I was having a hard time making out who was who as their bodies rolled, sprang apart, then came back together, arms and legs flying, kicking, kneeing.
I saw someone throw their body and then scramble out toward the side, reaching for one of the big rocks that had fallen off the wall.
And it was then that I knew it was Venezio on the ground.
I didn’t think.
I charged forward.
I hauled off.
Then I swung the bottle into the man’s head. I watched in horror as he wobbled before falling face-first into the sand.
“Venezio?” I yelped, rushing toward him.
“I’m okay, babe,” he said, even as I noticed fresh blood on his face. “Appreciate the save. But for the record,” he said, glancing down at his hand, where I found the knife the guy had been chasing us with.
“Is he…”
“Dead? No. But we gotta move.”
“You’re not going…” I waved toward the man.
“Kill him in front of you? Not unless I gotta. Besides, this place is monitored by the cops,” he said, jerking his head toward where, I imagined, a camera must have been mounted. “They won’t do shit about a street fight. But they’re gonna investigate a murder. So we gotta let him wake up. We got several minutes of a head start. Let’s make good use of it.”
With that, he took my hand.
And for what I prayed was the last time, we took off at a run.
This time, though, with Venezio there to steady me, I didn’t slip as much. And the cold sleet soaking through my slippers did me a favor in numbing my painful feet, allowing me to keep going, keep pushing.
The bridge was abandoned.
And with the sleet steadily freezing on the fencing, it would have made for a gorgeous picture.
If we weren’t, you know, running for our lives.
The subway chugged past, vibrating the ground beneath our feet. The temperature seemed to be dropping by the minute, hardening the wetness of my shirt collar, turning it into a blade against my neck.
Moving closer and closer, the lights of Manhattan loomed ahead. And, with them, I hoped, was the help Venezio seemed sure we could find there.
We slowed our pace as we neared the edge of the bridge near Canal Street.
“Where?” I asked, gasping for breath.
Venezio scanned the streets.
“I’m going to turn away. You hail a cab. Slide in and I’ll follow.”
I remembered the cabbie in Brooklyn who’d taken one look at Venezio and pulled off, not wanting any trouble.
He looked worse now. Blood—both his and the other guy’s—stained his shirt. His knuckles were busted open. And bruises were steadily forming on his handsome face.
I nodded, then moved toward the edge of the sidewalk.
I was sure I wasn’t looking my best either. But women were inherently less of a threat.
I wasn’t surprised when a cab came sloshing over to the sidewalk almost as soon as I put my arm in the air.
