call. “What, did I cross the line?”
“Hold still, I’m deciding whether to shoot you now or later,” Nico says. “Christ, Bruno, warn me before you pull that cowboy bullshit next time. You alright? You’re covered in blood.”
I look down at myself. I can’t feel much of the pain yet, thanks to the rush of adrenaline still surging through me. “Most of it’s not mine. Glass cuts, a few grazing shots, and I’d say they got two good shots in,” I say, checking out the bloody mess of my shoulder.
“There’s a saint watching over you somewhere, I swear,” Nico says.
“Lorenzo wasn’t here, Nico,” I say. I’m oddly calm. “Was this another trap?”
“I don’t know,” Nico admits, “I’ll go take care of my informant. Bruno, do you-”
“You do that,” I say, striding back to my car and stowing my weapons, picking up the one I’d dropped. I’m going to need every bullet I’ve got left. “Save yourself some time and put a bullet in him for me.”
“Bruno, what are you doing?”
I get into my car, putting it into reverse and moving my battered car back out of the wreckage, a grim look on my face.
“I have a bad feeling. I need to get to Serena. Now.”
SERENA
“Where are you taking us?” I ask, sitting blindfolded in the back seat of what feels like a rickety old van. Every time we go over a speed bump the whole vehicle rattles ominously, like it’s just seconds away from falling apart completely. It feels like quite a departure from the usual sleek, shiny black company cars the mafia uses.
“Somewhere very nice,” Lorenzo answers smugly from somewhere ahead of me. I assume he’s in the front passenger seat, with one of his henchmen driving. I’m seated next to Rafaela, whose hand is clutched in mine. Her fingers are clammy and cold and every now and then I give her a squeeze of reassurance, even though I’m desperately in need of reassurance myself. The guilt I feel for getting her involved in this mess is overwhelming. After my mother and Bruno, Rafaela is the most important person in my life, and I can’t believe I’ve allowed my own mess to infect her life, too.
I just wish I knew where we were going. Again and again the urge to rip off my blindfold and take a look comes over me, but I know that would only put us in danger. I’ve dealt with the mafia and seen enough crime television to know that it’s best to just go along with their plans. They’re like wild animals—you can’t make any sudden movements or they’ll be on you with their claws.
“What’s going to happen to Giovanni?” I press on. I’m not being disobedient by asking questions, at least. They can kidnap me and blind me but they haven’t made me shut up yet, so I’m going to keep talking until they do, just in case Lorenzo lets some important tidbit of information slip.
“Why are you so concerned about him? Here I thought the Lomaglio boy was your beau. Or is that too old-fashioned of me? Maybe you’re fucking both of them. After all, your mother was a Gaspari slut, and the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” Lorenzo sneers. There’s a thick layer of bitterness in his voice, jealousy even.
The dig at my mother is almost laughable. I know her reputation— long before she met my father, when she was just a teenager, she was notoriously known to be an ice queen. My father once joked that he had managed to melt her icy heart and charm the ‘untouchable Luisa Gaspari’ even though all his friends said it was impossible. It was a story my father liked to tell when he’d had a little too much to drink, and even though my mother would roll her eyes in typical ice-queen fashion, there was always just a hint of a smile on her face. Even though they seemed like total opposites, and despite all the trickiness of dealing with their combined mafia ties, my parents were truly in love. That much I know for certain. Nothing can tarnish the memories I have of them dancing together to old Sinatra vinyls in the living room, holding hands at the dinner table, my father doing the most outlandish things to make Mom laugh even though she fought so hard to maintain that cool composure.
In spite of everything, I smile.