Chapter 18
I 've been driving for over an hour, taking a circuitous route to throw off any potential tail. The needle on the gas gauge dips dangerously close to empty and I feel Melania shifting uncomfortably in the passenger seat.
"We need to stop," I announce, scanning the upcoming exit for a suitable gas station. "Fuel's low."
Melania nods, relieved. "Good. I need a bathroom."
I choose a small gas station with minimal security cameras—old enough to have blind spots but not so decrepit that we'd stand out. I pull up to a pump shielded from the entrance, positioning the car for a quick exit if needed.
"Wait," I say as Melania reaches for the door handle. My hand automatically goes to her wrist, stopping her. Her pulse beneath my fingers sends an unwelcome jolt through me. "We don't separate."
Her eyes meet mine, questioning but not arguing.
"I'll wait outside the bathroom, then we go into the store together." I release her wrist but maintain eye contact. "Stay close to me at all times."
"I'm not planning to make a run for it, if that's what you're worried about," she says, her voice muted. "Where would I even go?"
I don't answer that. Instead I exit the car, scanning our surroundings efficiently. No suspicious vehicles. No one lingering too long. Just the usual bored cashier visible through the window.
Melania steps out, still wearing my oversized shirt, her hair pulled into a tight ponytail. Even disheveled and tired, she commands attention—the kind that's dangerous in our situation.
"Head down," I say.
We move in tandem toward the convenience store entrance. I'm hyperaware of every movement around us—the truck driver filling up two pumps over, the flickering fluorescent lights, the security camera with its tell-tale blind spot near the corner of the building.
"I'll be right outside," I tell her as we reach the women's restroom door.
She nods, slipping inside while I position myself against the wall, one hand resting near my concealed weapon. My eyes never stop moving, cataloging every detail of our locale, identifying threats and escape routes by instinct.
I don't feel anyone watching us but that means nothing. Raymond's resources are extensive and Antonio's reach is legendary. The sooner we finish this stop and get back on the road, the better.
She emerges from the bathroom and I guide her into the store, holding her hand. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting harsh shadows across the cramped aisles. My eyes scan each corner, each reflective surface, cataloging potential threats.
"Get whatever you need quickly," I murmur, speaking low enough that only she can hear. "Just to cover your hunger, we are going to eat later."
Melania nods, moving toward a display of protein bars. I stay close, maintaining a protective position while appearing casual to anyone watching. The store is nearly empty—just us, a cashier thumbing through her phone, and a man browsing magazines near the front.
We're scanning the drink options when a commotion erupts at the register.
"Empty the fucking register! Now!" A man's voice, hard and desperate.
I instantly still, my hand moving to the weapon concealed at my waistband. Fuck. Not what we need right now.
"Alessio—" Melania whispers, her eyes wide.
"Stay behind me," I order, already calculating our exit strategy. We need to leave. Now.
The sound of heavy footsteps is my only warning before pain explodes across my abdomen. A man appears from the back aisle, driving his fist into my stomach. I manage to shove Melania away from us before the attacker can grab her.
"Run!" I growl, drawing my gun in one fluid motion.
The attacker lunges again. I sidestep and fire, the sound deafening in the confined space. He drops, blood blooming across his chest.
Melania runs to me and I grab her arm, pulling her close. "Stay with me."
The shelving blocks our view of the front counter but I hear the first man shouting, panic edging his voice. We need to move. The cashier's terrified whimpers cut through the bedlam.
I edge forward, keeping Melania behind me. Through a gap in the shelves I spot him—gun pressed against the cashier's temple.
"Please," the woman sobs. "I have kids."
I don't hesitate. One clean shot and he crumples, his weapon clattering to the floor.
"Down," I command Melania, pushing her toward the floor. "Crawl to the counter."
She drops to her knees without question, moving quickly beneath the cashier's desk. I follow, positioning myself between her and the fallen gunman, retrieving his weapon.
"Stay here," I tell her, my voice hard. "I need to check the back."
The store's too quiet. These idiots weren't working alone.
I rise slightly, scanning the rear of the store. Storage room door ajar. Movement inside.
"Alessio!" Melania's scream tears through the air.
I spin as a gunshot rips through the space.
Time slows to a crawl.
The gunman’s weapon skitters across the linoleum floor. My body moves before my mind can catch up, fingers wrapping around the cold metal of the fallen gun. The weight of it shocks me—heavier than I imagined, solid and deadly in my inexperienced grip.
