CHAPTER 23
ANGELO P.O.V.
I take the hairpin turn too fast, the stolen Lancia groaning like a dying animal in the thin mountain air.
My knuckles are white on the steering wheel, rigid, because I can still smell her skin on my hands.
Last night fucked me up. She sat there in the dirt and admitted she didn't want to go back.
That confession stripped away every piece of clinical detachment I had left.
I was supposed to use her to tear the Silvestri legacy down to the studs, but now my brain is a goddamn war zone.
I keep checking the rearview mirror. Not to look for tailing headlights.
Just to catch the reflection of her honey-amber eyes.
"The road gets worse before it gets better," I tell her, my voice rougher than I want it to be. "Don't look back at the coast. There's nothing left for you there."
She sits in the passenger seat, staring out at the scorched Sicilian scrub brush, her head lolling slightly against the glass. The silence in the car is suffocating, broken only by the vibrating hum of the floorboards and the dry sirocco wind whistling through the cracked window.
"You're too quiet," I mutter. I reach out and violently adjust the side mirror with a sharp, jerky snap when I realize I’ve been staring at her for too long.
Weakness out here in these mountains is a death sentence, and the memory of her hair slipping between my fingers last night is making me weak.
We hit a massive pothole that rattles my teeth.
Without thinking, I reach straight across the center console.
I clamp my hand onto the back of her neck, my thumb tracing the sharp line of her jaw to steady her against the violent bounce of the suspension.
It’s an excuse. The touch isn't just to anchor her; it’s a claim.
My calloused palm dragging against her soft skin sends a jolt straight to my gut.
I’d rather die than let Alessio drag her back to that estate.
Fiorella doesn’t flinch. She just leans into my palm, her skin burning hot against my grip. She’s leaning into me like I’m the only fixed point in her fucked-up world. Cazzo, I’m supposed to be her nightmare, not her anchor.
"I’ve got you," I say, my thumb pressing harder into her pulse point. "Stay awake, Fiorella. We aren't safe yet. Your brother won't stop at the tree line."
The road abruptly narrows ahead, wedging into a tight ledge trapped between a sheer limestone cliff and a sharp, deadly drop-off.
My instincts flare like a lit match. There's a pile of grey boulders and a massive, splintered pine tree lying dead across the dirt, completely blocking the path.
Trees don't fall like that in this weather.
I kill the engine. The sudden, heavy silence is deafening.
The smell of pine resin and hot rubber fills the cabin.
My right hand immediately drops to the Beretta on my hip.
I start tapping my fingers rhythmically on the top of the steering wheel.
Tap, tap, tap. A nervous fucking tick I only get when I know a bomb is about to go off.
"Something’s wrong," I say. "Get down. Into the footwell. Now!"
Fiorella drops instantly, her breathing kicking up. "Stronzo... it's a bottleneck."
I pop my door open just a crack, using the armored steel frame as a shield. The crunch of gravel under my boots sounds like glass breaking. I taste copper in the back of my throat, my eyes scanning the blinding glare of the sun on the ridgeline five hundred feet above us.
"Don't move until I tell you," I order her, my voice dropping to a dead calm. "If I start running, you follow my shadow. Do you understand? Close your eyes. If the glass breaks, you don't want it in your face."
I spit a loose piece of tobacco out the crack of the door onto the dry earth.
My eyes lock onto the shadows of the rocks above.
It’s too quiet. Even the cicadas are dead.
I shouldn't have brought her this way. I was thinking about the shortcut, thinking about getting her alone again, not the tactical risk.
Then I see it. A needle-thin flash of light from the western ridge. It’s not a car mirror. It’s the focused, lethal glint of a Leopold sniper scope.
"Sniper!" I roar. "Cazzo!"
The first shot cracks like a bullwhip. The windshield spiderwebs into a million white lines instantly.
I don't wait for the second round. I lunge back into the car, grabbing Fiorella by the shoulder and violently hauling her across the center console toward the driver's side.
I throw my entire body over hers, putting myself between her and the glass just as the second heavy round punches straight through the passenger seat where her chest was a second ago.
A rogue shard of glass slices across my cheek. I don't feel shit.
"Move, Fiorella! Move! Stay low, keep your head down!"
