“Omigod,” the gondolier says in a hushed voice. “Can I get your autograph?”
“I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else,” I tell him.
He shakes his head vigorously at that. “Hell, no. You’refamous, man. You’re the first out and proud gay Godfather.”
I cringe. Finch snorts.
“Or maybe I could just get something for the ’Gram—”
But that’s not a phone he’s pulling out from behind his back.
Finch is still chuckling, his face tipped up to mine, and we’re lying prone in the gondola, lazy and relaxed. The gondolier wastes no more time, but neither do I.
As the first two gunshots sound, I roll Finch over to one side, dumping him in the water and out of the boat, which rocks wildly.
Finch resurfaces, gasping in shock, as the assassin lets off another shot. But Finch’s grab at the side of the gondola puts the assassin off-balance, and I have time to kick out hard at the guy’s knee. He gives a scream of pain, falling sideways into the water. I roll right over the side as well. The water’s only thigh-deep, and the gondolier is already limping away like he’s decided it’s a lost cause.
“Luca!”
The crowds on either side of the canal are screaming and running, shouting about calling the police, about a gunman, but I still hear Finch’s frightened voice cutting through the noise.
“Are you alright?” I throw over my shoulder.
“Yes, but you’re—”
The guy, splashing through the water, turns and shoots wildly, and I hear tiles exploding. He’s missed me again, but I check to make sure Finch is still okay. He’s ducked down behind the gondola, eyes frightened, but gives me a thumbs up.
I turn back to see my target trying to scramble up the railing, but that kick I gave him is hampering his movement. I catch up with him easily enough and, pulling him by his injured leg, drag him back down into the water. He drops the gun as he falls, and it clatters to the walkway at the side of the canal. He lands on his side in the water and I pull him half-up by his shirtfront, standing over him.
“Who sent you?”
“Fuck you,” he spits, and tries to lash out at me.
I’m not going to split my knuckles over this guy. I simply push him backwards, keeping his face under the water.
He thrashes and slaps out at me, but I have considerable advantage over him, and it’s no effort to keep him under. When I judge he’s panicky enough, I pull his face back out.
“Who sent you?” I ask again.
He coughs and splutters in response.
“Iwilldrown you. You understand that, don’t you? Now tell me:who sent you?”
He just shakes his head. I dunk him again, pull him out again, but he still won’t give me a name.
“Last chance,” I say. I can hear running, feet coming towards us now instead of fleeing. “You’re going to die here in this dirty fucking water if you don’t talk. Now.”
Very hoarsely, through coughs, all he says is another, “Fuck…you.”
Fine. If that’s the way he wants it. I push him back down, watching him squirm and jerk, watching his face contort in agony, as I wait calmly for the end. There’s blood floating around in the water, and my head is starting to spin.
Adrenaline wearing off, I guess.
“Luca,” says a quiet voice next to me. “Let him up.”
I look over so see Finch, just as drenched as I am, his face sad. Not afraid, not angry.
Just…sad.
