25. Lina
Lina
I blink against the pale, silver light filtering through the sheer curtains of my bedroom.
Gio is still asleep beside me, his massive, scarred arm draped heavily over my waist, pinning me to his side.
His chest rises and falls in a deep, steady rhythm, the thick layer of medical tape around his ribs shifting against my bare hip.
My bed has never felt this small. Or this hot.
I run my fingers slowly along the curve of his shoulder, tracing the white circle of his sniper scar. A soft ache rises in my chest, a mixture of the raw physical aftermath of the night and a terrifyingly deep relief. We aren't hiding behind the lies anymore.
Gio’s eyelashes flutter, his dark eyes snapping open, instantly alert and scanning the ceiling before they lock onto mine.
"You're staring, piccola," he murmurs, his voice a gravelly, early-morning rasp that vibrates against my neck.
"I'm evaluating my investment," I say, my chin tilting up slightly against his chest.
He lets out a low, rough chuckle, his arm tightening around my waist, pulling me flush against his hard, warm length. "We have a meeting with Dante at the docks at noon. The New York captains are finalizing the transport security."
"They can wait," I huff, as I press my forehead against his collarbone. "I want thirty more minutes of quiet before your war starts again."
"The war doesn't wait, Lina," his lips brush against my temple with a slow, lingering pressure that makes my stomach do a dizzying loop.
Before I can answer, a sharp, graphite-colored static buzzes from the nightstand. Gio’s posture goes instantly rigid, the warmth draining from his face in a fraction of a second as he reaches for his secure satellite phone.
"Gio," Dante’s urgent voice cuts through the speaker. "The perimeter is breached. Matteo’s Boston cell didn't wait for the docks. They’ve blocked the harbor road."
My heart does a sudden drop, the morning warmth evaporating into a cold rush of adrenaline.
They’re here. Already.
"How many?" Gio demands.
"Three SUVs," Dante answers. "At least twelve shooters. They’re moving toward the alley."
"Lock the rear stairs," Gio orders, sliding out of the bed and grabbing his trousers. "Marco, cover the front glass of the shop. I’m coming down."
I scramble out of the sheets, my hands shaking slightly as I pull my heavy green sweater over my bare shoulders. "I'm coming with you."
"No," Gio snaps, his dark eyes locking onto mine as he fastens his holster. "You stay in here, Lina. The walls are reinforced plaster. It is the safest spot in the building."
"I'm not a package you store in the attic, Gio," my voice rises as I jam my feet into my canvas sneakers. "This is my building. I know every squeaking floorboard, every loose brick, and every exit. If they get into the shop, they’ll use the back stairwell. The lock on that door is loose."
"Lina, listen to me—"
"No, you listen to me," I interrupt, stepping straight into his space, my eyes burning with a fierce, stubborn defiance.
"My mother spent ten years hiding me from this world, and I just signed my name to a merger to fight beside you.
I am not hiding in a closet while they tear my coffee shop apart. We go together."
Gio stares at me, his chest rising and falling fast. Finally, a cold resolve settles into his features.
"Keep behind my shoulder," he commands. "If I tell you to drop, you drop."
"Agreed," I reply.
We sprint down the narrow wooden stairs, our boots loud in the quiet stairwell. When we reach the back of the dark shop, Dante is already crouched by the rear door, his Beretta raised.
"They're in the alley, Gio," Dante whispers, not looking back. "They have bolt cutters."
Suddenly, a heavy, metallic crash shatters the quiet morning. The glass of my front window explodes, raining down in a glittering, sharp shower across the emerald-velvet chaise lounge.
"Ambush!" Marco’s voice roars from the front counter, followed immediately by the deafening crack of his handgun.
My shop. My beautiful, quiet shop.
A sudden, hot rage burns through my panic, completely swallowing the fear. These monsters are tearing apart the only home my mother built for me, and I am not going to let them have it.
"Gio, the fire escape staircase is rusted!" I yell over the sound of the gunfire. "If they try to come down the third-floor landing, the weight will collapse the iron!"
"Dante, watch the fire escape!" Gio commands, his SIG Sauer barking three quick rounds toward the front entrance as a man in a dark gray coat lunges through the broken window.
The shooter takes two rounds directly to the chest, his body flinging backward onto the wet sidewalk.
"Enzo, cover the cellar hatch!" Dante shouts, his weapon firing a rapid succession of shots toward the alley.
I crouch behind the heavy dark wood of my counter, my fingers digging into the polished surface.
Think, Lina. Use your head.
I look at my espresso machine, at the thick copper steam wand. It’s fully pressurized, the gauge hovering at a dangerous, boiling slant.
