25. Valerio
VALERIO
The first burst tears through the glass above us.
I drag Federica off the bed and hit the floor with her under me. She makes one sharp sound, more shock than fear, and I cover her head with my hand while bullets chew through the wall where we were lying five seconds ago.
“Rio—”
“Don’t move.”
Another burst. The mirror shatters. The lamp explodes. Glass rains across the carpet.
I reach for my gun under the nightstand and curse myself for being slow. I was in her. I was soft. I was human for one hour, and Mateo Rubio found the window.
When the shooting stops, the silence rings worse than the bullets.
Federica is shaking under me. I hate that. I hate him for it. I hate myself more.
“Are you hit?” I run my hands over her fast. Arms, ribs, legs. “Fede. Talk to me.”
“No. I’m okay.” Her voice breaks. “You?”
“I’m fine.”
I’m not. I’ll be fine later.
I pull her into the bathroom and push her behind the marble tub. She grabs a robe off the hook with trembling fingers and wraps it around herself.
“What are you doing?” she asks as I yank on my pants.
“Ending this.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“No.”
“Valerio—”
I crouch in front of her and take her face in both hands. She goes still, maybe because I’ve never let her see this much terror on me.
“Stay here,” I say. My voice comes out rough. “Please. I can’t lose you too.”
Her anger falters. “Okay,” she whispers. “But you must come back.”
“I will.”
I kiss her forehead once, fast, because I’m already close to not leaving at all.
With that, I leave.
The corridor is chaos. Guards run toward the stairs. Guests scream below. Tito appears from the service hall with a gun in each hand and murder in his face.
“Bride?” he asks.
“Bathroom. Two men on the door. Nobody gets in.”
“Done.”
We take the stairs down. Alberto, Leone, Bruno, and Lorenzo converge from different directions, all armed, all still in wedding suits.
A wedding like mine has one advantage: when war arrives, the army is already dressed.
Outside, engines roar across the courtyard.
A motorcycle bursts through the front gate, followed by black vans packed with men. The rider removes his helmet and grins up at the terrace.
Mateo Rubio.
I know his face from photographs. Seeing it breathe makes the world narrow to one target.
He spreads his arms. “Valerio Greco. I came for my brother.”
Rafael. Of course, this is about Rafael.
And I’ve led the cartel straight to my wife.