Page 60 of Savage Union
There it is again—that ghost of a smile. "We all have our coping mechanisms."
The waitress brings the check, which Vito handles with a generous tip. As he's signing the receipt, I catch sight of Dante through the window, standing vigilantly beside one of the black SUVs. His eyes constantly scan the street, never resting in one place for long. Two more of Vito's men are positioned at strategic points along the block. The visible security is a stark reminder of the world I've been dragged into.
"Your men always look so tense," I observe. "Is that a job requirement, or are they actually expecting trouble?"
Vito follows my gaze. "Both. In my world, relaxation is a luxury afforded only in the most secure environments."
"And this isn't secure?"
"Nowhere public truly is." He stands, offering me his hand with old-world courtesy. "Shall we? The priest is expecting us."
I ignore his outstretched hand, sliding out of the booth on my own. A flash of something—amusement? Respect?—crosses his face before he drops his hand and gestures for me to precede him to the door.
The spring air is cool but pleasant as we step outside, sunshine warming my face. For a brief, disorienting moment, it almost feels like a normal day—just a couple leaving a restaurant after breakfast, heading to their next appointment. The illusionis shattered by Dante immediately flanking us, his posture alert, eyes constantly moving.
"All clear, boss," he reports. "Car's ready."
Vito nods, his hand coming to rest at the small of my back as he guides me toward the Bentley parked across the street. The light touch sends an unwelcome shiver up my spine that I refuse to acknowledge.
We're halfway across the street when I hear it—the roar of an engine pushed beyond its limits, tires screeching against pavement. I turn toward the sound just as a dark sedan comes hurtling around the corner, accelerating directly toward us.
Everything happens in a blur of motion and sound. Dante lunges forward, shouting something I can't make out. Vito's hand moves from my back to my arm, his grip vise-like as he shoves me hard to the left. I stumble, nearly falling, as he pivots in the opposite direction.
The car misses us by inches, the rush of air as it passes pulling at my clothes, the screech of tires deafening as the driver attempts to correct course. People on the sidewalk are screaming, scrambling for cover.
Dante recovers first, drawing his weapon and aiming at the car as it skids to a stop about twenty yards away. But before he can fire, the back window rolls down and the unmistakable barrel of a gun appears.
"Get down!" Vito shouts, already moving toward me.
I'm frozen, watching in horrified fascination as the gunman takes aim—not at me, but at Vito, who's fully exposed in the middle of the street. Dante tries to intercept, but Vito pushes him aside roughly, continuing his path toward me even as the first shot rings out.
The bullet hits the pavement near Vito's feet, sending fragments of concrete flying. Without breaking stride, Vitodraws his own weapon from beneath his jacket, a sleek black gun that seems to appear in his hand as if by magic.
He fires three shots in rapid succession—precise, controlled. The first two hit the car's rear window, shattering it. The third finds its target. I hear a scream of pain from inside the vehicle.
Dante and the other security men have surrounded us now, forming a human shield. Through the gaps between bodies, I see the car door open and a man stumble out, clutching his shoulder. Blood seeps between his fingers, staining his dark shirt even darker.
Vito breaks through the protective circle, striding toward the wounded man with deadly purpose. The gunman attempts to raise his weapon again, but Vito kicks it from his grasp with brutal efficiency, then delivers a second kick to the man's injured shoulder. The scream that follows makes my stomach turn.
"Secure him," Vito orders, his voice colder than I've ever heard it. "Find out who sent him."
Two of his men immediately move to restrain the wounded attacker, who continues to writhe and curse on the pavement. Dante approaches Vito, his expression a mix of concern and rage.
"Boss, we need to get you both out of here. Police will be here any minute."
Vito straightens his jacket with disturbing casualness, as if he hadn't just been shot at in broad daylight. He tucks his gun away and turns back to me.
I'm still standing exactly where he pushed me, my body refusing to obey any commands to move. My mind is a riot of confused thoughts and emotions. He saved me. He pushed Dante away and put himself between me and the gunman. Why would he do that?
"Caterina." His voice cuts through my shock. "Are you hurt?"
I shake my head numbly, unable to form words.
He approaches, stopping just before me. His eyes scan me from head to toe, looking for injuries I might have missed in the rush of adrenaline. Finding none, he nods once, satisfaction evident in his expression.
"Good." He glances at his watch. "We should go. It would be rude to keep Father Alessandro waiting."
The absurd normalcy of the statement startles a laugh from me—high-pitched and slightly hysterical. "Someone just tried to kill you, and you're worried about being late for an appointment?"
