My heartbeat tripped into overdrive, pounding in my temples and throat, as my breathing went fast and shallow, but somehow sounded loud as a thunderclap in my own ears, making me irrationally fearful that if someone got into the house, the sound of my breathing behind a mostly closed door would give me away in a second.
I was acutely aware of Massimo’s quiet footsteps, moving away from the kitchen and toward the back of the house, likely looking out of the blinds, trying to see what was going on.
They’d installed motion sensor lights outside, but I’d overheard Aurelio telling Matteo that the security company had run out of the camera systems they used on all the Grassi businesses, so it was going to be another three or four days before they could come by and fully wire the house.
I watched as Massimo moved from the back of the house toward the front, his body more relaxed now that I was tucked away. It was almost like he had more concern for my life than his own.
Which went against, you know, nature.
But maybe it was a side effect of doing what Massimo did for a living. Which, from what I could piece together from fragments of conversation I’d heard, was the Family hitman.
If you made your living from death, I guess maybe you almost became desensitized to it. Even if it could potentially mean your own.
My stomach tensed into knots as I realized that if there were gunmen outside, that Aurelio was out there alone.
And that pop-pop-pop was probably a silenced gun.
If Aurelio hadn’t come inside, he had to be hurt, right?
Or worse yet, dead.
My mind flew immediately to Adrian, and Sofia, and Milo, and even Lucky who I’d only met briefly, and the other sister who I hadn’t met yet, but knew loved her brother just as much as the others did.
Tears, unexpected yet insistent, flooded my eyes at the idea of them mourning the loss of a son and brother.
I blinked at them rapidly as I saw Massimo’s shoulder from the living room where he must have been looking out the window.
He must not have seen anything, because he was on his way back toward me again when the door behind him flew open.
I couldn’t yell.
Even if I could, I would have been slower than Massimo’s reflexes. The ones that had him spinning on his heel and raising his gun at the same time.
I heard that same pop-pop-pop from before, a little louder when it was so close, and I felt my stomach drop as I watched Massimo drop down behind the kitchen island, his free hand clutching his leg, his handsome face contorted in pain.
No.
No.
This could not be happening.
But even as those thoughts formed, I saw the man.
Coming toward the pantry around the back of the island, making his way toward the wounded Massimo.
To finish him off.
It was the only thing that made sense.
I felt a moment of sheer helplessness, a sensation that made my lower lip tremble and sweat start to bead up on the back of my neck.
But I couldn’t be helpless.
I couldn’t stand by and watch a man I’d grown to like get murdered in front of me.
That couldn’t happen.
How could I explain that to Matteo? To Luca? To Massimo’s mom and siblings, of which, it seemed, there were many?
I couldn’t
I couldn’t do that.
I had to do something.
My hand tightened on the handle of the cast iron skillet, feeling the weight of it, knowing it could do some damage.
I wasn’t helpless.
I had a makeshift weapon.
And I had the element of surprise.
I could at least try.
I had to at least try.
Taking a slow, deep breath, I grabbed the skillet with both hands to be able to use more force, and slammed my hip into the pantry door.
The guy registered the sound, even started to turn, but it was too late.
I was swinging.
Did I miss slightly?
Sure.
The pan slammed hard into the side of the man’s head right behind his ear.
Pain shot up my bruised ribs, but I barely registered it as the satisfaction of watching a grown man—a potential killer, at that—crumpled to the ground.
“Nice aim, babe,” Mass said, voice tense, tight.
My gaze slid in his direction, seeing how pale he was looking, how sweaty his face was getting.
“You need—“
“Listen,” Massimo cut me off. “This isn’t like the movies. No one stays passed out for like twenty minutes. He is going to wake up, and you are not going to be able to clock him again. And I can’t get up,” he said, jaw tight at the last part, hating to admit to any sort of frailty. Meanwhile, the man was freaking shot. I wasn’t sure I would even be able to form coherent sentences if I’d been shot.
“Okay,” I said. “I need to call Matteo.”
“No, listen. You need to go rip that hideous fucking vinyl shower liner off the tub in the spare bathroom. Do it,” he added when I went to question him.