A man with a scarred face and a heavy leather jacket bursts through the side door, his gun leveled directly at Gio’s back. Gio is pinned behind a brick column, exchanging fire with two shooters on the street.
"Gio! Duck!" I scream.
I don't hesitate. I reach out, grab the heavy brass portafilter handle, and yank the manual steam valve wide open.
A blinding, roaring cloud of scalding, boiling steam erupts from the machine, hitting the scarred shooter directly in the face. He lets out a high-pitched, agonizing shriek, his hands flying to his eyes as his gun slips from his fingers and clatters to the floorboards.
I don't wait for him to recover. I grab my heavy, cast-iron skillet from the hot stove ledge and swing it with the full force of my body.
CLANG.
The heavy metal connects directly with his temple. The impact is a solid, dull thud that vibrates straight up my arm. The man's eyes roll back, and his body collapses into a limp, heavy pile on my floor, sliding through a puddle of spilled hazelnut syrup.
"Lina!" Gio bellows, his face completely pale as he spins around, his gun still raised.
"He was going to shoot you!" I yell back, my chest heaving violently, my heart hammering against my ribs. "And he was standing on my clean floor!"
"You are a terrifying woman," Marco calls out from the front, his teeth bare in a wild, adrenaline-fueled grin as he fires another round.
A second shooter lunges through the smoke, his rifle aiming at Gio. But before he can pull the trigger, Dante’s shotgun unleashes a thunderous blast that tears through the wooden bookshelves behind him. Paperbacks and shredded pages rain down like snow, covering the wet floorboards.
"Matteo sends his regards, enforcer!" a voice screams from the alley. "The Salvatore girl dies today!"
Matteo. The name makes my blood run cold, but my jaw hardens into steel.
"Your uncle is a coward!" I scream back, my voice echoing off the brick walls. "He has to send twelve men just to fight a librarian! Tell him to come face me himself!"
"Lina, don’t rage-bait the mercenaries!" Gio growls, pulling me behind his broad shoulder as another volley of bullets chews through the counter.
"They're ruining my books, Gio!" I sob, a sudden wave of vulnerability crashing through my anger as I see the shredded pages of my gothic novels scattered in the blood and mud. "My mother built this place. It's all I have left of her."
Gio’s eyes soften for a fraction of a second, a dark, heavy protective warmth replacing the enforcer's ice. He reaches out, his bloody hand gently cupping the side of my neck.
"We will rebuild it, piccola," he whispers, his voice deep and steady over the sound of the rain and the sirens beginning to wail in the distance. "Every single shelf. I promise you."
"You better," I answer, my grip on his sleeve tightening. "Because I'm not running anymore."
"Neither am I," he murmurs, his jaw setting as he turns back to the shattered front window, his SIG Sauer ready to end the war.
The smoke begins to clear, the remaining shooters retreating down the alley as the sound of police sirens draws closer. The wail bounces off the wet brick of the alleyway, a rising, metallic scream.
Inside the ruined shop, the air is a suffocating mix of gunpowder, burnt cinnamon, and the sharp, chemical stench of the punctured espresso boiler.
I stand in the middle of the debris, my fingers still wrapped so tightly around the handle of my cast-iron skillet that my palm is entirely numb.
Shredded pages cover the wet floorboards like a mocking layer of snow, some of them already turning grey and soggy in the puddles of spilled hazelnut syrup.
My mother spent years hiding me so I would never have to see blood.
"Lina," Gio’s voice cuts through the ringing in my ears, low and tight. He is leaning against the ruined front counter, his left hand pressed hard against his right ribs where a fresh streak of red is blooming through his dark sweater. "Put the skillet down."
"My windows are gone," I cry, as I slowly let the heavy iron drop, the metal clanging against a broken piece of the espresso machine. "He ruined the fiction section, Gio."
"We will buy new ones," he assures, stepping over a pile of shattered glass to reach me. His dark eyes scan my face, my neck, my arms, his touch surprisingly gentle as his bloody fingers brush a stray curl behind my ear. "Are you hit?"
"No," I respond as I look at the dark blood on his sweater. "But you are."
"It is a graze," he murmurs, his jaw clenching as he draws a shallow breath.
Before I can answer, the rear door of the shop clicks open. Dante steps through the threshold, his black wool coat damp with rain, his severe face pale under the emergency lights.
"Matteo’s personal vessel is still at slip four," Dante announces, his voice carrying urgency. "He didn't run when the SUVs retreated. He’s holding the harbor master's office. He’s going to burn the pier warehouses to cover his slip."