He lowers his hand and looks at me with resigned acceptance.
“Fine,” he says. “We stay. But we do it my way. You don’t move unless I tell you.”
I nod.
My heart is pounding too hard, my thoughts racing too fast, but I stay where he places me—back behind a shielded part of the dining room, away from broken glass and panicked guests.
Gia plops into a nearby chair, crossing her legs. “Well,” she huffs, “this night took a turn.”
I stare at the doorway. At the dark street beyond it. Every beat of my heart whispers his name.
Come back to me.
Come back to me.
Come back to me.
And for the first time, I understand: I’m not afraid of his violence. I’m afraid of losing him.
Time stretches in strange ways when you’re scared.
I feel like I’ve been sitting here forever — pressed against the wall Nico guided me to, hands twisting in my lap, the scent of gunpowder still lingering in the air.
But when I glance at the clock above the bar, only twenty-seven minutes have passed.
Twenty-seven minutes since Alessandro disappeared through that door.
Twenty-seven minutes since my heart followed him.
Gia is sitting on a broken chair nearby, one leg crossed over the other, scrolling her phone like she’s annoyed the shooters interrupted dessert. Nico stands in front of us, broad and immovable, blocking anyone from getting near.
But all I can do is stare at the doorway. Come back. Please come back. My fingers twitch, and I glance at Gia. She still hasn’t put away her gun. She holds it easily. Confidently. Like she’s done this a thousand times. I look down at my own shaking hands. I don’t want to be a burden. I don’t want Alessandro to have to protect me every second. I want to stand beside him one day… not behind him.
I need to learn to shoot, I think suddenly.
Like Gia. Like someone who won’t crumble when danger comes. Another tremor runs through me.
Not because of fear this time—
because of resolve.
I’m not sure when I made that decision. But it settles inside me like a stone.
“Hey,” Gia says quietly. “You okay?”
I nod, but I don’t think I fool her. Before she can say more, a hand lands on my shoulder. I gasp and jump up so fast Nico nearly pulls his gun. But the man standing beside me isn’t a threat.
It’s Dante Moretti. The Don.
I didn’t even see him walk in — which frightens me more than the gunfire did.
He crouches down so we’re eye-level, his expression both sharp and gentle in a way that shouldn’t be possible.
“Elena,” he says softly, “are you hurt?”
“No,” I whisper. “I’m… I’m okay.” But that’s not what I need to know. “Where is Alessandro?” My voice cracks. “Is he okay?”
Dante’s eyes soften. “He’s fine,” he assures me. “One shooter got away, but Rocco and Alessandro took the other.”
