Chapter 12
The third shooter raised the shotgun, leveling it at the back of Luca’s head.
Nina didn't think.
She didn't calculate odds. She didn't behave like a civilian.
She reached out, grabbed a heavy, unbroken magnum bottle of vintage Amarone from the lower shelf behind the bar, and launched herself forward across the wet tile floor.
She closed the distance in four frantic strides. Before the gunman could squeeze the trigger, Nina swung the heavy glass bottle with both hands, putting every ounce of her five-foot-five frame and her father’s tire-iron mechanics into the strike.
The bottle shattered across the side of the gunman’s helmeted temple with an explosive, concussive crack.
The man grunted, his knees buckling, the shotgun discharging into the ceiling, obliterating a plaster chandelier in a shower of white dust. He stumbled backward, stunned, blood pouring from his ear.
Luca didn't waste the half-second she bought him.
He pivoted around the column, lunged forward, grabbed the man’s tactical vest, and drove him backward into the brick hearth. A single, precise strike from the butt of Luca’s pistol shattered the man’s jaw, sending him limp to the floor.
Silence slammed down on the trattoria like an iron curtain.
The smell of cordite, blood, and vintage wine hung heavy in the air.
Nina stood in the center of the ruined dining room, her green dress soaked in red wine and plaster dust, her hands trembling violently, holding the jagged glass neck of the broken wine bottle.
Luca stood over the unconscious shooter, his chest heaving, his left arm dripping dark arterial blood onto the shattered tiles.
He turned slowly to look at her.
His gun slowly lowered to his side. His eyes were wide with pure, unadulterated astonishment.
“You hit a hitman,” Luca whispered, his voice cracking, “with an eighty-dollar bottle of Amarone.”
Nina looked at the broken glass in her hand.
Then she dropped it. It shattered on the tiles.
Her knees gave out.
Luca crossed the floor in two strides, catching her before she struck the ground. He pulled her against his chest, ignoring the agony in his shredded shoulder, holding her so tightly she could feel the thunderous, desperate rhythm of his heart pounding against her cheek.
“I told you to run,” he muttered into her hair, his voice breaking. “You crazy, stubborn, beautiful idiot… I told you to run.”
Nina buried her face in the curve of his neck, her hands clutching the torn wool of his coat. She was shaking from head to toe, the adrenaline draining out of her marrow, but beneath the terror was a wild, fierce surge of triumph.