Page 17 of Bianchi

Click. Click. Click.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?”

Click. Click. Click.

The barrage of questions pulls me back to the moment, reminding me why I’m here and what is at stake. I won’t allow her to compromise my family. Grinding my teeth, I snatch up her hand, angry at myself for being preoccupied. I’m not a man who gets easily distracted, and yet for a moment, she’d sucked me into a bubble.

It won’t happen again.

Ignoring the questions still being fired at us, I yank Aurora into my side and walk along the red carpet that leads toward the entrance of the restaurant. A valet holds the door open, a strange look I can’t quite define on his features. My grip tightens on Aurora’s hip before I usher her in ahead of me.

When the door closes behind us, it’s like being submerged underwater. The muffled shouting of the crowd outside is unintelligible as it bounces off the glass. Instead, soft classical music plays over the speakers, providing a background to the busy chatter of the restaurant. Dark lighting offers up an intimate atmosphere, perfect to feed the illusion we’re selling.

The maître d' greets us with a beaming smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He’s staring somewhere over my left shoulder when he greets me. “Mr. Bianchi, it’s a pleasure to host you this evening. Please, this way.”

It’s nothing new for people to be afraid of me, but I don’t like the way his eyes flit down Aurora’s body before lifting to her face and flaring in surprise. A muscle ticks in my jaw, and if we weren’t in a restaurant full of people, I’d put a bullet in his kneecap and make him apologize to her before I put one in his head.

Clearing my throat, I unbutton my jacket, pulling back the lapel. The action draws his attention, and when his eyes land on my holstered gun, the color drains from his face. He shakes his head before swiping up two menus from the host stand with trembling hands before turning to show us to our table.

My hand rests on the curve of Aurora’s lower back as we’re shown to a booth in the back corner of the restaurant. From here, we won’t need to keep up the charade for the entire dinner as the booth hides us enough to afford us some privacy, but I’ll still have a good view of the restaurant.

With a light pressure, I urge Aurora to take a seat. She glares at me over her shoulder before shuffling into the booth, tugging at the low hem of her dress. I slide in next to her, making sure to face the restaurant. It looks like we’ve caused a frenzy; the restaurant is filled with flashes from where their lenses are pressed to the glass.

The maître d' squirms under the intensity of my stare before handing out the menus, obviously misinterpreting it as annoyance at the paparazzi beyond the window. He runs a finger around his collar. “I will get them moved right away, Mr. Bianchi. Carlo will be your server this evening. He’ll be with you momentarily, but can I get you anything to drink whilst you wait? Perhaps a bottle of champagne? On the house, of course.”

I turn my attention to Aurora; a brow lifted in question. She’s gazing out of the window, a pensive look on her face. It’s only when the quiet drags on that she shifts her focus to me.

Out of nowhere, the familiar sound of a gunshot echoes around the room, quickly followed by blood and brain matter exploding over us. Aurora’s wide eyes latch on to mine as the maître d's body hits the table. The green depths are somehow starker with the red now marring her face. If I’d had time to take in her reaction properly, I might have noticed the way she’s frozen in shock or the terror in her expression. Instead, I take cover, pulling out my weapon before the screams of the other patrons ring through the room.

An avalanche of glass cascades to the floor as the front window shatters, leaving a clear line of sight to the street outside. Sucking in a breath, I block out the screams and sounds of plates smashing, focusing on where the gunfire is coming from. Cazzo. Bullets are flying at us from all directions. There are multiple shooters, that much I’m sure of.

I peer around the booth, taking in the once-bustling restaurant. Bodies litter both the sidewalk and the restaurant floor. I don’t have time to wonder if they’re all dead or simply taking cover, but they allow me to see out onto the block and find the man half-hidden behind a vehicle across the street. His automatic weapon rests on the hood of a car as he sprays bullets unforgivingly into the restaurant.

I’m thinking through my next move, wondering if the men we had stationed outside are dead—most likely—when a pained whimper sounds behind me. For a heart-stopping second, I brace myself for the fact that Aurora might have been hit. When my eyes seek her out, I find her sitting, motionless, in the exact spot she was moments ago. Her mouth is slightly agape and her eyes are wide as she stares, unblinking, at the blood that’s pooling on the white tablecloth from the gaping hole in the maître d's head, his lifeless eyes fixed in her direction.

“Get the fuck down,” I shout in Italian, reaching over to tug her down onto the bench, out of the firing line.

A bullet whizzes past my head, piercing the back of the booth, sending padding exploding into the air. That was too close for comfort. My heart thumps wildly in my chest as I bunker down onto the bench. This isn’t my first gunfight, and I’d rather it not be my last, but I’m massively outnumbered. Keeping low, I pull out my phone and shoot off a text to Daniele in the hopes that he’s in the vicinity.

Romeo

Restaurant. Shooter. Auto. More than one.

I wait until the bubble shows as delivered before pocketing my phone. Wood and plaster splinter around us as the heavy gunfire ensues. There’s no letup in the ammo raining down on us, which tells me whoever they are, they came here to kill and they don’t care who gets caught in the crossfire. This isn’t a warning, it’s an assassination attempt. I’ve seen enough to know that they won’t stop until their target—me—is taken out. Although anyone worth their salt would have taken me out with the first shot, not the fucking maître d'.

Somewhere in the restaurant, a cell phone rings, barely audible over the gunfire. Nobody picks up and when the ringing stops, it quickly starts up again, this time followed by several other ringtones.

Shuffling along the bench, I look back to silently tell Aurora to stay hidden. The last thing I need is the only connection we have to Francesco Costa being taken out. Her eyes are shut and her lips are moving as she mouths something to herself. I rest my hand on her arm and wait for her unfocused gaze to meet mine before I motion for her to stay. She dips her chin in acknowledgment.

Another peek over the edge of the booth, and I can see the gunman aiming his weapon down the street.

Thank fuck for back up.

With adrenaline coursing through my veins, I move out of my seat, keeping as close to the wall as I possibly can. There’s no way I can make a kill shot from where I am and this figlio di puttana doesn’t get to go home today.

The unmistakable stench of death is in the air. Bodies litter the restaurant, and as I move through it, terrified, wide eyes meet mine of the patrons who have survived and are taking cover.

Blood rushes in my ears and my heart beats a rhythm of rage in my chest. When I reach the window, I take cover behind the wall and lift my gun, bringing him into the line of fire. I flex my finger over the trigger and, without a second thought, I apply a light pressure. The bullet meets its intended point on his head, and he crumples to the ground, his weapon falling to the floor.

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