Chapter 11
Through the shattered gap in the bar, Nina saw two men in dark tactical gear moving through the dust, their submachine guns raised, their barrels smoking.
Valenti’s men.
“Moretti!” one of them yelled, his voice thick with adrenaline. “Come out, you bastard! It’s over!”
Luca didn't answer with words.
He rolled onto his knees, popped above the oak rail for less than half a second, and fired three double-taps.
The report inside the enclosed subterranean space was deafening.
The first gunman dropped instantly, his weapon clattering across the tile floor. The second scrambled behind an overturned dining booth, returning fire in a panicked, spraying burst that tore through the liquor bottles directly above Nina’s head, showering them in high-proof bourbon.
Luca dropped back down, ejected his magazine, and slapped a fresh one home with the heel of his palm.
“Nina,” he whispered. His eyes were wide, black, locked on hers. “Are you hit?”
“No,” she choked out, her hands instinctively checking her torso. “No. I’m okay. Luca, Signora Bianchi—”
“She has a reinforced steel safe-room behind the pantry,” he said, his breathing rhythmic, controlled. “She’s fine. Listen to me. There’s an emergency exit behind the dishwashing station. It leads into the alley behind Desplaines Street. When I move, you run. You do not look back. You head for the main avenue and flag a squad car.”
“I’m not leaving you!” she snapped, the Chicago nurse stubbornness flaring through the terror.
“Nina!” For the first time, he raised his voice at her. His hand reached out, gripping her jaw, his thumb pressing hard against her cheekbone. “I am not losing someone in front of me again. You run. Now.”
He didn't wait for her consent.
Luca surged to his feet, vaulting over the edge of the bar like a war machine, drawing the shooter’s fire entirely toward himself.
“Valenti sends his regards, you piece of garbage!” Luca roared, his voice echoing off the brick vaulting as he advanced through the restaurant, his gun barking with mechanical, lethal precision.
Nina scrambled to her hands and knees.
The instinct to flee pounded in her ears—her survival instinct screaming at her to reach the kitchen, find the alley, and disappear into the night.
Then she heard it.
A grunt of pain from Luca.
A heavy, wet impact against the far wall.
Nina turned.
The second gunman was down, lifeless among the broken crockery, but a third man had entered through the rear entrance—a man with a combat shotgun, aiming directly at Luca’s flank where the mob boss had taken cover behind a load-bearing column. Luca was pinned, blood soaking through the dark cashmere of his left sleeve where a stray fragment had slashed him open to the bone.