Everything happens quickly. One moment, I’m wondering if maybe Rafaele isn’t exactly who I thought he is, and the next, I’m on the ground.
Someone is shooting up the restaurant.
“Fuck,” Rafaele growls, his body pressing down on top of me. “Stay down.” He’s already got a gun in hand, and he’s looking past me, trying to spot our attackers.
On the other side of the restaurant, the band trips over each other as they rush to flee through the emergency exit behind the stage. I’m about to yell at them to get down when one of them is shot in the back of his skull. His brain splatters everywhere.
Oh God. I squeeze my eyes shut as bile rises up my throat. I’m never going to unsee that.
More gunshots ring out, sounding closer than before.
The thought I might meet the same fate as that musician in a few minutes makes me shake uncontrollably.
“Cleo, look at me.” There’s no fear in Rafaele’s voice.
I crack open my eyes.
His gaze is hard, and he looks completely in control of himself. “I’m going to get us out of here. As long as you do exactly what I say, you’ll be safe. Do you understand?”
My ragged breath puffs out against his lips. “Yes.”
“Good.” Rafaele snakes an arm around my waist and rolls us toward the closest wall. I clutch onto his strong body, fear and adrenaline mixing inside my veins as gunshots ring out around us.
When my back hits the wall, he lets go of me and moves to a crouching position with his gun at the ready. The expression on his face sends a shiver down my spine. That’s the expression of a man who first killed at age thirteen. One who will happily kill again now.
“Crawl behind the bar.” He nudges me with his free hand. “I’m going to take them out.”
My lungs constrict. “What? We’re splitting up?”
“Go, Cleo,” he growls.
His eyes meet mine, and it’s like someone pressed the mute key on the chaos around us. My mind quiets for a brief moment.
“Stay down, no matter what you hear,” he says, his voice ringing in my ears. “Got it?”
I give him a shaky nod. “Okay.”
He waits until I’m safely behind the bar and then springs into action. My stomach does a somersault when he throws himself into the center of the dining room and starts firing back.
What is he doing? There’s nothing between him and our attackers.
A few screams ring out. Rafaele runs to a table and flips it, using it as a shield. I hope it’s thick enough to block the bullets raining down on him.
He peers around the table and takes a few calculated shots. I like to think I hear someone grunt in pain every time he fires, but that’s probably just my imagination. Then he runs forward and disappears out of my field of vision.
I can’t see what’s going on. Time slows to a glacial pace. I chew on my nails. Is he okay?
That groan. Did that sound like him?
The gunshots are farther away now. Funny how a few minutes ago, I hoped they would stop, and now I’m hoping they won’t. At least if they’re firing at each other, it means Rafaele is still alive.
I can’t believe he’s trying to fight back on his own. I can’t see how many men are shooting, but he’s definitely outnumbered.
My chest tightens.
He’s going to die.
Fuck.
I can’t just sit here while he’s putting his life at risk.
We need backup. And if anyone’s going to call for it, it’s me.
I glance across the room. My purse with my phone is on the ground a few feet away from where my chair fell when the shots first rang out. If I get it, I can call Sandro.
Fear wraps its icy fingers around my stomach.
I can do this. We need help. Rafaele won’t be able to hold them off for long by himself.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I dart out from behind the bar and lunge for my purse. My body slides along the marble floor and sharp pain blooms along my belly.
What is that?
There’s no time to check. Ignoring the pain, I snatch my bag off the ground and crawl back to my hiding spot. My hands shake as I take out my phone and dial Sandro.
“Hello?”
“Get to Il Caminetto right now. We’re getting shot at.”
“What? Fuck. Okay, I’m on my way! I’m not too far.” He hangs up.
I drop the phone to the ground and realize it’s gotten eerily quiet.
Heart-crushing fear seizes me. Is Rafaele dead? He must have run out of bullets. He only had two guns on him.
The backs of my eyes prickle. Stupid idiot. We could have tried to escape out the back together.
Someone is walking toward me. The sound of their deliberate steps resonates through the room, growing closer and closer. I press my back against the bar and jerk my knees close to my chest.
Ow!
I glance down at myself and my heart drops. There’s blood all down my front.
Was I hit by a bullet?
Oh no. No, no, no. Was I shot? I must have been.
I’m so pumped up on adrenaline, I didn’t even feel it.
The footsteps halt. “What the fuck?”
I yelp, my gaze jumping to Rafaele. Relief floods through me. He’s all right. Somehow, he’s got less blood on him than I do.
He sinks to the floor beside me, his jaw clenched and his face pale, and clutches my shoulders. “Why are you bleeding?” There’s a strange waver to his voice.
