Adone glanced at me before he picked up the phone and spoke to someone in the front. One of the men from the other family was back, from what I understood. Adone stared into the distance before another noise went off. This one was different.
“Something is wrong,” he said, confirming what I thought.
As he grabbed for the gun probably strapped underneath his desk, I was already out the door. Sistine was almost at the front of the store. I took her by the shoulders and turned her around. Her eyes raked over my bare chest before doing a double take on the damage from the fight in Paris at Sub Rosa.
“Trouble,” she said. “The alert went off throughout the store.”
Adone rushed out, holding his gun. “Giovanni, who was just here with his family to pick up an order, attempted to come back in, but he is being forced. A gun is being held to his head.” Adone described the man holding the gun.
Iggy.
A clerk came from somewhere in the store. “The man with the gun is sending a message,” he said.
“A message?” Adone asked.
The clerk nodded. “He is doing this.” He held up his hand, brought all fingers down except for the middle one. “With his free hand.”
All right. Iggy was getting creative and fucking around with me.
Another clerk rushed out of wherever they were watching the footage. “He shot Giovanni in the foot, then took off into the crowd!”
Remo and I looked at each other, then rushed outside. We were both dodging around people, the men we’d brought along doing the same. We attempted to follow the chaos, the people moving out of Iggy’s way. It wasn’t long before we scattered, going in different directions, trying to corner him.
After a few minutes, though, it felt useless. The crowds were too thick, and he’d had a head start. Our men might get him before he left Venice, but I knew men like him. He had “hard to kill” written all over him. He was a rat, just like Nemours.
“Fuck.” I set my hands on my hips.
The crowd broke around me, the steady stream all staring at me. I’d run out without a shirt. My skin was on fire where the new sutures kept me together, not to mention the hundreds of other ones I had, even where the fucker had sliced me underneath my arms.
A gunshot blasted.
The crowd screamed and hit the ground.
Only two people were standing when the metaphorical smoke cleared.
Me.
Iggy.
He was pointing his gun at me.
I expected a smile.
A taunting laugh.
What I found on his face was shock, quickly followed by anger, then by something I’d figure out later was far worse than anger.
His eyes widened.
He turned to run.
A blast echoed through the air.
From behind me.
He stumbled a bit.
Whoever was behind me had hit his shoulder, only because he was a moving target, weaving further through foot traffic that hadn’t realized what was going on yet. Whoever was behind me was being careful. They’d gotten a damn good hit in, though. He was struck right before the gun could put anyone in danger.
