Celeste;
All regal, black, and sleek, the tires of the dark Rolls-Royce screech past at a controlled speed.
Only for one to be punctured by the loud bang of a bullet, making the car skid against the tarred road to a slanted halt.
Damn. That was some nice aim.
Gunshots litter the air in rapid succession—bang after bang—the atmosphere shifting with tension.
The car halts completely, the individuals inside suspecting something is wrong, I suppose.
Silent and laid back, I lean against the rocky hill, plain but completely out of sight.
We're at the outskirts of town, and intel from our very formidable ally reaches Greg just in time.
And the Giordano estate is still an hour and a couple of minutes from here.
Everything settles—the quiet calm before the storm. I pull away from my leverage, adjusting the hood of my sweats as I watch.
The driver's side door opens first. A burly, bald head steps out. He surveys the area with a well-trained sweeping glance.
"A chauffeur and security detail… how cute," I murmur to myself.
Angelo catches it. I hear a soft snigger from the comms in my ear.
I lean forward on the sloppy path surrounded by bushes. The coal-tar road remains clear.
The shiny bald man saunters to the punctured tire. He squats, assessing it, furrowed lines plastered across his forehead.
His fingers graze the ground—a bullet lying pretty after doing its damage.
He twists, veering to survey the area once more. Suspicion growing stronger.
I can't make out voices from this distance, but from his body language, he seems to be conversing with someone inside the car as he resumes his position.
He nods, his palm sliding to rest at his waistline, his fitted top lifting to reveal the handle of a barrel.
"They know," I announce, eyes still glued to their every move.
"Release fire," Angelo's command echoes in my ears, and I make sure to remain completely out of sight as constant firing sends bullets piercing through the air.
The chauffeur/bodyguard doesn't hesitate. He pulls his weapon free, firing at the invisible danger to keep his charge safe.
His attention divides—scanning the vicinity as he fires while simultaneously barking something to the person inside the expensive vehicle now riddled with bullet holes.
Veins map his bald skin, sweat dripping down his temple.
The backseat finally opens. A tall figure dashes out, his weapon stretched forward, ready to fight back as he stands by the other side of the Rolls-Royce, using it as a shield—but that doesn't make him safe.
However, before he can fully engage, his chauffeur shouts something to him. He doesn't seem to listen.
His aim stays forward, his features concentrated. As he fires, a spot in the bushes rustles—one of our men drops. Dead.
A Mafia heir through and through.
Together, they fire several shots until most of our men are reduced to nothing but lifeless bodies.
Angelo calls for backup, and the entire operation turns even more chaotic.
They realize too that we are gaining on them.
A shot is fired at Romano Giordano, his bodyguard almost going hysterical—conflicted between maintaining his stance or checking on his charge.
The bodyguard barks something again, repeatedly, as he exchanges gunshots.
The loud, shrill bangs turn almost deafening—so much so that birds flee their nests with ear-piercing caws and frantic chirping.
And the entire air reeks of gun smoke.
I think Romano finally listens.
With his hand pressed to his lower abdomen, blood leaking beneath his fingers, he rushes into hiding—a nearby bush that will work just fine for camouflage.
Not on my watch. "My turn."
With eyes locked on the target, I race through the sloppy ground, pushing past my speed limit.
Everything will be for nothing if I don't get him. Everything will fail.
And I know what it took to convince Greg of this plan.
I make my way to the other side, relying on three of my senses.
Muting the havoc wreaking in the background, I concentrate on my surroundings—ears straining to catch the faintest rustle from the bushes, nose searching for the strong metallic scent of blood.
"Gotcha."
Blood drops stain the debris and sand at my feet. A curling sensation flutters in my stomach and chest as I follow.
It leads deeper and deeper into a clearer area littered with giant palm trees and an uneven clearing.
The blood stops.
How? Where?
He couldn't have disappeared into thin air.
I stand in the middle of the clearing, scanning. My eyes brush over every path—high and low.
Nothing.
Damn. I lost him.
My skin itches with the feral urge to claw at anything in my way.
But then—the click of metal sliding into place makes my breath cease, my stomach plunge, terror pressing against my lower back.
"Who are you?"
Indeed, blood is thicker than water.
I turn to face him, mindful of his gun. He's fast, angling it to aim at my forehead immediately. I flinch.
My gaze first lands on his blood-soaked shirt, something wrapped tightly around his torso beneath it.
Oh. That's why the bleeding trail stopped.
I lift my eyes to his. "You're injured," I state.
"I fucking know that." His accent is thick, making his deep voice sound crueler than he looks.
"I—" I intentionally stutter, trying my best to avoid the irises that plague my existence.
They are all the same. How am I sure which one did it? Who ruined my life?
"I'm not going to repeat myself," he grits, pain seeping through his words. I see it in his grimace.
"Let me help you." I swipe a finger across my bangs, carefully checking if the piece in my ear is hidden.
He pushes the mouth of his barrel forward, and I still. His eyes drip with suspicion.
He's tall—very tall—so I tilt my head to look up at him. "I know you."
"The fuck you do," he drawls, pinning a deadly glare on me.
Fighting the shiver skittering down my spine, I continue. "You're Romano. A made man." He stays quiet, so I push on. "Don Ruggiero's first son and heir."
"Get to the point," he growls, word for word, his hard front cracking under the pain.
"You need help. We'll talk about this later," I tell him, noting his loosening grip on the weapon.
"Don't come any closer."
And I don't. I halt.
"You aren't doing this out of goodwill, are you?"
Romano cocks a sharp brow at me, a deadly sneer tilting his mouth.
I smile, forcing my teeth to show as I giggle. My hands pull back my hood, letting my hair fall behind me.
"No." My smile widens. "I need your help."
He's skeptical, his eyes boring into mine, and from his expression, he can't hold on much longer.
"What kind of help?"
This time, I fearlessly move forward, standing an inch from him, his gun still pressed to my head.
I mouth—
"Protection."
The irony of it. Seeking protection from the man who holds my life in his hands right now.
And he stares at me like I've gone mad.