Page 90 of Luka

When Mario enters my line of sight, the boot lifts from my neck. I gasp and scoot backward, my heels digging into the carpet, until Mario lifts me by my dress. He pulls out a familiar knife and holds it to my throat.

I remember the story he gave me about this knife. It was his father’s. He gave it to him when he was seven years old. It’s hard to say if it was true, but … probably. He couldn’t have made everything up. No one has that kind of imagination.

There was so much that he told me and so little that I knew.

The knife pressed against my neck, I close my eyes and try to be brave. Try to remember everything that depends on the success of Papá. The couch is tipped over to give shelter to the father and son while Goatee stands with his back pressed beside the door. All guns are pointed at the entrance. I have to warn Papá of our location.

“I loved you, Mario,” I whisper carefully. “I could’ve loved you my entire life.”

“Shut up,” he growls in my ear.

“Please, I need to say this. If I could’ve stayed with you instead of your cousin, I would’ve agreed to the deal with your uncle. I could’ve forgiven you.”

When a sound comes from the hallway, my ears zero in on it until it’s the only thing my senses register.

Footsteps.

The others notice too. Mendoza and Manuel exchange a look before pointing their guns at the wall.

“I couldstillforgive you. It isn’t too late. I can tell Papá I ran away with you willingly. He’ll spare you.”

The knife leaves my throat long enough for Mario to spin me roughly around, and I use every moment of the opportunity.

“Guns!” I screech before Mario punches me in the stomach. Nausea rips through my stomach and up my throat, but before I can even consider vomiting, Mario’s hand is squeezing my throat.

Bullets blast through the wall to hit my rescuers on the other side while my legs swing in empty air. I claw at Mario’s one hand holding me up, but he just stares at me with fiery eyes.

When the gunfire stops, he drops me to the floor where I land hard on my side. Gagging, I roll to peer at the open doorway. The gunfire was so loud that my ears ring, so I can’t tell if any sound comes from the hallway.

Goatee slowly peers around the corner of the door, gun lifted, and he must think it’s clear because he disappears into the hallway.

A gun fires.

Nobody speaks a word for several seconds as we wait for Goatee to return.

“Luis!” Manuel hisses from behind the couch.

I try to listen past the ringing in my ears. The seconds that pass are filled with tension, and any minute, I think Papá will step through that door with his men, guns blazing.

But it isn’t Papá.

The man who steps through the door, gun raised as he fires several shots directed at the couch is too tall. Too light-skinned to be Papá.

I squint as my eardrums cry, and it isn’t until the man falls back into the wall, several bullets piercing him that I realize who it is.

In the blink of an eye, my world crumbles. I feel my face contort with a sob not fully formed, and my lungs expand.

“Luka!” I rush to crawl to him as he lays still on the floor. My eyes are flooded with tears by the time I make it. “No!”

Mendoza’s screams are just as loud as mine as he and Mario tend to Manuel, who by the sound of it, is dead. But I don’t care to look to be sure. I throw myself on top of Luka’s chest, my face buried in his shirt, but something bulky and tough makes me lift my head back up.

Luka’s groan snaps my gaze to his face as he blinks.

“Luka,” I say on a breath of air. I lean over him to cup his face while I lift his shirt to inspect his wounds. Blood seeps through a hole in his shoulder, but his chest was spared. Three bullets stick into the thick vest he wears.

“Run, Peach,” he says, his voice sounding pained. “Fuckingrun.”

I whip behind me to see an enraged Mendoza stomping this way, gun in hand. I don’t even consider moving, even though I know it kills Luka as much as a bullet. My heart swells to the point I think it might explode as I lay myself on top of him, turning myself into a human shield. As if that could ever work.

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