Page 62 of All The Way Under
My dad rubs my mother’s back, trying to comfort her at the wordstress,but we all know there is nothing resembling actual stress in her life.
The lines creasing my dad’s forehead worry me. He seems to have a lot on his mind that he’s not talking about. He carries the burden for the family, so perhaps it’s still just the mess I got myself in, and the impending circus when we touch down on US soil.
“I’d be happy to do so, ma’am. I’ll get to it right when we get home. I’m taking some time off when I return,” Brody replies. “The act itself is relaxing. What about you? What do you like to do to unwind?”
“I love reading. I would read a million books a day if it were humanly possible. Roger bought me a book on vacation when we were in our early twenties to pass the time at the beach, and it hooked me forever.”
Mom looks at Dad and smiles fondly. The only true gestures from my mom are the ones that involve my dad.
To my dad, she says, “Remember that book, darling? The black and gold cover with the grenade on it?”
My father grins in response.
“I’d have a book at the table right now if it were socially acceptable. No offense to you, of course.”
Mom does her best not to make him feel bad, but her best isn’t much.
Brody shakes his head, laying a hand on my thigh. “None taken.”
We order as soon as I can flag our waiter. I want to get dinner over with and spend the rest of the night with Brody. I plan to eat fast and ditch my parents as soon as we can, but the second I close my menu, the earsplitting sound of shattering glass echoes the expansive room.
The next popping sound confirms what I initially thought. Bullets.
The hotel is an old European structure. It seems to be a castle, with stone walls and stained-glass windows throughout. The restaurant is in the front, where the main street lies, so it’s easy to see the dining patrons from the window.
More bullets come whizzing so near that the air pattern changes next to my face. Brody is in action the next moment, tipping our rectangular table over, sending Mom’s twenty-euro bottle of sparkling water crashing to the marble floor. Other guests run from the room through a side door.
The scent of delicious food hangs in the air as I watch my dad and Brody eye each other in a knowing way, crouched behind the table. It’s hard to grasp what’s happening as everything around us seems to move in slow motion. Our security guards flank the walls, guns drawn and gaze trained where the threat looms.
“This table isn’t doing anything,” I hiss at my mom, who is having a full-on panic attack, mouth open, heavy breathing like some sort of dragon on acid.
Brody grabs my arm and pulls me over to him on the right side of the table.
“We’re moving to that stone wall,” he says, jutting his chin toward where one of the guards is firing a small pistol.
“That door,” he adds, speaking louder because my mother is screaming like an angry goat, while my dad tries to calm her. We’re the only ones left in here.
“Why didn’t we run instead of hiding behind a wooden table?” I scream, covering my ears when more shots ring out. “I understand,” I add, because I don’t want to be cumbersome. “Tell me when.”
Bianca is cumbersome,and there’s no stopping her.
“This is why I said they should have flown us to Capri!” Mom screeches. “No one ever gets killed in Capri. They just get divorced quietly!”
Her breathing sounds like a labored peacock.
“This wine was aggressively local. I knew we should have gone to a different restaurant.”
My dad has abandoned checking on our surroundings or communicating with Brody because he’s worried about my mother. She is in an agitated state.
“We’re going to have to make a run for it, darling,” Dad explains as I watch on, praying she gets her shit together before whoever is shooting into this room like a funnel reloads their weapons.
“Over there,” he says, slowly, pointing with a finger like he’s trying to show a toddler something magical. “Then we’ll move along the wall until we’re in the kitchen. There’s a door leading to the outside in the kitchen.”
How does he know that? Why did he have this place mapped out? Was he expecting this ambush?
“We have to run, though.”
“Run?” Bianca yowls. “I can’t run anywhere. I’m wearing Zanotti python skin heels and Wyndham self-respect, for god’s sake, Roger. Who do you think I am?”
