The air drained from my lungs.
A figure raised a gun behind Camillo.
Luca threw himself at the man, pinning him. But not in time. Not before a shot rang out and my world crumbled as Camillo Vicari’s body fell to the ground, just feet away from me.
No, it wasn’t a train.
No, it wasn’t a dark night.
No, it wasn’t Lester.
It was the strong man I loved, fallen on that ground, soaking the earth with his blood. And suddenly, nothing else mattered, and I was nine years old again, kneeling in the garden with awater pistol in my hands and Papa by my side.‘Daisy-Bear, do as Papa, okay? If a man puts a gun to your head like this, you turn, grab his wrist, twist and bang. Shoot to kill, baby girl.’
Turn. Grab. Twist. Bang.
The image of my Papa flashed before my eyes, followed by a different one. A memory of a picture. A red-haired woman, wolf-like gaze, looking at me with a piercing gaze. Peridots at her throat, her ears, and her finger.
Turn. Grab. Twist. Kill.
I spun on my knees and my hands grabbed Accorinti’s gun. The safety was off. A shot cracked through the air. Without hesitation, I fired again.
And again.
And again, and again, and again…
Accorinti fell, dead, before me. Riddled with bullets.
But nothing else mattered.
I stood up and staggered toward Camillo. A huge man was pressing his hand against the hole in his back, from which blood was gushing. Luca ran to me, supporting me, and soldiers passed by us, probably to check if Accorinti was, in fact, dead.
But nothing else mattered.
“Is he…?” I managed to croak, the pain cutting through my throat.
“He’s alive!” shouted the man pressing the wound. “Ragazzi, get the car ready, quick!”
“Sì, Don Barone!” Two men replied, immediately running toward an SUV.
Seeing Camillo’s body being carried away like a lifeless rag doll was more than I could bear. His stillness was terrifying, and a sob burst from my chest, raw and jagged.
“No. Please—“
“He has to go to a hospital. Now.” That man, Barone, growled and carried the man I loved away from me.
The man I loved.
I watched the car drive away with Camillo, feeling as if a piece of my own body were being torn away.
That was when I heard it.
The man responsible for this. The one who fired the shot. They had tied him up and gagged him, and were holding him on his knees against the wheel of a car. I realized it was our men surrounding him.
I moved my hand, realizing I was still holding Accorinti’s gun, and it still had bullets.
“Signorina…?” Luca murmured the moment I stepped away.
I pushed through the soldiers, barefoot and gun in hand, covered in blood that wasn’t mine, with the memory of Camillo’s mother in that picture replaying in my head. Her gaze a challenge. A silent‘show what you are made of’that she never got to tell to my face.