A gunshot.
Then a second.
Then a burst of three.
I’m out of the bed before my mind catches up.
What the hell is going on?
I cross to the window and crouch, pulling the corner of the curtain back. Below the window, I see the shadows of men. They’re moving across the lawn with tactical precision.
My stomach drops.
Two separate shadows stand by the garage. I see the burning dot of light from a cigarette as the one on the left takes one last pull, seemingly unaware of the approaching threat.
Did they not hear the gunshots?
I’m about to cry out a warning when the smoker throws the cigarette aside and pulls something out of his waistband. He points the object at his partner’s head. A crack follows, and the partner’s silhouette collapses to the ground.
Then he turns and joins the approaching horde.
Fear fills every inch of me. My body seems to understand before my mind can make any sense of it.
We’re under attack.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I curse under my breath, pushing myself away from the window. Hands shaking, I cross the bedroom barefoot and grab my phone off the side table, shoving it into the front pocket of my sweatshirt.
I need to get out of here.
My eyes land on the bedroom door. If I go through it, I’m in the hallway. If I’m in the hallway, I’m between two staircases—the main one, which goes down to the front hall and the front door, and the smaller one at the back of the house that goes down past the laundry to the side garden. I’ve walked the back stairs once. Yesterday.
The back stairs.
Now.
I take three steps toward the door, and the handle starts moving under its own power.
I freeze.
The handle turns.
The door opens.
Three men barge in in.
Not Raffaele. Not Lorenzo. Not anyone whose name I’ve ever been told. The one in front is older. He’s holding a gun.
He sees me and smiles. Not unkindly. Not benevolently either. The way you smile when the task’s going well.
“There she is.”
I back up.
There’s nowhere to go. I scramble, scanning the room for anything I can use to defend myself. There’s a lamp on the bedside table. Maybe I can?—
“Don’t bother, Miss Mendez.”
He’s stepped into the room. The two behind him have spread out—one to the doorway, one toward the bathroom.
