“She’s having some contractions.” I acted them out a little for Laura’s benefit, then used the excuse to move around the car so that she and I were standing next to each other.
“Tuo marito lavora nei sottomarini?” the ringleader asked Laura, and I went to answer for her, but he silenced me. “I was asking her.”
Soon one of his friends switched to English. “He asked you if your husband works on the subs.”
Laura looked terrified but couldn’t tell a lie, so she gave him a small nod.
“What does he do?” the friend asked.
Say something dumb, I tried to telegraph to her. Special Services would have been great, or maybe Admin.
She swallowed. “He’s a nuclear engineer.”
I hung my head.
“Lo senti?” the ringleader said to another guy, carrying a backpack. “Un ingegnere nucleare.” Several of them started to laugh, and the guy with the backpack reached inside it and pulled out a bottle stuffed with rags and something that smelled a lot like gasoline.
“Shit, Laura,” I whispered, and we stood by, horror-struck, as the guy with the Molotov cocktail lit a match. Everyone moved away from the Chevelle, including Laura and me, and when we started to run, the ringleader shouted for someone to grab us.
I felt a pair of arms slip around my waist, saw a woman pin Laura’s hands behind her back, then watched as the guy with the Molotov cocktail tossed it—nonchalantly—through the car’s broken window. At that point, all it took was the flick of a match, and the Chevelle burst into flames.
For a second, I stared at the car in disbelief, but then Laura’s screams brought me back to myself. “Help!” she was calling to anyone who would listen, and I looked up into the windows of the homes that surrounded us to see if anyone was.
“Get them out of here,” said the ringleader, and I kicked at the guy who was holding me.
“Lasciami andare!” I was shrieking now, but whoever had grabbed hold of me was hoisting me into the air and off my feet, so all I was kicking was air.
“Calmati,” he whispered in my ear, and the voice was familiar to me, but I couldn’t figure out from where.
He had put me down near a retaining wall, and I looked for Laura, who was a dozen feet away, begging for mercy. “Please, I’m having a baby,” she cried.
“Non puoi tenerci così,” I spat over my shoulder, and in that same familiar voice, my captor said he wasn’t going to but that I needed to play along.
I froze then because I knew exactly who the voice belonged to.
You can have it any way you want.
It was Afonso, Teo’s friend from the bar. The guy Paul had wanted to punch in the face and Francesca had called an idiot.
“Aspetta,” I said, but he shushed me and, in a much louder voice, called me a whore. There was laughter from some of the men closest to us, but most everyone’s attention was on the car, which had turned into a fireball before our eyes.
“Ora,” Afonso whispered, and I could feel his grip on my waist loosen. I freed myself, then gave him a hard shove, which no doubt he had seen coming. Still, he fell over, and that gave me enough time to get to Laura, who was easy to tug free.
“Run!” I said, so she did.
153.
DOWN IN THE PIAZZA,we could hear the whistles of the Carabinieri and someone on a megaphone. There were shouts for reinforcements and the wails of sirens in the distance.
That was when I saw Tom Mueller’s old Fiat. The one he’d sold to Hollingsworth before shipping out. “Come on,” I told Laura. “We’ve got a ride.”
“What do you mean?” she said as she followed me toward the mustard-yellow Cinquecento.
The car was unlocked, as I’d known it would be.
“Get in,” I said. Laura, whose face was wet with tears, looked like she wanted to argue. “Just get in,” I said again, and this time she listened to me.
“Are we stealing this car?” she asked as I sifted through the glove box.
