Page 124 of Where Wild Hearts Dance
My eyes flick to Benito. His gaze is warm and filledwith love and… something else. Faith. He believes in me. He believes I can do this.
Lorenzo doesn’t seem to know I’m aiming his brother’s gun at his head, so I have the upper hand.
Then, footsteps, quick and firm, arrive in the doorway to the terrace.
In a blind panic, I draw my finger toward me. The force of the bullet flying from its chamber knocks me onto the floor. Firing a gun is fucking harder than it looks.
Lorenzo squeals in pain and another pop rings through the air.
Then another.
All I can think is my panic has set off a chain reaction and now we’re all going to die.
Bambi’s arm curls around my neck, muffling at least some of the shouts and screams.
In mere seconds, everything stops.
“Holy crap.” Bambi’s gasp of disbelief makes me unfurl from her embrace and twist to face the room. My gaze immediately searches for Benito. When it finds him, his gaze is still on me, as though he never looked away.
Terrified, I pan my focus to Cristiano. Relief floods through my body when I see he’s still standing. And unharmed.
Lorenzo is lying at his feet, blood running from his skull.
Vomit crawls up my esophagus. I did that to him. I killed him.
In a second, and somehow without me even seeing him move, Benito has me in his arms. “It wasn’t you,” he says rocking me into his chest.
“I-I don’t understand.”
Benito presses his mouth to my hair. “You got him in the ribs. It knocked him off balance. You did good, baby.”
Silent tears stream from my wide-open eyes.
I hear voices, distantly.
Luca’s down.
Matteo ran.
Where?
Out the gates.
Gone.
Motherfucker.
“Doesn’t matter.” Cristiano’s voice cuts through the murmurings, with earth-shattering heat. “Lorenzo Marchesi is fucking dead.”
I somehow focus my gaze enough to watch Cristiano kick the corpse laying at his feet. Then he lifts his head and turns toward the door.
It’s only then I realize another stranger has entered the room. He doesn’t seem to be a Marchesi, since the gun at his side is still cocked and primed to shoot again if he has to. But neither is he a Di Santo. And I can also tell from his attire—dark jeans, black tee and leather jacket—he’sdefinitelynot a wedding guest.
“You gonna introduce yourself?” Cristiano barks.
Everyone’s gaze coasts toward the man whose frame is filling the doorway. So far, he’s nothing but a lethalsilhouette with a sawn-off shotgun adorning his right hand.
Then, from the floor where she lays sheltered by a hulking body, Trilby makes a sound like a dying animal. Nicolò rushes over and pulls the dead weight from my sister’s body. Then he shouts out two words. Two words that change everything.