I yank her out of the driver's side door, our bodies tumbling onto the sun-baked dirt.
I keep my chest glued to her back, riding her down and acting as a living meat shield as we crawl frantically toward the rear tire.
I kick the car door shut behind us with my boot to buy us one extra inch of steel cover.
"I've got you, breathe," I grit out, feeling the frantic, bird-like rhythm of her heart hammering against my spine. "Look at me, look at me and nothing else. Puttana, they’re using armor-piercing rounds."
The single, calculated sniper shots suddenly transition into a chaotic, heavy chatter. AK-47s. I know that sloppy, metallic cadence anywhere. These aren't Silvestri's polished corporate guards. These are Calabrian dogs. The 'Ndrangheta.
"Calabrians," I spit, dirt gritting in my teeth. "They aren't here for ransom, Fiorella. They're here for the debt."
I throw my entire weight over her, pinning her flat against the dirt embankment.
I spread my legs wide and bracket her with my arms, creating a solid cage of muscle and bone over her smaller frame.
Ricochets scream off the car’s undercarriage above our heads, tearing chunks of metal into the air.
My back is completely exposed to the ridge, but I don't give a fuck.
I tuck my chin deep into the crook of her neck to shield her face.
"Don't you dare move," I command, my breath hot against her ear. "Stay under me. Stay small. I'm not letting them touch you."
She’s hyperventilating, her amber eyes wide and glassy with sheer terror.
The smell of her panic is a sharp, metallic scent mixing with the explosive roar of a bullet tearing through the empty gas tank.
If she freezes now, we're both dead meat.
I grab her jaw with one hand and wrench her face toward mine until our noses are touching.
I wipe a smudge of black grease off her forehead with my thumb.
"Breathe. With me. In and out," I demand, staring into her eyes with a terrifying, unblinking focus. "Look at my eyes, Fiorella. Just my eyes. I need you to run. Can you run?"
She gives me a jerky nod. I roll slightly to my left, just enough to clear my holster.
I brace my weapon hand against the rear tire of the ruined Lancia and send three rapid-fire shots up toward the muzzle flashes on the ridge.
It’s a complete waste of ammo at this range, but I need to suppress them.
I bite the inside of my lip hard enough to taste blood, using the sharp sting to lock in my focus.
"Come on, you bastards!" I yell. "Eat that."
I duck back down and aggressively yank the laces of my boots tight. I point toward a cluster of massive, ancient grey boulders sitting near the absolute edge of the ravine, twenty yards away.
"Those rocks. That's the goal," I tell her. The distance looks like a goddamn marathon through a crossfire. "Don't look up. Don't look back. One... two..."
We bolt. I run backward, my eyes locked on the ridgeline, squeezing the trigger of the Beretta to lay down a curtain of lead. "Go! Go! Go! Faster, Fiorella!"
Bullets zip past my ears, sounding like angry hornets.
My lungs burn in the dry heat. I deliberately stumble to my left, making myself a wider target to draw a sniper’s aim away from her path.
A heavy round kicks up a geyser of pulverized dirt right between Fiorella's feet.
She skids on the loose scree and starts to go down.
I lunge. I catch her by the waist mid-air and literally throw her the last few feet.
We crash behind the boulders, my momentum slamming my back against the rough granite.
The impact knocks the wind straight out of my lungs, and my arm scrapes hard against the stone, leaving a wet smear of my blood on the rock.
"I've got you!" I gasp. "Down! Get down!"
The snipers are hammering the top of our boulder now, raining sharp chips of limestone down on us like hail.
I ignore the tactical setup completely. I’m frantic.
I’m running my hands all over her body—feeling her neck, grabbing her ribs, sliding my hands down her legs, desperate to find the slick wetness of blood.
I cup her face with both of my hands, my fingers actually shaking.
"Are you hit? Tell me! Where are you hurt? Look at me, Fiorella, check your body. Is there blood?"
Realizing she’s unharmed, the adrenaline crashes for a microsecond. I slump back against the rock, pulling her straight into my lap. She buries her face into my chest, her hands fisting deep into the fabric of my tactical vest. I kiss the top of her head, inhaling the dust and sweat in her hair.
"You're okay. You're whole."
