Page 66 of The Bonventi Rise
I barely register the faint buzz of my phone on the coffee table, too lost in the music building beneath my fingertips.
I find a good flow, and then I hear my phone buzz for a second time. Marco's probably running late again. It's fine—this section needs work anyway.
Another call lights up my phone screen, and my eyes are open, so the glow catches my attention. I see Marco's name out of the corner of my eye but don't break rhythm. He knows I practice before our Friday dinners. Besides, the lasagna still has some time, and I'm finally getting this passage right.
The third call comes as I'm building toward the climax of the piece. Just let me finish this part, I think, my fingers quickening their dance across the strings. I'm so close to nailing it—the way the harmony weaves through the melody, how the bass notes anchor everything together. It's nearly perfect, and I'm so close to perfecting this section, the one that's given me trouble for days. I can't stop now, not when I'm on the verge of a breakthrough.
As I near the end of the piece, I'm feeling very happy. If I play this the same when Marco's here, he'll…
A sharp crack shatters the air. At first, I can't process what's happening. Pieces of my beloved harp are suddenly flying through the air, and I feel a stinging sensation on my face as tiny splinters pepper my skin. My beautiful instrument shudders violently, strings snapping with high-pitched noises.
"What the hell?" The words barely leave my mouth when another impact rocks the lower section of the harp. The column splinters apart, sending pieces of the ornate woodwork flying across my living room. Tiny wooden shards sting my face again, and something warm trickles down my face. I instantly wipe it and pull my hand away—blood.
My mind refuses to process what's happening, stuck in a loop ofThis isn't real, this can't be real.The remaining strings twist and writhe like dying snakes, their tension released from the broken parts.
Time seems to slow, and the lamp beside me explodes in a shower of glass and sparks, the lightbulb popping with a sound like a champagne cork.
That's when my brain finally catches up. The realization hits me like a punch to the gut—these are bullets.
The muffled pops that I now recognize as silenced gunshots.
Someone's shooting at me.
My heart races, adrenaline flooding my system as survival instincts kick in. I need to move, to get down, to find cover. But for a moment, I'm frozen, watching my world literally fall apart around me in a hail of bullets, each one representing death barely missing its mark. My death.
My body moves before my mind can catch up. Pure survival instinct takes over, and I dive for my phone on the coffee table. The sound of splintering wood and shattering glass fills the air as bullets continue to tear through my living room. I scramble on all fours, my heart pounding so hard it feels like I might have a heart attack.
I grab my phone and run toward the kitchen, bullets whizzing past me. Something grazes my arm, leaving a burning, bloody trail across my skin. I bite back a scream, fear and adrenaline propelling me forward.
More shots tear through the air around me, and I hear the crunch of bullets embedding themselves in my walls.
Go. Go. Go.
I dive into the kitchen, scurrying behind my kitchen island, a barstool hitting my shoulder. It's pain I don't even register.
I press my back against the cold tile of the island, trying to make myself as small as possible. I reach for my phone with trembling fingers, nearly dropping it twice before I can get a grip. I look at the screen, and my eyes widen in shock—there are at least five missed calls from Marco. More than I thought. How did I not hear them? The realization that he might have been trying to warn me overtakes me so much that I start to cry.
The sound of destruction continues as pieces of the shattering plates and glasses in the open shelves above me fall, covering me in shards of ceramic and glass. The acrid smell of gunpowder mixes with the aroma of the lasagna still baking in the oven, creating a nauseating combination.
My mouth is dry, my tongue feeling like sandpaper. I can taste the metallic tang of blood—whether from my split lip orthe cuts on my face, I'm not sure. My entire body trembles uncontrollably.
I fumble with my phone, trying to unlock it. It won't recognize my face, so it takes me three tries with shaking fingers before I can enter my passcode correctly. I hit Marco's name, and a text field opens up.
I type the only thing I can think of. Two words no one ever wants to type out.
Please help
I hit send and wipe away tears.
I try to focus, but my thoughts scatter like the glass from my shattered belongings every time another bullet tears through my apartment. Then, the kitchen timer starts beeping, reminding me that just a short time ago, I was making dinner, wearing Marco's shirt, feeling safe. Happy.
Now I'm curled into the smallest target possible behind my kitchen island, praying each breath won't be my last.
The gunfire stops so abruptly that my ears ring in the sudden silence. My heavy breathing and crying sound impossibly loud in the quiet, and I press a hand over my mouth to muffle it.
Did they leave? Run out of bullets? Are they reloading?
Glass crunches beneath my feet as I shift position, trying to ease the cramping in my legs. The kitchen timer is still beeping, a surreal reminder of how quickly everything went south. Marco's lasagna's probably burning. The thought is so absurd it shows me just how much chaos is going on in my head.
