Page 7 of Matteo
“Where’s the police?” Francesca, who was also my roommate here at Yale, whispered shakily. “They should be here by now.”
“They’re coming,” I assured her, but I’d been wondering the same. The first bullet sounded almost twenty minutes ago, but I had yet to hear any emergency sirens.
“I hope so.” She wiped at her face, wet with tears. “At least w-we look hot.”
I pursed my lips. We said the most idiotic things when adrenaline rushed through our veins. It couldn’t be helped. It was better than panicking and screaming, drawing the shooter’s attention.
I lifted my eyes and met her violet gaze, offering her any small ounce of strength I had left. She was four years younger than me, and I was determined not to let history repeat itself. Not today. Not ever again. I couldn’t protect Gianna years ago, but I could—wouldprotect Francesca today.
“That’s definitely the priority,” I said, joining her in trying to make light of this fucked-up situation, but my own vocal cords failed me and I had to clear my throat to cover my sob.
My eyes lowered to the only means of defense I had: a gift from Matteo Vitale for my eighteenth birthday. He’d given one to Hannah too, but unlike her, I kept mine on me at all times.
Our baby sister’s kidnapping was only a glimpse into the risks of the life we’d lived, and I was smart enough to know that having some form of weapon on me—no matter how futile it might prove—was smarter than going around oblivious, which was my twin’s solution.
I’d come to terms with who my dad—well,stepdadwas, but that was neither here nor there. The point was that I didn’t see any reason in dubbing him a bad guy. Morally gray, yes.But bad? Far from it.
A bad guy didn’t dote on your mother, making her over-the-moon happy. A bad guy didn’t take your side, regardless of whether you were right or wrong. A bad guy didn’t constantly save your twin sister and you from trouble and treat you like hedid his biological kids. Not that I saw our other siblings as any less than… but still. I knew countless other stepdads who valued blood over commitment.
So yes, Nico Morrelli was a mob boss, but first and foremost, he was a father.Myfather.
Another round of gunfire pierced the air, making us both flinch.
“That sounds close,” she said, echoing my sentiment as I clutched my knife. If he got close enough to us, I’d get to him too. I refused to go down without a fight, and while the knife might not kill him, it could hurt him enough to distract him while we run.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Too close,I thought, wishing I’d paid better attention to St. Jean D’Arc’s training for these precise instances.
But I remembered being annoyed that week, frustrated that Hannah was content being Matteo Vitale’s shadow, which only compounded my desire to break free. Made me want to give a life outside of that protected campus fueled with mafia money a try.
Of course, in the grand scheme of things, it seemed pointless now.
“Do you think we should run?” Francesca whispered. Her eyes were wide and her face even paler than usual.
I shook my head. “We don’t know where the shooter is.”
There were two exits in the library. It was mid-summer, so the hallways were empty and every sound echoed through them, bouncing off the wall and making it impossible to judge where the gunfire was coming from. I wasn’t willing to risk Francesca’s life with a wrong decision.
I wished I had my phone, but it had died and was currently securely tucked away in my backpack clear across the empty room.
A movement drew my eyes back to Francesca’s mane of red hair. She was scurrying away from me and toward the doors that led to the hallway.
“Where are you going?” I hissed.
She glanced over her shoulder and blew a piece of hair out of her eyes. “I refuse to be a sitting duck, Arianna.”
Acting on instinct, I slid out from under the desk and crawled after her. Before she was halfway across the room, I yanked her hand and shoved her behind me.
“Follow me,” I told her, protective of her as if she were my own sister.
She huffed a breath. “If he pulls the trigger, the bullet will rip right through you and lodge itself into me. So it really doesn’t matter.”
I stared speechlessly at her for a minute before shaking my head and refocusing on the carpet beneath my hands and knees. The library had rows and rows of towering bookshelves, and I mentally registered the ones that could be used as a shield.
God, please don’t let us die surrounded by dusty old books, I prayed silently.
St. Jean D’Arc offered lessons in self-defense, money laundering, and other criminal activities. The school had maximum campus security—superseding that of the White House tenfold—which meant that we were never in danger behind D’Arc’s steel-reinforced walls, and suddenly I missed that protection bubble.
