Page 67 of The Bonventi Rise
Suddenly, new noise cuts through the quiet.
Thump.
My whole body goes rigid.
Thump. THUMP.
Someone's trying to kick down my door. The heavy impacts send vibrations through the floor. Panic claws at my throat.
Oh God, they're coming to finish the job.
I look around frantically for anything I can use as a weapon. Broken glass is everywhere, but nothing substantial. The knife block is on the counter, just out of reach. If I stand up to grab one, I'll be exposed. If they still have bullets, I'm dead. But if I stay here, I'm a sitting duck.
CRACK!
The sound of splintering wood tells me I'm running out of time. My gaze falls on a heavy cast iron skillet hanging from a hook nearby. It's within arm's reach, and it's better than nothing.
THUMP. CRACK.
The doorframe groans. It won't hold much longer.
I dive up, grab the skillet, and take cover again.
CRASH!
The door gives way with a sound like a gunshot. Heavy footsteps enter my apartment, crunching over broken glass and splintered wood. I press myself harder against the island, trying to make myself invisible.
The footsteps pause. They're probably surveying the damage, looking for my body among the wreckage of my living room.
"Come out, come out, wherever you are," a deep voice sing-songs in a thick accent. "I know you're still alive in here, bitch. I can smell your fear."
The footsteps start again, getting closer to the kitchen. Bile rises in my throat as I tighten my grip on the skillet, my knuckles white with the effort.
I will not die like this, I tell myself, trying to summon some of the strength that's gotten me through every other challenge in my life. I will not let this bastard win.
But as the footsteps draw nearer, doubt creeps in. What chance do I really have against someone with a gun?
I think of Marco, of the life we've just started building together. Of the song I planned on writing for him, the one he'll never hear now. Tears sting my eyes, but I blink them away. I can't afford to be blinded right now.
The intruder is in the kitchen now. I can see the toe of a black boot from my hiding spot. My heart is in my throat, and I'm certain I'm about to be discovered.
I grip the skillet tighter, ready to swing with everything I've got. It might not save me, but I'll be damned if I don't go down fighting.
"Found you," the voice says, and I know this is it. This is the moment I decide my fate.
I spring up and swing the skillet at his face with every ounce of strength I have. He fires his gun, but it shoots into the ground.
"FUCK!" he yells.
I swing again, and he starts muttering words in a foreign language.
Russian.
He tries to raise his gun again, and I swing so hard the cast iron skillet flies out of my hands after connecting with the man's face.
He goes limp and falls to the ground. I turn and start running, the damn timer still ringing as I run out of my apartment.
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