But the relief is a lie. Over the ringing in my ears, I hear the distinct crunch of heavy boots on gravel. They’re coming down the ridge.
"They're coming down. We can't stay here."
I risk a quick glance around the edge of the granite.
Two guys in black moving through the scrub brush on the left, one on the right.
They’re fanning out. We’re totally pinned against the drop-off of the ravine with nowhere to run.
A dead end. I drop the empty magazine from my gun and click my last spare into place, sucking my teeth.
"They’re flanking us," I say, grabbing her arm and pointing over the edge at the steep, dirt-choked slope dropping fifty feet down into the ravine. "There's only one way out, and you're not going to like it. Look down that ledge. That's our door."
I pull my spare combat knife from my boot and press the cold steel handle flat into her palm.
"Go. Now. Slide on your back," I order her. "I'll be right behind you. I'm just going to slow them down. Don't argue with me, Fiorella! Move!"
She doesn't move toward the edge. Instead, she drops the knife and grabs the front of my shirt with both hands, her knuckles turning bone-white. She glares at me, her amber eyes burning with absolute, feral defiance.
"No! I'm not leaving you!" she screams over the sharp crack of incoming gunfire. "You don't get to decide this, Angelo! We go together or we die here!"
Angelo. She called me by my fucking name. She kicks me hard in the shin when I try to push her away. A hail of bullets chips the rock two inches from my skull. There’s no time to argue. I grab her tight around the waist, let out a guttural roar, and violently shove her over the edge of the ravine.
"Forgive me! Keep your head tucked!"
I watch her hit the slope, the white silk of her dress tearing as she begins the terrifying, uncontrolled slide down the red dirt.
I pivot, exposing my chest to the ridge to lay down cover fire. My boots are on the absolute precipice. As I raise the gun, a sniper's heavy-caliber round finds me. It doesn't just pierce; it hits my left shoulder with the force of a swinging sledgehammer.
"Ugh!" I grunt, the world violently tilting on its axis. "Cazzo..."
The impact spins me like a top. The Beretta slips from my numb fingers, but reflex takes over.
I snatch it out of the air by the trigger guard with my right hand.
Blood erupts from my shoulder, painting the limestone a sickening crimson.
My left arm drops, totally useless. I stagger backward, clamping my right hand over the massive hole.
Hot blood jets out between my fingers, soaking my shirt in seconds.
"Not yet..." I wheeze, the pain a delayed, blinding explosion in my chest. "Stay awake, you son of a bitch."
I lose my footing on the crumbling edge.
It’s not a slide. I fall. I tumble violently over the ledge, crashing into rocks, tearing through dry bushes, and slamming against hard-packed clay.
The ruined meat of my shoulder screams with every impact.
The blue sky and red dirt blur together into a spinning nightmare.
I manage to shove the gun blindly into my holster as I roll.
"Fiorella!"
I slam flat onto the lower dirt ledge, ten feet above the ravine floor, face-down in a cloud of dust. The impact knocks the last bit of air from my lungs.
Before I can even blink, she is on me. Fiorella grabs my good shoulder and rolls me onto my back.
Her hands are already covered in my blood.
She rips a massive strip of silk from her ruined dress and jams it aggressively straight into the weeping hole in my shoulder.
"I've got you! I've got you!" she’s sobbing, frantic, pressing her entire body weight down on the wound to stop the bleeding. "Don't you dare die, Angelo! Look at me! Keep your eyes open!"
I look up into her dirt-streaked face. My vision is blurring, a cold blackness creeping into the edges of the sunlit ravine.
But above the sound of her crying, I hear it.
The heavy, rhythmic thrumming vibration in my chest. Helicopter blades.
Choppers. And they aren't police. Silvestri extraction teams.
I lift my right hand. My fingers are slick with my own blood. I reach up and weakly brush a tear from her cheek, leaving a bright red smear across her pale skin.
"Go... run, Fiorella," I rasped out, managing a weak, bloody smirk. "You're... beautiful when you're angry."
Her eyes widen as the shadow of the chopper sweeps over the ledge.
"They're here," I tell her.
The rotors are loud enough to vibrate the blood out of my chest, blowing a cloud of dry red dirt over us like a cheap burial.