Luca is on his feet before I can process what's happening. A gun appears in his hand. I don't even see where it came from. One second his hand was on my ankle, the next he's armed and moving.
"Stay." One word—not loud, but absolute.
He shoves me behind him. I stumble back, my wine glass falling, red spreading across the white rug. The movie keeps playing. Someone on screen is shouting in Italian. I can't hear what they're saying over the pounding of my heart.
The man steps forward into the living room.
He's tall. Broad. His shaved head is covered in tattoos that crawl up his neck. He's holding a gun. It's pointed at Luca.
The man says something in Russian. I don't understand the words but I understand the tone—cold and final.
Luca doesn't move. He doesn't lower his weapon. His voice when he speaks is calm, almost bored.
"You're in the wrong penthouse."
"L'Ombra." The man spits the name like a curse. "You're a dead man."
"Not tonight."
Everything happens fast.
The Russian raises his gun. Luca moves. There's a shot. I flinch, ducking behind the couch, hands over my ears. But the sound still echoes. Again. Again. Then there's silence.
I should run. I should hide. I should do something other than crouch here shaking. But I can't move. I can't look away.
Luca is standing over the body near the elevator. The Russian is on his back, eyes open, staring at nothing. Blood pools beneath him, spreading across the hardwood. There's so much blood. More than I've ever seen outside the ER.
This isn't the ER. This is Luca's living room, a man he just killed, and it's real.
Luca kicks the gun away from the Russian's hand. He checks for a pulse even though it's obvious there isn't one. Then he turns to me.
He's covered in blood. There's spatter across his face, his chest, his arms. His eyes find mine across the room.
"Are you hurt?"
I can't answer. I can't make my throat work. I'm shaking so hard my teeth are chattering.
He approaches slowly. The gun is pointed at the floor. He moves like I'm a spooked animal he doesn't want to frighten further.
"Francesca." His voice is gentle—too gentle for a man covered in another man's blood. "Look at me. Are you hurt?"
I shake my head without speaking. He exhales, relief visible on his face, and sets the gun on the coffee table before crouching in front of me. He doesn't touch me, just waits.
"I'm okay," I finally manage, though my voice doesn't sound like mine—it’s too thin, too high.
"You're okay," he says, a statement rather than comfort.
I look past him at the body on the floor, the spreading blood, the gun lying a few feet away.
"Is he dead?"
It's a stupid question. Of course he's dead. I can see he's dead. But my brain isn't processing properly. Everything feels distant and close at the same time.
"Yes."
"You killed him."
"Yes."
