23. Marco
Marco
I drive my fist into the punching bag, and the metal frame screams as the bag swings away and back again.
Another strike, then a feint. My feet dance to the side, and I rush past the bag’s defenses to whip my elbow in an arc right at eye level.
The force spins me around, and I stumble into the adjacent bench with a yelp.
Conceding to gravity, I collapse onto the bench and let my body unfold along its length. Sweat coats every inch of my skin, and my ears ring. Most of the lights in Swarmer, the boxing gym I run, are off, but I close my eyes anyway, eager to escape into blackness.
Fuck. Maybe I should take it easy on the whiskey.
I snort. Too late for that. The bottle of Johnny Walker I picked up at the liquor store on my way here is half gone, and it’s only been an hour.
I haven’t had this much to drink in a few weeks, and now the alcohol is hitting me hard and fast. Even with my eyes closed, the room spins in a way that used to be familiar but now only throws me off-balance.
When I reopen them, the ring lurches and the punching bags seem to sway all on their own. The front desk seems relatively stable, so I focus on that instead.
This is what I get for trying.
Every time I do, I just end up paying for it.
A banging on the front door jolts me upright. Who the hell could that be? I should have lowered the security gate so the gym appeared closed. With the way I’m feeling, I almost wish someone would try to rob us just so I could unleash my pent-up aggression on a live target.
Rolling off the bench, I take a second to get my bearings before weaving around the equipment. I dodge a tire the patrons use for CrossFit every weekend, but someone forgot to put away a jump rope over by the weights, and my life flashes before me as it tangles around my feet.
To the tune of more banging, I hurry to the door, pulling my keys out of my pocket.
Thanks to the tint job on all the doors and windows, Swarmer goes dark once the sun sets.
It’s an extra layer of security my shadier customers appreciate, though a pain in the ass at the moment since I can’t tell who’s on the other side.
“All right, all right. I’m coming. Don’t get your boxers in a twist.” Grumbling, I pick through keys until I find the right one and twist it into the slot.
The lock disengages, and the door flies open.
At first, I gape, but once the shock wears off, I snort and brace my forearm on the doorframe. “What an unexpected surprise. What do you want?”
I head back to the bench. I need to lie down, and I doubt I’ll make it up the stairs to the apartment.
“Marco, come with me. Now.”
“What—”
Grabbing my waistband, she jerks me to a halt, and the door swings shut behind us. I whip around but stop short at the wild-eyed panic in her eyes. My mind blanks, and I hug her to my chest, noting the glint of her teeth as she sinks them into her lower lip.
“Did Aldo do something to you after I left?” So stupid. I never should have abandoned her like that. I swear, if that motherfucker hurt her, I’ll—
Bianca’s hands cradle my face, jolting me out of my murderous tirade. “Someone’s coming!”
I frown. “Like a stripper? It’s not even my birthday, Bianca.”
“An assassin.” Her pitch rises enough to alert every dog in the neighborhood. “Someone is coming to kill you!”
A beat of silence follows while the weight of her words tries to penetrate the fog of alcohol in my mind. Betrayal slices my throat. Bianca Conti shouldn’t have the power to hurt me this way. We owe one another nothing, yet here I am, recoiling from her statement like she’s suddenly contagious.
Her features spasm, and her nails rake my arm. “Marco, please. We have to go! If I found you this easily, Il Silenzio could too.”
I cock my head. Her curls have escaped their usual bun, and her cheeks are red and sweat-dampened, as if she sprinted to the gym.
As if she cared enough to abandon her perfect image to warn me.
The hand on my arm shakes. She’s never been this upset about anything, and yet the thought of me getting whacked has unraveled her careful control in a way that nothing else I’ve done so far has.
With a desperate, impatient noise, she shoves me toward the door. “Come on! We’re getting you to a medic. Silenzio may have already gotten to you.”
I frown, my head throbbing. “I haven’t seen anyone since dinner.”
“Making it look like his victims died of natural causes is a specialty of his, remember? You might have already ingested some slow-acting poison.” Her fingers entangle with mine, and she grabs the door handle with her free hand.
“We’ll take my car back. Don’t get behind the wheel of yours until we have a mechanic check it out. ”
Before she can exit, the door flings open, revealing a man in a black ski mask. Streetlights glint off the Berretta he aims at Bianca’s head.
A savage terror rips through me, narrowing my focus to a single thing.
Protecting my wife.
I grab her, hauling her out of the way just as the gun goes off. Bianca’s shrill scream cuts through the pain tearing through my bicep, and I glance up to see Silenzio bearing down on her. She tries to scramble away but collides with a bench press.
The barrel rises again, and I reflexively snatch one of the weighted plates off the bench next to me and fling it like a frisbee with my good arm. The metal crashes into the assassin from behind, and Bianca rolls clear as the gun jerks toward the ceiling, another shot ringing out.
Silenzio cries out and tumbles forward. It gives Bianca just enough time to dart past. The hem of her skirt tangles around her ankles, and she nearly goes down before I catch her.
The assassin recovers quickly and pivots, squeezing off two more rounds before he even aims. Each pop carries the reek of sulfur, hot metal, and a promise of looming death.
As Bianca scoots beneath the table in the waiting area, I grit my teeth and charge the son of a bitch.
Somehow, I evade a bullet and plant my shoulder in his midsection, propelling him off his feet in a practiced move.
I’m bigger than most, and once I take others to the mat, it’s usually game over.
But that’s without my arm screaming in agony and nausea threatening to upend the bottle of whiskey in my gut.
We both crash to the ground. I attempt to sit up, but my head pitches back as the gunman pops me in the face with the butt of his weapon. Stars burst in my vision. My nose throbs, and a crimson curtain of blood streams from my forehead.
When he gears up to strike again, I use my forearm to block. I slap the gun aside and, hopping onto my knees, throw a sloppy right hook that nevertheless rocks his world.
What kind of half-assed assassin allows himself to be disarmed so easily?
He fires off another shot before I can lunge at him a third time, the bullet embedding itself in a punching bag. He fired so close to my ear that the resulting explosion leaves me momentarily deaf. How many bullets has he wasted? Unless the gun’s modified, he’ll need to reload soon.
Just as I’m thinking that, the muzzle swings toward Bianca. With my heart in my throat, I dive to intercept the impending shot before it can rip her apart.
The weapon clicks, but nothing else happens.
He’s out, thank fuck, and I’m already halfway across the room.
By the time I pivot again, he’s escaped through the door, the glass shattering as the door slams into the brick wall.
I start to follow but sway and topple over, my injuries catching up to me all at once.
“Marco!” Bianca scurries to my side, her cool hands on my face an instant relief.
I don’t look at her because I can’t take my eyes off the figure retreating down the sidewalk.
I know I don’t have what it takes to save her if Silenzio comes back to play again, so I watch until he rounds a corner and disappears from my sight.