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Post-coital bliss makes everything more manageable. Including a van load of men who come pouring out at the end of the driveway like a cup of ants that got knocked over.
“Now someone is here,” Mark says. “Come with me.”
We run to Angelo’s office. He pulls open a drawer which contains nothing but a big red button. Having hit that, he grabs me again and we run to the very top of the house, a third floor turret at the very top of the library. To add awesomeness to coolness, it is hidden behind a swinging wall disguised as a bookcase.
“I didn’t know this was here,” I say, redundantly.
“This is a safe room,” Mark explains as the door closes behind us with a nice, heavy clunk “It’s fully stocked, and nobody can get in here without the code. There’s food over there. Help yourself. I’ll deal with this.”
He pulls a high powered rifle with a scope out from a weapons locker disguised to look like a puffy window seat. Before he loads it, he pulls out a pair of bluetooth noise-cancelling headphones and puts them on my head.
“This could get messy,” he says. “But you’re perfectly safe. Don’t worry. Even if I miss every shot, they’re not getting up here.”
I’m not worried. I feel warm all the way to my core. Down below, the front door and every single window has been shuttered automatically with what seem to be very heavy unbreakable panels. This house is a literal fortress. It’s obvious that Angelo has prepared for almost every eventuality.
Mark settles in behind the rifle and lines up his first target. There are no warning shots. There are only kill shots.
I find myself sitting there, listening to music, eating ice cream, watching Mark shoot bad guys. I don’t know why they insist on running at the house even though several of them have already been killed. Is it some kind of masculine pride which convinces them this is somehow a good idea?
This is by all measures, a horror show. But the ice cream is good, and the headphones are the over-the-ear kind that really block out the screams of the dying. I don’t feel bad for them. They’re coming to capture and probably kill me, after all.
“Last one,” Mark says no more than five minutes after the whole thing started. “It’s over.”
“Just like that? A whole siege?”
“It was only twelve guys,” Mark shrugs. “They made a mess of the frontage, but they were never going to get to you. We’ll stay here until we hear from Angelo.”
At that precise moment, his phone rings.
“Angelo?”
He listens and smiles.
“Alright. See you soon.”
“What’s happening?” I ask the question as the call disconnects.
“He’s got Bobby, and they’re coming back. Digby is out of commission.”
“Did they kill him?”
“I doubt it.”
“Why do you doubt it?”
“Angelo kills as a last resort. He always prefers to keep people close, to have them under control, and to break them to his will.”
“Ah.”
Mark smiles. There’s something reckless about him, something I haven’t seen before. I think he liked killing bad guys. Maybe he’s not as different from the other Vitali men as I thought.
“More ice cream?”
* * *
Angelo
They've made a mess of my house, but today the English were dealt a blow they won’t forget in a hurry. The entire bloody massacre was the fault and responsibility of one man: Lord Digby Spencer. He won’t be making a mistake like that again.
We’re supposed to be inspecting the exterior of the house, but Tilly and Mark are walking hand in hand in the garden, blissfully unaware that Bobby and I are watching them. They look so peaceful, so happy. There’s a symmetry to them, a belongingness which even I can’t help but notice.
“Barbie and fucking Ken,” Bobby smirks. “They look like a fairytale couple.”
He’s right. They do. They look like they should be husband and wife. Prince Charming and his princess. Tilly is my wife, but I think she could be the love of Mark’s life.
“Now what?” Bobby looks at the smoldering remains of the house. There’s barely a surface which isn’t riddled with bullet holes. The rebuild is going to be a nightmare.”
I smile and drop a kiss on his cheek.
“Now we all get the hell out of here.”
Chapter 21
Tilly
An island paradise is the perfect place to escape after a very unpleasant raid. When Angelo put us all on his private plane, I thought we might all end up in Sicily, but it’s not his native home he chooses to escape to. It’s somewhere just as nice, and even more remote — Tahiti.
Angelo was napping, but I grew bored. A cupped handful of pristine sea water dropped onto his chest brings him out of his slumber with a jolt. I laugh at his expression, knowing that no deed, good or otherwise, goes unpunished around him.
