Page 146 of Dirty Mafia Torment
“We can head back to the villa and doze by the pool?”
“Perfect,” I reply, keeping my tone light. “But first, we’ll redecorate.”
Men in tow, we head back to the cars. I don’t relax until the glass is between us and the street, and the cars are pulling away from the curb.
We’re halfwayaround the square when the cars are forced apart by the Polizia Municipale, directing a chaotic swirl of pedestrians and traffic. A curse slips from our driver’s lips as he jerks the wheel, veering onto the next street.
Riley’s voice cuts through the tension. “There’s the pink pig.”
I catch sight of it etched on the butcher shop window.
“This road ends at a church,” Riley warns the driver. “Dead end.”
The man beside me places his gun on his lap, a cold calm settling over the car.
Don’t panic. The driver will reverse, loop back, and we’ll slip away. But a knot tightens deep in my stomach anyway.
I slide my hand into my purse, pull out my pistol, and tuck it inside my waistband. Maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe not.
At the foot of the church, the driver shifts into reverse. The moment we swing back toward the square, they move.
A dozen men in black, fast as shadows, sprint down the street. Guns raised, locked on us.
No. No. No.
“Get down!” Sandro’s man yells.
Riley and I dive low, heads tucked tight as bullets tear into glass. The windows shatter but hold, but we’re pinned down.
“There’s no way out,” the driver shouts. “Take them! I’ll cover.”
He spins the car hard, passenger side toward the church, then the door nearest me flies open.
“Keep your heads down until we’re inside.”
I don’t wait. I’m on my feet before the words finish.
Riley scrambles, snatches something beneath the seat, then bolts after me.
We race slightly in front of Sandro’s man toward the heavy wooden doors. Bullets hum past like angry hornets until a searing pain blooms in my arm.
I clutch it, fingers slick with blood. A nick or worse?
The few villagers unfortunate enough not to be at the fair scatter, parting like a broken wave. The dark figures behind gaining ground.
Suddenly, the man shielding us explodes, his head blasting apart and spraying Riley and me with brains and blood.
Neither of us stop. Neither of us cry out. She recognizes it as well. The Life is brutal, and the weak flounder.
Push back the fear. Stay strong.
Riley grabs my hand like she can hear my thoughts.
We sprint up the steps toward the enormous wooden doors.
Silence descends, thick with terror and ripe with fear.
At the top, panting, we shove open the doors.
