Alessandro shifts, his hand going to his jacket. When it comes back, he’s holding a gun.
He has a gun. At the Christmas market. He brought a gun to our date.
“Alessandro—”
“Not now.” His voice is steel. His eyes scan the crowd, the rooftops, looking for something I can’t see. “Paulo, where are you?”
He must have an earpiece. Of course, he has an earpiece. Of course, he brought security to the Christmas market because he’s a mafia boss who can’t even take his girlfriend on a normal date without someone trying to kill him.
Girlfriend. Am I his girlfriend? Is now really the time to be thinking about labels?
“Shooter on the north roof,” Alessandro says, his voice calm despite the chaos. “Red building. Do you have visual?”
A pause.
“Take the shot.”
My stomach drops. He’s ordering someone to shoot another person. To kill them. While lying on top of me at a Christmas market where five seconds ago we were kissing under the snow.
“We need to move,” Alessandro says to me, his voice gentler now. “Can you move?”
“I—yes. I think so.”
“Good. When I say go, we’re going to run to that booth.” He nods toward a sturdy wooden structure selling Christmas trees. “Stay low, stay behind me, and don’t stop moving. Understand?”
“Alessandro, what’s happening—”
“Elena.” His eyes lock on mine, and I see fear there. Real, raw fear. “I need you to trust me. Can you do that?”
Can I? Can I trust this man who brought a gun to our date, who’s currently calling in hits while pinning me to the snowy ground of Pike Place Market?
But when I look into his eyes, I see the truth. He’s terrified. Not for himself, but for me.
“I trust you,” I whisper.
“Good. On three. One... two... three—go!”
We move. Alessandro hauls me up and pushes me forward, his body between me and wherever that shooter is. We run, awkward, crouched, my boots slipping on the snow-slicked ground. The Christmas tree booth is maybe twenty feet away, but it feels like miles.
Another shot rings out. The wooden post next to my head explodes in splinters.
Alessandro makes a sound—pain or anger, I can’t tell—and then we’re diving behind the booth, hitting the ground hard enough to knock the air from my lungs.
“You okay?” He’s immediately checking me over, hands running over my arms, my ribs, looking for injuries. “Did you get hit? Elena, talk to me.”
“I’m fine. I’m fine.” The words come out shaky. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
But when I look down, there’s blood on his coat. Not a lot, but enough.
“You’re bleeding!”
“It’s nothing. Only a graze.”
“You got shot!”
“Barely shot. It doesn’t count.”
