The pain in my chest is becoming blinding. A hot, wet slickness is spreading rapidly down my torso, soaking the waistband of my slacks. My right arm is practically useless, hanging heavily at my side, leaving my left arm to bear the entire weight and recoilof the assault rifle. My vision swims, the edges turning dark and fuzzy.
Click.
My rifle runs dry. The bolt locks back on an empty magazine.
"Reloading!" I shout, ducking back below the marble balustrade.
My fingers are slick with my own blood and sweat. I fumble for the spare magazine tucked into my waistband, but my right hand refuses to cooperate. The torn muscles spasm, my fingers refusing to close around the heavy metal.
A Russian mercenary, realizing the covering fire from the balcony has stopped, breaks cover. He sprints up the first flight of the glass stairs, his AK-47 raised, his eyes locked entirely on our position.
"Matteo, stairs!" I yell, but Matteo is pinned down, a barrage of bullets chewing apart the pillar he’s hiding behind.
I curse violently, fighting with the magazine, the slick metal slipping from my numb fingers. It clatters onto the hardwood floor, sliding two feet away.
I’m out of time. The Russian hits the middle landing, bringing his weapon to bear. I reach for the 1911 at the small of my back, but I know I’m not going to draw it fast enough.
Suddenly, a small, pale hand shoots out from behind me.
Noemi lunges across the floor. She grabs the dropped magazine; her movements are precise and completely devoid of panic. She slides on her knees right beside me, completely exposing herself to the open air of the balcony.
She grabs the empty magazine jutting from my rifle, hits the release catch like she’s done it a thousand times, and violently rips it out. In the same fluid, seamless motion, she slams the fresh magazine into the magwell, hitting the bolt release with the heel of her hand.
The weapon chambers a round with a loud, metallicclack.
"Three o'clock! Stairs!" Noemi screams, her voice cutting through the ringing in my ears.
I don't think. I just react.
I swing the barrel of the M4 over the balustrade, aiming exactly where she pointed, and pull the trigger.
The Russian on the landing takes a three-round burst directly to the face just as his finger tightens on his own trigger. His body jerks violently backward, tumbling down the glass stairs in a bloody, broken heap.
I drop back below the cover of the marble, panting heavily, my chest heaving against the agonizing pain.
I look at the woman kneeling beside me.
Noemi isn't crying. She isn't shaking. She is covered in white plaster dust, the oversized t-shirt hanging off her shoulder, her bare knees scraped and bleeding from sliding on the hardwood. She is breathing hard, her dark eyes are wide, but they are blazing with an unyielding, ferocious fire. She didn't freeze. She didn't cower. She stepped into the line of fire and handed me exactly what I needed to survive.
She is a fucking mafia queen.
A dark, terrifying surge of pride washes through the chaotic adrenaline in my blood. She isn't fragile. I don't need to lock her away to protect her, I just need to stand beside her.
"I got you," she breathes, locking eyes with me, her hands gripping my bloody left arm. "Keep fighting, Cassio."
"I'm going to marry you again," I promise her, a bloody, psychotic grin pulling at the corner of my mouth.
Before she can respond, the piercing, unmistakable wail of police sirens cuts through the night air. It isn't just one siren, it’s dozens of them, a massive chorus of approaching law enforcement closing in on the estate.
The gunfire downstairs suddenly falters.
"Sirens!" one of the Bratva leaders barks in heavily accented English. "Pull back! Fall back to the trucks!"
The Russians aren't stupid. They know that a prolonged siege with the entire city's police force bearing down on them is a suicide mission. They lay down one final, punishing barrage of cover fire, blowing out the remaining glass windows in the foyer, and begin a rapid, tactical retreat out the shattered front doors.
"Don't let them breathe!" Matteo roars, stepping out from his cover and firing down into the retreating mass of men.
Dante and the surviving guards push forward, chasing the Bratva out onto the driveway, their weapons flashing in the darkness. The sound of heavy truck engines revving echoes through the storm, followed by the screech of tires as the Russians flee the compound.