Chapter 34 Alina
ALINA
Islide the lasagna into the oven, the rich aroma of garlic and herbs filling the kitchen.
My heart is full as I close the oven door.
This is the first real meal I've cooked for Marco, and it's his favorite, so I'm determined to get it right.
No more takeout containers scattered around while I fumbled through harp practice over the past few Fridays.
I'd been way too anxious about playing to even think about cooking, but tonight, I'm feeling good.
Ya girl is actually cookin'.
"Perfect," I murmur, double-checking that I have the right temperature set. I've spent more time than I'd care to admit on this recipe, so I will not be burning it.
It'll be nice to actually sit down and eat a home-cooked meal. Marco's been under so much pressure lately—he deserves something special.
I wipe my hands on the silly, overpriced apron I bought this morning in an attempt to channel my inner Gordon Ramsay and take it off.
I glance down at my outfit—one of Marco's dress shirts hanging loose over black leggings.
The shirt still carries his scent despite being in the kitchen for so long, and it makes my chest tighten.
It's become a comfort thing, wearing his clothes when I'm home alone.
Who would've thought I'd be playing a domestic housewife for someone who started out as my fake fiancé—in his shirt, no less?
I take a sip of wine and set the timer for forty-five minutes. Since he's not here yet, and I've got nothing else to do, I might as well get in a few practice runs before Marco arrives.
As I walk over to the harp, I don't know if it's my cooking, his shirt, or the half glass of wine I've already had, but I'm starting to feel like I finally belong somewhere. Like a settled life with a person.
It could also be the fact that a month ago, I was terrified of letting Marco—or anyone, really—see this side of me: the musician, the woman who finds peace in melodies rather than political strategies.
I was afraid they'd judge, but he never has.
When I play, he looks at me like I invented the damn thing.
And honestly, it's amazing. Even when I mess up, he doesn't give me stern looks or roll his eyes like my father would.
No, Marco's face doesn't even show the slightest sign that he noticed.
That little unspoken support has been like a breath of fresh air to me.
I've even started playing the harp more, thinking about it more, allowing myself to be me—all because this delicious, dangerous man saw in me what I hadn't yet.
As a thank you, I've decided to write him a song since the campaign is over. I've never written anyone a song, but I couldn't think of a better first. As a bonus, it'll be a congratulatory song since I know he's going to win.
I settle in front of the harp, my fingers hovering over the strings. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and begin to play. My fingers dance across the strings, and I lose myself in the music while the timer ticks away in the background, counting down to another perfect Friday evening with Marco.
This piece has always been challenging, but tonight it feels different. Smoother. Like the notes are finally finding their proper home in the air around me.
I barely register the faint buzz of my phone on the coffee table, too lost in the music building beneath my fingertips.
I find a good flow, and then I hear my phone buzz for a second time. Marco's probably running late again. It's fine—this section needs work anyway.
Another call lights up my phone screen, and my eyes are open, so the glow catches my attention. I see Marco's name out of the corner of my eye but don't break rhythm. He knows I practice before our Friday dinners. Besides, the lasagna still has some time, and I'm finally getting this passage right.
The third call comes as I'm building toward the climax of the piece.
Just let me finish this part, I think, my fingers quickening their dance across the strings.
I'm so close to nailing it—the way the harmony weaves through the melody, how the bass notes anchor everything together.
It's nearly perfect, and I'm so close to perfecting this section, the one that's given me trouble for days.
I can't stop now, not when I'm on the verge of a breakthrough.
As I near the end of the piece, I'm feeling very happy. If I play this the same when Marco's here, he'll…
A sharp crack shatters the air. At first, I can't process what's happening.
Pieces of my beloved harp are suddenly flying through the air, and I feel a stinging sensation on my face as tiny splinters pepper my skin.
My beautiful instrument shudders violently, strings snapping with high-pitched noises.
"What the hell?" The words barely leave my mouth when another impact rocks the lower section of the harp.
The column splinters apart, sending pieces of the ornate woodwork flying across my living room.
Tiny wooden shards sting my face again, and something warm trickles down my face.
I instantly wipe it and pull my hand away—blood.
My mind refuses to process what's happening, stuck in a loop of This isn't real, this can't be real. The remaining strings twist and writhe like dying snakes, their tension released from the broken parts.
Time seems to slow, and the lamp beside me explodes in a shower of glass and sparks, the lightbulb popping with a sound like a champagne cork.
That's when my brain finally catches up. The realization hits me like a punch to the gut—these are bullets.
The muffled pops that I now recognize as silenced gunshots.
Someone's shooting at me.
My heart races, adrenaline flooding my system as survival instincts kick in. I need to move, to get down, to find cover. But for a moment, I'm frozen, watching my world literally fall apart around me in a hail of bullets, each one representing death barely missing its mark. My death.
My body moves before my mind can catch up.
Pure survival instinct takes over, and I dive for my phone on the coffee table.
The sound of splintering wood and shattering glass fills the air as bullets continue to tear through my living room.