A flicker of movement catches my eye. Behind Alessio, emerging from the shadows of the storage room, a third man raises his weapon. Alessio doesn't see him. Can't see him.
My pulse rages in my ears. The man's finger tightens on the trigger. His eyes—cold, empty—lock with mine for a fraction of a second.
"Alessio!" My scream tears through the air, raw and desperate.
My hands rise, the gun trembling between my palms. I've never fired a weapon before. Never imagined I would. The barrel wavers as I squeeze the trigger.
The recoil slams through my wrists, up my arms, jolting me backward. The sound is deafening, echoing through the small store like a physical force.
The man jerks violently, a look of surprise crossing his face before he crumples to the ground.
The gun slips from my fingers, clattering to the floor. My hands shake uncontrollably as the reality of what I've just done crashes over me. I've taken a life. Ended someone's existence with the pull of a trigger.
Alessio spins around, his weapon raised, eyes wild as they dart between me and the fallen attacker. For a moment, we simply stare at each other across the wreckage of the convenience store.
"Melania." My name on his lips sounds like a question.
I try to speak but no words come. My breath catches in my throat, lungs refusing to function. The metallic scent of blood fills the air, making my stomach lurch.
Alessio moves toward me, stepping over debris, his eyes never leaving mine. Time still feels wrong—stretched and distorted. Each step he takes seems to happen in slow motion, yet suddenly he's there, right in front of me.
"Breathe," he commands, his voice cutting through the fog in my brain.
I suck in a ragged breath, then another. My mother's ring digs into my finger as I twist it frantically.
"I killed him," I whisper, the words barely audible. "I killed someone."
I killed someone.
The thought circles in my mind, drowning everything else. My hands won't stop shaking. The echo of the gunshot still rings in my ears. The man's face as he fell—surprised, almost confused—burns behind my eyelids every time I blink.
Strong arms suddenly encircle me, lifting me off the ground. Alessio. He's saying something but his words sound distant, underwater. My body feels disconnected, floating.
"We need to go. Now." His voice finally breaks through as he carries me out of the store, past the bodies, through the door.
The night air soothes my face, cool against my hot skin. Alessio moves with purpose, cradling me against his chest like I weigh nothing. The car door opens and he places me in the passenger seat with surprising gentleness. He fastens the seat belt too.
In seconds he's behind the wheel, engine roaring to life. The tires squeal as we peel out of the gas station, the force pushing me back into the seat.
"Breathe, Melania." Alessio's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. "You need to breathe."
I realize I've been holding my breath, lungs burning for air. I gasp, the oxygen rushing in making me dizzy.
"That's it. Again. In through your nose, out through your mouth."
The speedometer climbs as Alessio pushes the car harder, putting distance between us and what just happened. My hands twist my mother's ring frantically, the metal band scraping my skin.
"Focus on me, piccola . Focus on my voice." Alessio reaches across the console, his hand finding mine, stilling the frantic movement. "It was self-defense. You understand? He would have killed me and then you too. You saved my life."
Tears stream down my face, hot and unstoppable. I can't form words, can't respond.
Alessio's hand leaves mine to punch buttons on the dashboard. Suddenly the car fills with the delicate notes of Debussy's Clair de Lune —from the classical station he remembered I liked.
"Concentrate on the music," he instructs, his voice gentler than I've ever heard it. "Feel how it rises and falls. Breathe with it."
I try to focus on the familiar melody, letting it wash over me. My breathing gradually slows to match the tempo of the piece.
"It was self-defense," Alessio repeats, eyes flicking between me and the road ahead. "You did what you had to do. You need to focus now. Stay with me."
The lights of the highway blur through my tears as Alessio steers with one hand, the other pressing his phone to his ear. His voice cuts through the classical music, sharp and urgent, but the words sound garbled to my ears, like he's speaking underwater.
"...immediate extraction... no, compromised... two down, possibly three..."
I can't focus on his conversation. My mind keeps replaying the moment in vivid detail—the weight of the gun, the resistance of the trigger, the man's expression as the bullet struck him. Did I kill him? Is he dead or just wounded? My stomach twists violently at the thought.
This isn't me. I'm Melania Lombardi, who cried for a week when I accidentally stepped on a mouse in our summer villa. Who donated to animal shelters instead of buying clothes. Who couldn't even watch horror movies without covering my eyes.
Now I've shot someone. Actually pulled a trigger and watched a human being fall.