Chapter 15 #2
The first round hits me in the shoulder. The second goes wide as I tackle Francesca to the ground, covering her body with mine. Pain explodes through my left side, hot and sharp, but I ignore it. I've been shot before.
I roll, bringing my gun up, and fire.
Vlad drops his weapon, clutching his stomach. Center mass. He goes to his knees, crimson spreading across his expensive shirt.
I stand, walk over to him. Francesca is calling my name but I don't turn around.
"You took her," I say quietly. "You put your hands on what's mine."
"She's just a woman," Vlad gasps. "You've started a war for a woman."
"No." I holster my gun and grab him by the throat with both hands. "I started a war because someone thought they could take from me and live."
I squeeze.
He tries to fight, clawing at my hands, but he's already dying from the gut shots. I'm just speeding it up. His eyes bulge. His face turns purple. I watch every second of it.
When he finally goes limp, I drop him and turn back to Francesca.
She's on the ground where I left her, staring at me. At the bodies. At the carnage covering every surface. Her eyes are wide, face pale. She's shaking.
"Did they hurt you?" I ask.
She doesn't answer right away. Just stares.
"Francesca." I move toward her. "Did they hurt you?"
"No." The word comes out barely above a whisper. She's looking at Vlad's body, at his purple face, at my hands. "You... you just..."
The warehouse is silent now except for my men doing a final sweep. Then I hear it—distant but getting closer. Sirens.
Sal's head snaps up. "Cops. Someone called it in."
"How long?"
"Minutes. If we’re lucky." He looks at my shoulder. "You're hit."
I try to help Francesca to her feet but she's not moving, just sitting on the concrete, arms wrapped around herself. The sirens are getting louder. "Francesca, we have to go. Now."
She looks up at me like she's seeing me for the first time. "There's so much..."
"I know. But the police are coming and we can't be here. Will you do that for me?"
She nods, but when I help her up, her legs barely hold her. I wrap my good arm around her waist, half-carrying her toward the exit.
"You killed them all."
"Yes."
"You strangled him." Her voice is flat, distant. "With your bare hands. I watched you do it."
"Francesca—"
"I'm an ER nurse." She's still staring at Vlad's body. "I save people. That's what I do. I save them. And you just..." She looks at her hands, at the blood on them from where I cut the zip ties. "There's so much..."
The sirens are close now. Maybe minutes out.
Sal catches my eye, jerks his head toward the exit. We're out of time.
I force her too look at me, focusing her view on me instead of the bodies. "Look at me. Francesca, look at me."
She does, slowly.
"I need you to walk with me to the car. The police are coming and we can't be here. Will you do that for me?"
"Get everyone out," I tell Sal. "Burn this place. Fast."
"Already on it."
Outside, the afternoon sun is harsh after the dimness of the warehouse. I can hear the sirens clearly now—multiple units, close. Francesca flinches at the brightness, turns her face into my shoulder. I can feel her trembling.
I get her into the back of the SUV, slide in next to her. One of our men is already behind the wheel, engine running. Other cars peel out ahead of us—my men scattering, disappearing into Brooklyn's streets like smoke.
As we pull away, I see the first police cruiser turn onto the block behind us, lights flashing.
Too close. Way too close.
The moment the door closes, Francesca pulls away from me, pressing herself against the opposite door.
"Don't," she says. "Don't touch me. Not right now."
I raise my hands, give her space. We navigate through side streets, taking a deliberately random route to lose any potential tails.
"Where to, boss?"
"Brooklyn. The family safe house on 47th." The one the Outfit keeps for situations exactly like this. "Call Doc Ricci. Tell him to meet us there."
Francesca is staring out the window, arms wrapped tight around herself. The blood from my shoulder is soaking through my shirt but I don't move. Don't try to touch her. Just sit here while she processes what she just saw.
The drive to Brooklyn takes longer than I'd like. Francesca doesn't speak. Doesn't look at me. Just stares out the window, shaking.
The safe house is an older Brooklyn Brownstone. It’s been an Outfit property for decades, kept off the books, used when soldiers need to disappear or recover. Good quality with basic furnishings, stocked supplies, and no connection to any of our names.
I help Francesca in. She lets me this time, but only because she can barely walk. Inside, I guide her to the couch. She sits, still not speaking.
Doc Ricci arrives soon after. Older guy, retired surgeon who does off-the-books work for the family. He takes one look at my shoulder and whistles.