I scramble on all fours, my heart pounding so hard it feels like I might have a heart attack.
I grab my phone and run toward the kitchen, bullets whizzing past me. Something grazes my arm, leaving a burning, bloody trail across my skin. I bite back a scream, fear and adrenaline propelling me forward.
More shots tear through the air around me, and I hear the crunch of bullets embedding themselves in my walls.
Go. Go. Go.
I dive into the kitchen, scurrying behind my kitchen island, a barstool hitting my shoulder. It's pain I don't even register.
I press my back against the cold tile of the island, trying to make myself as small as possible.
I reach for my phone with trembling fingers, nearly dropping it twice before I can get a grip.
I look at the screen, and my eyes widen in shock—there are at least five missed calls from Marco.
More than I thought. How did I not hear them?
The realization that he might have been trying to warn me overtakes me so much that I start to cry.
The sound of destruction continues as pieces of the shattering plates and glasses in the open shelves above me fall, covering me in shards of ceramic and glass. The acrid smell of gunpowder mixes with the aroma of the lasagna still baking in the oven, creating a nauseating combination.
My mouth is dry, my tongue feeling like sandpaper. I can taste the metallic tang of blood—whether from my split lip or the cuts on my face, I'm not sure. My entire body trembles uncontrollably.
I fumble with my phone, trying to unlock it. It won't recognize my face, so it takes me three tries with shaking fingers before I can enter my passcode correctly. I hit Marco's name, and a text field opens up.
I type the only thing I can think of. Two words no one ever wants to type out.
Please help
I hit send and wipe away tears.
I try to focus, but my thoughts scatter like the glass from my shattered belongings every time another bullet tears through my apartment. Then, the kitchen timer starts beeping, reminding me that just a short time ago, I was making dinner, wearing Marco's shirt, feeling safe. Happy.
Now I'm curled into the smallest target possible behind my kitchen island, praying each breath won't be my last.
The gunfire stops so abruptly that my ears ring in the sudden silence. My heavy breathing and crying sound impossibly loud in the quiet, and I press a hand over my mouth to muffle it.
Did they leave? Run out of bullets? Are they reloading?
Glass crunches beneath my feet as I shift position, trying to ease the cramping in my legs.
The kitchen timer is still beeping, a surreal reminder of how quickly everything went south.
Marco's lasagna's probably burning. The thought is so absurd it shows me just how much chaos is going on in my head.
Suddenly, new noise cuts through the quiet.
Thump.
My whole body goes rigid.
Thump. THUMP.
Someone's trying to kick down my door. The heavy impacts send vibrations through the floor. Panic claws at my throat.
Oh God, they're coming to finish the job.
I look around frantically for anything I can use as a weapon. Broken glass is everywhere, but nothing substantial. The knife block is on the counter, just out of reach. If I stand up to grab one, I'll be exposed. If they still have bullets, I'm dead. But if I stay here, I'm a sitting duck.
CRACK!
The sound of splintering wood tells me I'm running out of time. My gaze falls on a heavy cast iron skillet hanging from a hook nearby. It's within arm's reach, and it's better than nothing.
THUMP. CRACK.
The doorframe groans. It won't hold much longer.
I dive up, grab the skillet, and take cover again.
CRASH!
The door gives way with a sound like a gunshot. Heavy footsteps enter my apartment, crunching over broken glass and splintered wood. I press myself harder against the island, trying to make myself invisible.
The footsteps pause. They're probably surveying the damage, looking for my body among the wreckage of my living room.
"Come out, come out, wherever you are," a deep voice sing-songs in a thick accent. "I know you're still alive in here, bitch. I can smell your fear."
The footsteps start again, getting closer to the kitchen. Bile rises in my throat as I tighten my grip on the skillet, my knuckles white with the effort.
I will not die like this, I tell myself, trying to summon some of the strength that's gotten me through every other challenge in my life. I will not let this bastard win.
But as the footsteps draw nearer, doubt creeps in. What chance do I really have against someone with a gun?
I think of Marco, of the life we've just started building together. Of the song I planned on writing for him, the one he'll never hear now. Tears sting my eyes, but I blink them away. I can't afford to be blinded right now.
The intruder is in the kitchen now. I can see the toe of a black boot from my hiding spot. My heart is in my throat, and I'm certain I'm about to be discovered.
I grip the skillet tighter, ready to swing with everything I've got. It might not save me, but I'll be damned if I don't go down fighting.
"Found you," the voice says, and I know this is it. This is the moment I decide my fate.
I spring up and swing the skillet at his face with every ounce of strength I have. He fires his gun, but it shoots into the ground.
"FUCK!" he yells.
I swing again, and he starts muttering words in a foreign language.
Russian.
He tries to raise his gun again, and I swing so hard the cast iron skillet flies out of my hands after connecting with the man's face.
He goes limp and falls to the ground. I turn and start running, the damn timer still ringing as I run out of my apartment.