Page 92 of Mafia Star

I didn’t have to ask why the guys curled their belts around their hands. Now that Steve’s forehead isn’t bleeding anymore, he’s done the same thing. He might not have the experience boxing or grappling Marco, Carmine, and Pauly do, but he wrestled through college with a nearly undefeated track record over the eight years. He’s still in excellent shape.

Carmine reaches out a hand and pats my hand where it rests on my knee before giving it a squeeze. Any other man would lose that hand.

“Assuming our trackers are still pinging, it’s not a bad thing that we’re on an island. It means our family will have an easier time finding us. The space to search is finite. The longer they leave us wondering in here, the more time it gives the others to get here.”

I nod. I can see the sense in that, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t blow being in here. Now that the engine isn’t generating heat, it’s getting cold. Better than it being stifling in summer, but it’s going to get uncomfortable fast. Though, with the heat Marco generates, I should be toasty as long as he stays at my side.

I don’t know how long goes by. We sit mostly in silence as we just wait. Every once in a while Marco and his cousin and friend speak in what I assume is Sicilian, so I truly have no idea what they’re saying. I think they might be running ideas by each other to plan for when the door eventually opens. I mean, they wouldn’t drive us into the ocean, would they?

My head bobs a few times, and Marco keeps setting it back against his shoulder. He eventually just rests his hand on it to keep it in place. But the moment I settle again, the door rolls up.

“Out.”

It’s a woman barking the order. My eyes fly open, and I scramble away from Marco. Fuck. He should have been ready. I look at him as he comes to his feet in one lithe movement. I guess I wasn’t in his way. He and the others charge forward. I watch Marco’s foot connect with the underside of her chin, snapping her head back. I know their usual rule about never hurting women, but here it’s equal opportunity defense against our kidnappers.

The people waiting around on the ground are unprepared for the men in the truck to surge forward, leaping from it and tackling them. I watch Steve using his wrestling skills just like I used to see when I’d go to his high school matches. He’s choking a guy out without needing his belt. I watch Carmine’s knife blade slice through the air before cutting the throat of the man beneath him. Pauly has his belt wrapped around the neck of the woman who opened the door.

Marco’s got his belt around a man’s neck, and the man’s back flush to his chest. He has his knife in the other hand. He’s not backing away, using the man as a hostage. No. He’s propelling them both forward, using the unfortunate fucker as a battle shield. His knife goes into a woman’s sternum before he pushes the man to the ground, puts his foot between the guy’s shoulder blades and tugs on the belt.

It's all happening so fast. I don’t know how to take everything in. I sweep my gaze around the scene, looking for the man Marco called Simms. He’s nowhere I can see. I inch closer to the open door, keeping my back to the wall. My new position makes it easier to see the cemetery and the water surrounding it. It’s obvious the truck wasn’t the only vehicle they brought across to the island. Only three people would have fit in the cab, and nearly as many people are here as there were at the restaurant. Easily a dozen. Simms must be expecting more Mancinellis. He’s luring them here.

I spot a shovel and a duffle bag near an empty grave. I scan the people fighting. Marco and the others won’t be able to defend themselves forever. There are more attackers than defenders. No one is watching me, so I slip off the back of the truck and sprint to the grave. I’m about to grab the shovel when I spot a shotgun inside the bag.

How’d these motherfuckers… Fucking son of a bitch. This is my best gun. I pull the bag apart and spot three more of my competitive shotguns. How’d they get these if the ATF confiscated them? Did they plan to line us up in front of a firing squad and be all ironic by killing us with my weapons?

There are cartridges in the bag along with my guns. I squat and check to see which are loaded. Hot damn. Someone was dumb enough to travel with them all loaded and ready to fire. I’m so accustomed to handling these, I take next to no time to see. I go back to the first one— my best one. It’s a twenty-eight gauge, so this is no toy. It’s made specifically for competitive shooting. I’m usually exploding clay pigeons, but the shells loaded right now are meant to take down a human. I line up all the weapons, then take aim. I’m about twenty yards from the first person who’s near a tree. The power of the ammunition pushes the woman into the tree before her dead body lands on the ground.

I switch to another shotgun that holds five shells. I take out three women standing near the truck’s cab before moving on to the next then the next. I work my way through each of my loaded shotguns. If they’re here, then they knew they could die. If they’re here, it’s because they planned to hurt us at the least, kill us most likely.

Maybe later I’ll consider how easy it was to disassociate these bodies from the people they were. They’re just targets that were far easier to hit than clays flying through the air. They weren’t moving, and I could see them before I even aimed.

It’s not like these shotguns are silent. Not like the handguns the Mancinellis and their men carry. It’s no secret I’m firing them. But no one expected it to be me. They’re looking around. It buys me the time I need.

“Brava, brava.”

I watch Simms step out from behind a tree. Chicken shit. He knows how many shells each gun held and that I now need to reload. The way he’s approaching me makes me think he didn’t pack this bag. I’d fired from a semi-kneeling position, down on only one. It’s not how I’d shoot in a competition, but I can do it.

There’s one more gun in the bag. It’s actually one of Steve’s hunting rifles. Completely different from a shotgun, but I know how to use it just as well as any other gun. I put my left hand up as though I’m surrendering while my right hand puts down the shotgun.

“Smart girl. Now let’s just?—”

I snatch the rifle before he realizes what I’m doing. He’s approaching me without a gun drawn because he believes I can’t reload a shotgun before he can draw his 9mm. Smug bastard. Stronzo. Isn’t that what Marco’s called guys? Assholes.

I bring the rifle up and take aim.

“Stop, and I’ll let Marco decide what to do with you. Take another step, and I will put every round in you.”

“Enough.”

For a moment, I think he’s speaking to me. But his remaining mercenaries— of which there are only a few of now— back away.

“Marco, I knew your woman was an excellent shot when she’s playing. I didn’t think she’d have the balls to kill.”

“I fell in love with her. Of course, she can. You’re the dumbass for underestimating her.”

My boyfriend looks at me and smiles. Such a fucked-up time to see he truly is proud of me. But my attention swings back to Simms when he reaches for his gun, thinking I’m distracted. I pull the trigger and put one in his thigh.

“I will keep shooting.”

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