Hunger ebbs off him, the fire beaming in his eyes.
I blush, my cheeks undoubtedly stained crimson as I turn away. “We’ll talk about this later.”
His fingers pause at the crotch of my panties. “We’re going to do a hell of a lot more than talk.”
“Stop it.” I shoot him a playful glare. “Pay attention to the conversation.” I jerk my chin at Lorenzo who talks to Bishop, the older man giving me a brief smile before asking Matthew something in Italian.
The three of them continue chatting while I ignore another call from Keira then turn off my cell. I won’t speak to her again. Not until I’m stronger. More immune.
Instead, I focus on the foreign debate around me, attempting to decipher the topic. “Ricchezza” and “Cruciale” are spoken numerous times. Matthew repeats “la mia risposta è no,” more than once.
Sometimes they converse in English, the sentences holding just as much insight as those spoken in Italian when there’s no prior context.
And through it all, Matthew’s hand remains on my thigh, no longer a sexual taunt, but a companionable reminder that I’m not alone.
I sip my coffee between their laughter and hostility. The ups and downs come thick and fast until Lorenzo heaves a heavy sigh to focus on me with fatherly kindness.
“Alas, bella, I fear my boys aren’t to be convinced.” He clucks his tongue. “Who raised such stubborn fools?”
I grin. “I could make a wry comment about all men and their stereotypical stubbornness, but now probably isn’t the time.”
He chuckles. “I think we would all appreciate your restraint.”
Matthew squeezes my thigh again and I take the gesture as encouragement. His appreciation settles in the air between us, our building bond tightening around me.
“You’ve barely eaten.” Lorenzo frowns at all the untouched food spread across the table. “None of us have.”
“It doesn’t help when you’re trying to tear us a new one.” Bishop reaches for a pastry and takes a bite. “I’m fucking starving.”
Matthew grabs a croissant. “Me, too.”
I admire his strong hands, eager to find out how they’ll be put to use later as the roar of a motorbike rumbles in the nearby intersection behind me, loud enough to momentarily deafen.
I wince, sipping the last of my latte, but hesitate in placing it back on the table.
Bishop sits taller, his attention cutting toward the sound. He stiffens as the thunder continues, the roaring muffler coming closer.
“What is it?” Matthew places the croissant on his plate and turns to look.
There’s no response. Nothing other than a poised hardening of Bishop’s stare.
I glance over my shoulder to the traffic lights, my gaze catching on the red that turns to green, but it’s the motorcycle cutting away from the street to mount the bicycle lane that raises my hackles.
“We’ve got trouble.” Bishop shoves to his feet.
Matthew’s quick to do the same.
I’m unsure whether I should follow, the latte glass now frozen in my hand.
I glance between the men surrounding me, all of them on edge. All now standing, including the two bodyguards at the farthest corners of our secluded area. Both of them rush forward as the leather-covered biker howls toward us, face unseen below the darkened visor.
“What’s going on?” I brace to stand, only to be stopped by Matthew’s steely grip clasping my shoulder to hold me in place.
“Stay down,” he barks.
I scramble to figure out what’s going on, glancing from one man to the next, then back to the biker who reaches around his back to swing an automatic weapon toward the hotel.
Screams ring out. Chairs scrape and scatter.
“Get down.” Matthew slams into me seconds before the ratta-tat-tat of gunfire rings out.
I topple backward to the cement. My elbow takes the brunt of the fall. The latte glass shatters on impact, splintering around me.
I cry out as he smothers his body over mine, covering me head to toe. But the reverberation in my throat doesn’t make a dent on the nearby sounds seeking supremacy.
Women scream. Footsteps scramble. Glass smashes. More gunfire blasts the air. Closer. Louder. More threatening. Someone is returning fire.
Lorenzo is taken to the ground by his men. Shouts ping-pong around me.
“Lay flat,” Matthew demands. “Straight against the ground.”
I don’t comply. I can’t. I cling to him instead, wrapping my arms around his neck, burrowing my head against his shoulder as splinters of glass dig into me from all angles.
The bike grows louder. So close I feel the vibrations in every nerve.
I’m going to die.
I’m going to be shot while plastered to the cement, and my daughter doesn’t even know where I am. I’ll never get to speak to her again.
“I’ve got you.” Matthew keeps me pinned, every inch of him holding me in place as the gunfire recedes, the hacking rumble of the engine speeding into the distance.
Then silence.
There’s only the rasp of my fractured inhales against the ringing in my ears.
“Are you okay?” Matthew inches off me, his gaze frenzied as he scans my face.
“Yeah… I think so.”
“I’m getting you out of here.” He raises to his haunches. “Don’t get up until I tell you.”
I nod, but nothing fully penetrates the shock.
Men snarl and snap above me, the Italian words attacking with none of the beauty they held before.
I turn onto my side and hiss from the broken glass poking through my dress to my ribs, quickly discarding the hazard only for it to be replaced by ten more. I brush my arms, the shouts and screams from strangers rising above the bell tolling in my ears.
Diners slowly drag themselves to their feet in the distance. Others peer over the waist-high hedge from the bike track to take in the destruction. There are offers for help. Calls for the police.
Matthew. Is he okay?
I rake my gaze over him as he snaps words in Italian, scrutinizing the way he stands, how he holds himself, the way he moves his arms, needing to make sure he’s uninjured. Then I focus on Bishop who clutches a gun at his side, and Lorenzo’s guards who do the same, their weapons at home in their grasp as they shield their employer.
The show of defense brings another wave of apprehension.
I assumed they were armed. It’s their job to protect.
But the air of calm under pressure is far too familiar, enough to inspire déjà vu. This snapshot is like so many others in my life. The shattered glass. The screaming women. The men with guns poised to retaliate on an unseen enemy.
“Were you shot?” Matthew demands of his mentor.
My attention snaps to the parting guards who expose Lorenzo sitting on the ground behind them, his hands clutching at his chest.
“No,” he wheezes. “I’m good.”
I push onto shaky hands and knees, needing to see for myself.
“Stay down.” Matthew steps closer, towering over me as he plasters his phone to his ear then barks foreign garble.
“I’m fine, bella.” Lorenzo gives an unconvincing smile, his face starkly pale. “It’s nothing more than the temperamental heart of an old man.”
“We need to leave.” Bishop shoves chairs aside to squat before Lorenzo, helping to pull him to his feet. “That fucker could come back.”