Page 93 of Seeking Vengeance

Instead, I focus on the foreign debate around me, attempting to decipher the topic. “Ricchezza” and “Cruciale” are spoken numerous times. Matthew repeats “la mia risposta è no,” more than once.

Sometimes they converse in English, the sentences holding just as much insight as those spoken in Italian when there’s no prior context.

And through it all, Matthew’s hand remains on my thigh, no longer a sexual taunt, but a companionable reminder that I’m not alone.

I sip my coffee between their laughter and hostility. The ups and downs come thick and fast until Lorenzo heaves a heavy sigh to focus on me with fatherly kindness.

“Alas,bella,I fear my boys aren’t to be convinced.” He clucks his tongue. “Who raised such stubborn fools?”

I grin. “I could make a wry comment about all men and their stereotypical stubbornness, but now probably isn’t the time.”

He chuckles. “I think we would all appreciate your restraint.”

Matthew squeezes my thigh again and I take the gesture as encouragement. His appreciation settles in the air between us, our building bond tightening around me.

“You’ve barely eaten.” Lorenzo frowns at all the untouched food spread across the table. “None of us have.”

“It doesn’t help when you’re trying to tear us a new one.” Bishop reaches for a pastry and takes a bite. “I’m fucking starving.”

Matthew grabs a croissant. “Me, too.”

I admire his strong hands, eager to find out how they’ll be put to use later as the roar of a motorbike rumbles in the nearby intersection behind me, loud enough to momentarily deafen.

I wince, sipping the last of my latte, but hesitate in placing it back on the table.

Bishop sits taller, his attention cutting toward the sound. He stiffens as the thunder continues, the roaring muffler coming closer.

“What is it?” Matthew places the croissant on his plate and turns to look.

There’s no response. Nothing other than a poised hardening of Bishop’s stare.

I glance over my shoulder to the traffic lights, my gaze catching on the red that turns to green, but it’s the motorcycle cutting away from the street to mount the bicycle lane that raises my hackles.

“We’ve got trouble.” Bishop shoves to his feet.

Matthew’s quick to do the same.

I’m unsure whether I should follow, the latte glass now frozen in my hand.

I glance between the men surrounding me, all of them on edge. All now standing, including the two bodyguards at the farthest corners of our secluded area. Both of them rush forward as the leather-covered biker howls toward us, face unseen below the darkened visor.

“What’s going on?” I brace to stand, only to be stopped by Matthew’s steely grip clasping my shoulder to hold me in place.

“Stay down,” he barks.

I scramble to figure out what’s going on, glancing from one man to the next, then back to the biker who reaches around his back to swing an automatic weapon toward the hotel.

Screams ring out. Chairs scrape and scatter.

“Get down.” Matthew slams into me seconds before theratta-tat-tatof gunfire rings out.

I topple backward to the cement. My elbow takes the brunt of the fall. The latte glass shatters on impact, splintering around me.

I cry out as he smothers his body over mine, covering me head to toe. But the reverberation in my throat doesn’t make a dent on the nearby sounds seeking supremacy.

Women scream. Footsteps scramble. Glass smashes. More gunfire blasts the air. Closer. Louder. More threatening. Someone is returning fire.

Lorenzo is taken to the ground by his men. Shouts ping-pong around me.

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