I look over. He’s on his feet already, chair back angled where it scraped. Phone to his ear, eyes up. The men at the bar and service station are moving too, napkins dropped, checks untouched. The room hasn’t caught it yet. No one else hears the tone except the people paid to. My napkin is still in my lap when he reaches our table.
“What—?” slips out of me.
“Up,” he says to both of us, low. “Now.”
Caterina’s fork is down in an instant. “What’s wrong?”
“Call came in,” Nico says, not slowing. He’s already sweeping the tabletop with one hand—keys, my phone, Caterina’s phone—pushing them toward me. “We’re leaving.”
“Our bags—” I start, as he starts pulling me up by the elbow.
“Leave them,” Nico snaps. He palms my shoulder and steers, Caterina tucked tight to my other side.
The server approaches, confused, a tentative, “Is everything—”
The guard from the bar, Sal, steps into his path and shakes his head once. The server blinks, obeys the unspoken command.
We’re angled to the back hallway in three steps. The restaurant noise dips as we walk farther away from the dining room. I keep my head down and my feet moving. The second guard from inside, Marc, ghosts in behind us, hand barely touching Caterina’s elbow to keep her pace with mine.
“What happened?” Caterina asks again, lower this time.
“Later,” Nico says without looking back. “Head down.”
We make the turn past the bathrooms. The corridor is narrow and dim compared to the main room, a strip of light at the far end where a steel door sits propped with a wedge.
“Two outside?” Nico says into his mic.
“Both in place,” a voice answers. “Alley is clear. Car in position.”
“Copy.”
We hit the door. He shifts, puts himself in front, hand out and down in a stop sign. He leans into the wedge to look. A heartbeat. Two. He opens his stance and waves us through.
The brightness hits us hard and nearly blinds me. We step into a narrow delivery alley that runs behind the row of restaurants. Dumpster. Stacked milk crates. The street beyond is a slice of color and motion and a whole different world.
“Keep your head down,” Marc tells me. He positions me on the inside, himself between me and the open mouth of the alley. Caterina is ahead of me with Nico, moving fast, hair dark against the light.
“Go,” Nico says. “Left to the corner. Car is there.”
We move.
My flats skid once on a grease-dark patch, and I catch myself with a hand against the brick. The lemon from lunch is still on my fingers; it collides with the smell of the alley, and my stomach lurches. I breathe through my mouth. My heart bangs against my ribs. I know this feeling, adrenaline surging within me.
We reach the last ten feet before the sidewalk, open space, no cover. “Ready,” Nico says. I see the SUV, black, engine running, nose angled toward the street, rear passenger door already cracked.
“On three,” Nico says.
He doesn’t get to three.
The sound is smaller than I would’ve imagined. Just a hard crack and then the clang of metal. The edge of the steel door beside my head vibrates. Paint spits off at cheek level.
For a second, the whole world shrinks to that ragged nick in the metal. That could have been my face. That was supposed to be my face. The realization slams into me and turns everything white-hot and fast.
“Down!” Nico’s voice, sharp enough to cut. He yanks Caterina to a crouch, one hand shoving her behind a stack of milk crates, his own body blocking the alley mouth.
Marc drives me to my knees before my brain catches up, hand cupped over the back of my head. My palm hits the gritty concrete, and I pull my belly in by instinct as I fold, making myself small. A second crack, then the skitter of brick dust ten inches from my shoe.
“Contact left,” Sal’s voice crackles over the channel. “Second-floor window, east building, three in.”
