Page 77 of The One
“We need to get out of here,” he continues, his eyes darting between the gaps in the cars, assessing the situation. “We need to get to my car.”
I glance past him at his Ferrari, parked two cars down. My heart slams against my ribs.
How?
My pulse is deafening in my ears as I picture us trying to dodge the bullets.
Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.
Mateo doesn’t give me time to spiral further. He waits for a break in the gunfire, a slight pause, then grabs my arm.
“Stay low and follow me,” he commands.
The moment we move, it’s as if the shooters sense it. Gunfire erupts again, louder, closer, like they’re trying to mow us down before we can even get halfway. My body locks up, but Mateo pulls me along, practically dragging me as we duck behind the first car.
Glass shatters behind us, bullets ricocheting off metal. My pulse is so loud I can barely hear anything else. But I focus on Mateo, on keeping up with him. He moves quickly, keeping us low, using every possible second we’ve got.
Just as we reach the second car, a bullet hits the ground too close, spraying concrete shards that sting my legs. I flinch, my breath hitching, but Mateo tightens his grip on me, pulling me closer.
“Keep moving!” he yells, his voice sharp.
We’re nearly at the Ferrari when a bullet zips past my ear with a high-pitched whine. Instinctively, I duck lower, a strangled gasp escaping me.
My heart stops beating.
That was way too close!
The cold rush of fear surges through me, and I fight the urge to freeze. Mateo pulls me forward, his calmness the only thing keeping me from falling apart.
We push on, racing the sound of gunfire, my chest heaving with every step, until finally we skid to a stop behind his Ferrari, adrenaline flooding every cell of my body.
I’m shaking all over. I’m pretty sure I’m going to be sick later, if we make it out alive.
“The car is bulletproof. I’ll open the door, and you’ll get behind the wheel and floor it. You won’t need a key. Just press the start button. I’ll hop in the back and take out a few of these bastards. They’re likely going to follow us.”
“What?” I screech.
“You can do it.”
“No! No, I can’t.”
“Mariella, you can. We’re sitting ducks if we stay here.”
“You don’t understand. I can’t!”
“Mariella, you–”
“I don’t know how to drive!”
Chapter Thirty
Mateo
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Of course Mariella can’t drive. Fucking Antonio hasn’t prepared her for anything in life.
“Right. Okay,” I say, running a hand over my face as my mind races for a new plan. Bullets keep raining down around us, a sound I’m used to, but Mariella isn’t.
