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“What the fuck are you doing?”

“Me? I’m helping. You’re shooting at ghosts. Let’s go. Dude! Later. Now, we run.” I yell at him.

“Dude?” His cream shirt is stained with all kinds of blood and dirt. He untwists my arms, and I slide down his back. When he turns to face me, as I put out my hand. “In all my life, Gingersnap, I’ve never been called dude.”

“Well, I’ve never stepped over sixteen dead bodies or been to Italy before. There’s a first time for everything, dude.”

I break into a run. He’s quick on my heels and I jump into the driver’s seat.

“No,” he yells.

“Tuck your murderous rage away for a fucking second and then you can drive. I don’t need you punching the steering wheel. Look, I own the car. Get the fuck in. Right now, you ride bitch.”

He slides into the seat, staring at me incredulously with a sly smile. “What happened to you?” he asks.

“You.”

I rev the engine and shift into gear. The sirens are coming from the left so I turn right out of the long driveway. I’m gunning it.

His voice is still a little reedy. “Slow down. Don’t look like we’re running from a crime scene.” I slow the car way down.

He scoffs and with each second, he’s a little more himself. “Ok, now you look like you’re trying too hard. Drive like a normal person.”

“I’m not a normal person. We’re both covered in blood in a convertible, and I seem to be fine with it. Not normal at all.”

“We should probably put the top up,” he remarks.

“You think? So glad your brilliant criminal mind is snapping back so quickly.”

“Is it really time for ballbusting, Gingersnap?”

“It’s keeping the panic at bay.”

Once over a hill, he steers the wheel to the side of the road. He removes his shirt.

“Here?”

“No, woman. We need out of these clothes. Although, if you wanted…”

“There you are.” I slap his arm and get out of the car, trying not to look at his chest. I do not have time to look at that 10-pack of abs but maybe just a quick glance. What am I even doing?

So many dead people and poor Lou and now I think Mark is dead. Stop. Shove that down. Get this task done. Look away from his carved from marble chest and focus on no more bodies. My new motto. No more dead bodies in my living room.

I join Sal at the trunk. He dumps his toiletries bag then shoves his shirt and pants in it. I have to look away from his high, rounded ass grateful he has on boxer briefs for once. He grabs a button-down and jeans makes quick work of it. Then motions to me. He lifts my dress off and kisses my heart while I’m still trapped in it.

“I thought we weren’t doing that.”

“I’m not made of fucking stone. Have you seen your body?” My husband says.

“Dead people. Police. We have to hide.”

“Fuck that. We’re not hiding for anyone anymore.” He kisses me softly as he slips a new green dress over my head. My pretty chiffon—blood stained—lemon print dress gets smooshed in the toiletries bag. I pull the bloody towel out of my purse, and he puts it into his duffle. Then gestures at the gun. He doesn’t ask what it is or why; he just takes care of it. I watch as my calculating Don slides into place. Thank God because I suck at it.

The whole mess and the duffle get put into the spare tire wheel well. I kiss him quickly just to remind myself who we are, not who we have to be for the next ten-ish hours. I hand him the keys. He winks at me, and we drive off.

He doesn’t drive directly to Sorrento but north then over to the coast. The trip takes us about four and a half hours, and I don’t think I breathe a full breath the entire drive. The coastline sparkles, the country hums with its beauty, but I’m still on edge. Not quite the tour of Italy I was looking for but still picturesque.

“Do you promise me we can look at all of this when we’re not fleeing a massacre?”