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The old men dropped to the floor. Lucia collapsed against me. Blood spread across her blouse beneath the red scarf. Her mouth opened, but no sound came. I pressed my hand against the wound, but the bullet had torn through the centre of her chest. The blood came between my fingers in hot, relentless pulses. Her eyes found mine. Then emptied.

Another shot cracked through the café.

I dragged Adriana behind the counter.

“Stay down.”

She stared toward Lucia’s body.

“Adriana.”

Her gaze snapped back to me. I gripped the back of her neck.

“Look at me.”

Her breath came apart, but she focused.

“When I move, you move. You do not stop, and you don't look back.”

She nodded.

The waiter crouched near the kitchen doorway with both hands over his head.

“Rear exit,” I ordered.

He pointed without lifting his face.

I pulled Adriana upright and pushed her toward the kitchen. She stumbled over broken glass. I caught her around the waist before she fell.

“Move!”

We crossed the kitchen as another round struck the steel shelving behind us. Pans crashed to the floor. A cook screamed and crawled beneath a preparation bench.

The rear door opened into a narrow alley. One of our men waited near the corner. He saw us and drew his weapon. A bullet entered beneath his cheekbone before he could fire. His head snapped back. He struck the wall hard, leaving blood across the stone before collapsing.

Adriana recoiled. I dragged her behind the door as more bullets struck the alley, spraying chips of masonry across my coat.

Our guard lay motionless. There was no time to give his death meaning.

Adriana searched behind us.

“There.”

A low service door stood open at the rear of the neighbouring building. A kitchen worker stared at us from inside, holding a crate of vegetables against his chest.

I shoved Adriana through first. The man dropped the crate. Tomatoes scattered beneath our feet.

“Get down,” I ordered.

He obeyed before the final word left my mouth.

We crossed a storeroom and entered a restaurant kitchen. Two cooks moved toward us, then stopped when they saw the pistol in my hand and the blood across Adriana’s shoulder.

“Exit,” I muttered.

One pointed.

We passed between ovens and stainless-steel benches before emerging at the edge of the market. Light and music swallowed us. Hundreds of people moved beneath rows of canvas stalls. Vendors sold leather goods, jewellery, bread, flowers and hot food beneath strings of yellow bulbs. Smoke rolled from grills and clung low over the crowd.