“I don’t know.” My throat tightens with panic. There’s so much blood. “I think I was shot.”
Rafaele growls a curse and pulls out a knife.
I grasp his arm. “Tell Gem, Vale, and Vince that I love them.”
He ignores me, his expression a mask of pure concentration. He cuts through the glimmering cords of my dress and pushes them aside to expose my belly.
My gaze jolts back up to his face. I don’t want to look at the wound. I can’t. I’m going to be sick.
“Rafaele,” I breathe.
He grabs a cloth napkin from the bar and starts gently prodding my stomach.
“Ouch.”
“I’m sorry,” he says gruffly. “I need to clean up the blood so that I can see what’s going on.”
I’m dying, that’s what’s going on. How many times did I say I’d rather die than be a mob wife? Now, here I am, less than one week into my marriage, bleeding out on the floor of a restaurant, and I feel like an idiot.
I don’t want to die.
“You’re not as horrible as I thought you’d be,” I squeeze out.
Rafaele doesn’t answer. He’s so focused on what he’s doing, I’m not even sure he heard me.
“Maybe if we had more time,” I whisper. “Maybe if I got to know you better…” I don’t know what I’m trying to say. Everyone says you’re supposed to have clarity on your deathbed, but I’m more confused than ever. I reach for his wrist and wrap my hand around it.
Finally, he lifts his gaze to mine. There’s no coldness in it. Just relief.
“You’re going to be fine.”
I shake my head. He’s in denial. He couldn’t defend me, and made men don’t know how to handle failure.
“I’m dying.” My voice is weak. I use the last of my strength to cup his cheek. “Don’t let my death haunt you for the rest of your life. You did the best you could.”
His lips twitch. “You’re not dying.” He presses a kiss to the inside of my wrist. “Who knew you were so dramatic.”
My brows furrow. I don’t understand. “What? But I’m bleeding. I feel faint.”
“Flesh wounds. You somehow got shards of glass in your belly, but they’re not very deep. A lot of people feel faint when they see blood if they’re not used to it.” He kisses my palm this time, ignoring that it’s covered in my blood. “How did this happen?”
Is he serious? I glance down at myself even though I feel like I might puke. There’s no bullet hole. Only glass.
“I-I slid along the floor to get my purse so that I could call for help.”
He huffs an annoyed breath. “Why would you do that? I had the situation under control.”
My cheeks grow warm. Everything grows warm. “I didn’t know that. I thought they were going to kill you!”
“It was just three guys. Two are dead and one got away.” His eyes flicker with amusement and something softer that steals the air out of my lungs. “You were worried about me.”
Worried? Was I worried? Yes, I was. But now I’m not worried. Now I’m just embarrassed.
“I didn’t want to die here with you,” I mutter. “I was only worried about myself.”
He shakes his head, his lips lifting at the corners. “You said I wasn’t as horrible as you thought I was. And what else were you trying to say? Something about us having more time?” He leans down and kisses my forehead. “Don’t worry, we’ve got all the time in the world, tesoro mio.”
His treasure.
A cocktail of emotions fills my chest. “Don’t call me that.” I try to shove him away, but he shushes me, his expression once again turning serious.
“Stop. You shouldn’t move too much, or you might lodge the glass in more. We need to get you cleaned up.”
The doors to the restaurant burst open, and men with guns stream in, led by a frazzled-looking Sandro. “Boss!” He jogs over to us. “You two okay? Nero is on his way.”
Rafaele covers me with his jacket. “My wife is hurt,” he says to Sandro as he lifts me off the ground and cradles me to his chest. “One of the shooters got away. Clean this mess and find him.”
Sandro rakes his gaze over me, but he can’t see the mess on my stomach under Rafaele’s jacket. Still, his jaw firms. “We’ll get him.”
Rafaele’s grip on me tightens. “I want him brought to me alive so that I can carve his body into pieces after I find out who he works for,” he says, his voice dangerously low.
Ice threads through my insides. If I were the attacker who got away, I’d be shitting my pants right about now.
“You got it,” Sandro says and rushes away.
Rafaele’s cold blue eyes drop back to my face. Cold on the surface, but there’s warmth inside their depths.
Feelings surge through my chest, raw and unwelcome. There’s no fighting them back. I want to look away, but I can’t move a muscle. He holds me captive with his gaze, peering so deeply inside of me that I’m certain he can read each one of my traitorous emotions as if they were written on a page. Nerves crawl beneath my skin. I’m not sure what I’m more nervous about—getting all that glass out of my skin, or what will follow.
Because I can already feel an impending change between us, the way one sees the ocean swell and knows there’s nothing that will stop the coming wave.
