Page 100 of Veil of Obsession
Romiro moves fast, lethal, taking another one out before they can turn on him. But there’s more. Emiliano snaps, a snarlripping from his throat as he guns down the closest bastard, his rage a physical thing, violent and merciless.
One of the men is still standing, aiming straight for Valentina and Bianca. He shoots the bullet, grazing Val’s arm.
My heart stops. I see red. I put a bullet between his eyes before he can shoot again.
The room is filled with smoke. Blood. The copper stench of death. The last man falls, twitching, choking on his own blood.
The silence that follows is thick, suffocating.
And then…
“Ma.” Mara’s voice is sharp, broken.
I turn, stomach twisting. Ma is on the floor, blood pooling around her, her breaths shallow, uneven. Emiliano drops to his knees beside her, hands pressing against the wound in her chest.
“Stay with me, Ma.” His voice is low, urgent, filled with something I don’t hear often: fear.
Her eyes flutter, her hand reaching up, smearing blood over Emiliano’s wrist.
“Val—” she gasps.
Valentina is still clutching Bianca, her entire body shaking, her face pale. She almost died. Bianca almost died.
Ma took those bullets meant for them. I feel my own rage simmering, boiling, turning into something darker. Something I know won’t settle until I spill the right amount of blood for this.
Romiro kneels beside Emiliano, his face unreadable. But his hands are steady as he assesses Ma’s injuries.
“She’s losing too much blood.” His voice is clipped, unfeeling, but there’s a sharp edge to it.
“Get the fucking doctor here now.” Emiliano’s voice is cold, furious as his hands press down harder, trying to stop the bleeding.
I stand, gripping the nearest dead man by the collar and dragging him into the light. His mask is half-off, his face twisted in pain, even in death.
It only takes one look at his tattoo, and I know. The Outfit. Chicago.
I meet Emiliano’s gaze, my grip tightening on the corpse. “These motherfuckers were Outfit henchmen.”
The house smells like gunpowder and blood. My hands are sticky with it, warm and wet, pressing into Ma’s chest, trying to keep her here. Trying to keep her alive.
She’s not moving enough. Her lips part, but the words don’t come. Her breathing is shallow, wet.
“Stay awake, Ma.” My voice is rough, shaking, but I don’t stop applying pressure to the wound.
Valentina is crying, rocking Bianca against her chest, her arm slick with blood from where the bullet grazed her. Emiliano is next to me, his knuckles white, face cold and murderous. But I see it: the terror underneath.
Romiro is already on the phone, snapping orders in rapid-fire Italian.
The paramedics arrive in what feels like a lifetime later, but I don’t move. Not until they pry my hands away from my mother’s body. She’s rushed onto a stretcher, oxygen mask strapped to her face, blood soaking into the sheets they wrap around her.
One of the paramedics tries to pull me back. I shove him off.
“I’m going with her.”
Valentina is shaking, Bianca still clutched tightly against her.
“She’s coming too,” Emiliano says, his voice tight with controlled rage. He glares at the paramedics. “She’s been hit.”
They try to protest, but one look at us—all bloodstained and armed, murder still fresh in our eyes—and they don’t argue.
