“No—” Val’s voice breaks as she curls tighter around Bee, who starts to cry, a thin, shocked wail.
Everything in me goes hot, then cold. I hit the floor, crawl toward Ma without standing up, like the bullets will forget me if I make myself small. My palms slip in something wet.
Gunfire cracks again and again. Lucio’s shooting—once, twice, three times—short, controlled. A man drops, mask slipping, his blood painting the wall. Another staggers. Romiro’s already on him. Emiliano turns, rage in his body like a second spine, and puts two into the closest mask. He doesn’t miss.
A muzzle swings toward us. Toward Val. Toward Bee.
The bullet whines by, so close I feel the air peel. It grazes Val’s arm, and she gasps, tightening her hold on the baby like she can will herself into armor.
Lucio puts one between the shooter’s eyes. He falls like he was being held up by pride alone.
Smoke and the copper stench of blood swallow the room as the last man gurgles and goes still. The silence that follows is thick, wrong.
“Ma.” My voice sounds like it belongs to a smaller, stupider version of me.
She’s on the floor, eyes open but not focused, breaths shallow and wet. Emiliano drops to his knees beside her, hands pressing hard over the wound in her chest. Blood slicks his fingers, then his wrists, then his forearms. He doesn’t flinch.
“Stay with me, Ma.” His voice is low, steady, like he’s talking down a bomb.
Her hand reaches for him, smears red across his skin, while her lips shape a word. “Val…”
“I’m here,” Val chokes, rocking Bee, who is crying harder now, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open.
My sister-in-law’s face is white, blood streaking her bare arm, but she won’t let anyone take the baby out of her hands.
I press my palms over Ma’s shoulder wound, because there’s nothing else I can do that doesn’t feel like screaming. Warmth rushes up between my fingers. My stomach flips, threatens to climb into my throat. I keep pressure anyway.
“Ma. Look at me.”
Her gaze drags to my face. For a second, I see it—pride, worry, love—all still there. Then her eyes flutter.
“Don’t,” I say. “Don’t you dare?—”
“Doctor,” Emiliano bites out, not looking up. “Now.”
“I’m on it,” Romiro says, phone already to his ear, Italian spilling fast and flat like a knife laid on a table.
He rattles the address, the threat, the promise. Then he hangs up and starts tearing the tablecloth, turning fabric into bandage with clean, precise hands.
Lucio drags one of the bodies into the light. He jerks the mask down, stares, and something in his face goes uglier than I’ve ever seen it.
“Outfit,” he says, voice like a door slamming. “Chicago.”
Emiliano’s mouth flattens into a line. He presses harder; Ma groans. The sound is small, and it breaks me anyway.
“Stay awake,” I whisper. “Please.”
She tries to smile at me. It comes out like a twitch. She tries to say something, but the hand she had on my cheek falls limp by her side.
Sirens thread into the edges of the moment. Outside noise returns in pieces. Someone down the block shouting. Tires on wet pavement. My heartbeat in my ears.
The paramedics take too long and no time at all. The door bursts open again, and it’s just uniforms and bright bags and hands. They move us as if we’re furniture. I want to hit them. I want to kiss their feet.
“Chest wound,” Emiliano grinds out. “Left shoulder. She’s losing too much?—”
“We’ve got her,” one says, and I hate him for being calm. They cut fabric, slide oxygen over her mouth, start a line. “Ma’am, can you hear me? Squeeze my hand.”
Her fingers twitch. It’s enough to make me swallow and keep my hands where they’re told to be until they usher me back.