"Through and through. You're lucky."
"Just patch it up."
He gets to work. I sit on a kitchen chair, shirt off, while he cleans and stitches. Francesca watches from the couch, but her eyes are distant, unfocused.
When he reaches for the needle and thread, she stands suddenly.
"I can do it."
Her voice is stronger now, more professional. Nurse mode.
The medic looks at me. I nod.
He hands her the supplies and steps back. Francesca moves close, her hands steady as she starts stitching. This is familiar territory for her—medicine, procedures, and things she can control.
"I saved you once before," she says quietly, focused on the wound. "With a gunshot wound in your shoulder."
"Different shoulder this time."
"You’re bleeding for me." She ties off a stitch. "You got shot protecting me."
"I'd take a hundred bullets if it meant you were safe."
Her hands pause for just a moment, then continue. When she's done, the medic provides bandages and she wraps my shoulder with practiced efficiency.
"Keep it clean, change the dressing daily," she says, her voice clinical. Then she looks at the medic. "He'll need antibiotics. That wound was dirty."
"I've got them in the car."
"Good." She steps back, looks at me with eyes I can't read. "I need to wash my hands."
She disappears into the bathroom. I hear water running. Then more water. Then more.
The medic packs up his kit. "She okay?"
"No."
"Sal told me what happened. Give her time.
Shock doesn't wear off fast." He heads for the door.
"I'll be back tomorrow to check the wound.
And kid? That woman just watched you kill a warehouse full of people and strangle a man with your bare hands.
If she's still here in the morning, you better know what that means. "
After he leaves, I stand outside the bathroom door. The water is still running.
"Francesca."
"I'm fine."
"You're not."
"I said I'm fine." Her voice cracks on the last word.
I try the handle. Locked.
"Open the door."
"No."
"Francesca, open the door or I'm breaking it down."
Silence. Then the lock clicks.
When I push it open, she's sitting on the closed toilet lid, her hands raw and red from scrubbing. Her face is wet—from the sink water or tears, I can't tell.
I kneel in front of her, careful of my shoulder.
"Talk to me."
"What do you want me to say?" She looks at me, and her eyes are haunted. "That I'm okay with what I just saw? That watching you murder all those people doesn't bother me? That seeing you strangle someone while I just sat there is fine?"
"I got you out."
"I know." She closes her eyes. "That's what makes it worse. You killed all those people to save me, and part of me is grateful, and part of me is horrified, and I don't know which part to listen to."
"Listen to the part that knows you're alive."
"I'm a nurse, Luca. I save lives. I don't..." She gestures helplessly. "I don't know how to be with someone who takes them. I don't know how to process what I just saw."
"You knew what I was."
"Knowing and seeing are different." She opens her eyes. "I can't unsee that. I can't unknow what you're capable of. And I can't... I can't pretend that this is normal."
I take her raw hands in mine, gentle. "Then don't pretend. Choose knowing everything. Seeing everything. Choose anyway."
"I already chose." Her voice breaks. "In that warehouse, when you told me to run, I chose you. I'm just trying to figure out how to live with that choice."
I pull her into my arms, carefully, giving her the option to pull away. She doesn't. She leans into me, her face pressed against my good shoulder and starts to cry.
Not quiet tears, but full-body sobbing—the kind that shakes you to your core, the kind that comes from terror and relief and trauma all hitting at once.
I hold her while she breaks, my hand stroking her hair, not saying anything because there's nothing to say that will make this better.
When the crying finally slows, she pulls back, wiping her face.
"I need to sleep," she says. "I need to close my eyes and not see... all of that."
"Come on."
I lead her to the bedroom. The room is sparse—just a bed, a dresser, a window with cheap blinds. She lies down fully clothed, curling on her side.
I lie down behind her, careful not to crowd her. She doesn't pull away, but she doesn't lean into me either.
"I love you," she says into the darkness. "I need you to know that. Even after everything I just saw, I love you."
"I love you too."
"But I'm not okay. Not yet."
We lie there in silence, her breathing gradually evening out. I think she's falling asleep when she shifts, turning to face me in the darkness.
"Luca?"
"Yeah?"
"I need..." She pauses, and I feel her hand find my chest, fingers spreading over my heart. "I need to feel alive. I need to feel something other than fear and blood and—"
I kiss her. She kisses back, desperate and hungry, her mouth opening under mine. This isn't gentle. This is survival, two people who came too close to losing each other trying to prove they're still here.