I break from cover, sprinting toward better position as I fire. I hit Romano but he fires back. The bullet catches my thigh, and my leg gives out. Fuck me.
I hit the concrete hard, sliding behind another column as he keeps shooting. White hot pain licks through me, and I have to bite my lip to keep me from screaming.
“Luca!” Gigi’s scream is raw terror.
“Stay down!” I roar back, gritting my teeth against the pain radiating from my leg. The bullet went through—I can feel the exit wound—but it’s bleeding bad. Really bad.
Romano’s circling, trying to flank me. I can hear his footsteps, steady and calculated despite the gut wound I gave him. How the fuck is he still standing? How is he still fighting?
If I make it through this, I’m making Danny train me more. Clearly, I can’t shoot for shit.
It hits me that Romano’s got nothing to lose. And that makes him the most dangerous kind of enemy.
I lean out and fire twice. One shot goes wide. The other catches him in the shoulder—his left, not his gun hand. Goddammit. He grunts but doesn’t slow down, returning fire that forces me back into cover.
“You’re dying, Marchetti,” Romano calls out, his voice strained but steady. “I can see the blood trail. That leg wound—you’ve got minutes before you lose consciousness.”
He’s right. I can feel the weakness spreading through my body, the edges of my vision starting to blur. I’m losing too much blood.
But I’ve got minutes. And minutes is all I need.
I fumble through reloading my gun, my left arm barely responding. The wound in my shoulder has gone from burning pain to a deep, throbbing ache that tells me I’ve probably got nerve damage. My leg is worse. I try to put weight on it and nearly collapse.
I can’t fucking run. I can’t chase him down. I have to make him come to me.
“You know what I’m going to do after I kill you?” Romano’s voice comes from somewhere to my right. “I’m going to take your wife and fuck her senseless. She’s a hot piece of ass. I’m going to fill her up every fucking day and there’s nothing you’ll be able to do about it.”
Rage burns through the pain, hot and sharp and clarifying.
I force myself to move, dragging my wounded leg, using the columns for support. Every step leaves a smear of blood on the concrete. Romano will follow me by the blood trail and will know exactly where I’m going.
Good. Let him follow.
His shot comes from behind. I feel the bullet crack past my head, so close it parts my hair. I spin, firing blind, giving away my position but forcing him back into cover.
“That the best you got, old man?” I rasp out, tasting blood in my mouth. “Marco lasted hours under your torture. I can do this all fucking night.”
“Marco was strong,” Romano agrees, and I can hear him moving again, getting closer. “He died protecting you. I wonder if you’ll do the same for your whore?”
He wants me to be angry and stupid. He wants me to charge him while I’m wounded and he has the advantage.
Not fucking happening.
I’m behind a stack of old machinery now, giving me cover but also boxing me in. Romano knows it too. I can hear his footsteps getting closer, more confident. He thinks he has me trapped.
My hand finds a piece of metal pipe on the ground. Heavy, solid. Not much of a weapon but better than nothing if this goes hand-to-hand.
And it’s going to go hand-to-hand. My gun’s nearly empty—maybe three rounds left—and I can barely hold it steady.
If I make it out of this, I’m seriously going to order Danny to train me every fucking day.
Romano appears around the corner of the machinery, gun up, that cold smile on his face. “End of the line, Marchetti?—”
I throw the pipe.
It’s not a great throw—my shoulder can barely manage it—but it’s enough to make him flinch and throw off his aim. His shot goes wide and I’m on him, using the last of my strength to tackle him before he can fire again.
We go down in a tangle of limbs, both guns skittering away across the blood-slick concrete. Romano’s older but he’s been doing this longer, and he’s not as badly wounded. His fist connects with my face once, twice, and I feel my nose break.
