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“Yes, I am.” Another finger slips inside.
I quickly glance over Salvatore’s shoulder and see Aldo and Stefano standing in the opposite corner of the otherwise empty room. They are both staring at the ceiling, offering us their discretion in the process.
The fireworks are still lighting up the sky, and everyone is in the front yard, some distance beyond the window. It’s dark outside, and with the bright lights in the room, anyone who looks in our direction will have a prime view.
“People will see us,” I whisper, then let out a low moan when Salvatore’s thumb presses on my clit.
“I don’t care about people.” He bites my lower lip and moves to my chin. The fingers inside me keep moving, stretching my inner walls.
“I am people, too, Tore.” I breathe, then gasp when he bites my lip again.
“You are not people.”
“Oh?” Tremors rock my body so hard I can barely manage words. “And what am I?”
His mouth stills. Slowly, he lifts his head and stares into my eyes.
“Mine,” he says and thrusts his fingers all the way in,hitting that spot only he has ever found. “You are mine, Milene.”
I shudder as I come, sagging against his chest for support.
Salvatore removes his hand, then grabs under my thighs and lifts me. I wrap my legs around his waist and attack his sinful lips, feeling his hard cock behind the fabric of his dress pants as it presses into my core.
The sound of screeching tires somewhere outside reaches us. Salvatore’s head snaps up, and he looks over my shoulder toward the front yard, visible beyond the window.
“Stefano! Aldo!” he shouts, turns around abruptly and heads across the room, still holding me tightly. “Go through the kitchen. Aldo first.”
As Salvatore barks the orders, I stare over his shoulder at the yard through the window. Two black cars have parked at the edge of the lawn, and men with guns are getting out. Shots ring out a second later.
Salvatore lowers me to the ground and takes my chin between his fingers. “You’re going with Stefano.”
I blink at him, terrified and confused. The next moment, Stefano’s hand grips my upper arm, pulling me away.
“What... Tore!” I yank my arm, trying to free myself from Stefano’s hold. I’m not going anywhere without my husband.
Salvatore looks at me, then moves his gaze to Stefano and gives him a nod. “With your life, Stefano.”
“With my life, Boss,” Stefano says next to me, grabs me around the waist, and runs.
Salvatore remains standing in the same spot, watching us for a few seconds as we retreat, then reaches inside his jacket. I stare in horror as he takes out a gun and turns in the directionof the double glass doors on the opposite side of the room. The doors that lead to the front yard where, based on the screams and the sounds of gunfire, all hell just broke loose.
It’s chaos.
Some of the guests are running, trying to find cover or shelter within the house. More than a dozen bodies are scattered around the lawn. I’ve spotted at least eleven shooters. Two are lying on the grass, probably dead already. Six are using the cars as cover, shooting at Rocco’s security detail. The rest are scattered, firing randomly.
Arturo is standing at the edge of the lawn, taking out the shooters with his guns. He’s the only man I know who shoots equally well with his left and right hand. Learning to aim and shoot with the non-dominant hand requires immense determination and practice, something I know from personal experience.
One of the gunmen separates from the group behind the cars and heads toward the house, hitting Rocco’s man with a well-aimed bullet along the way. I raise my gun and fire off two shots in his direction. The first bullet misses, but the second gets him in the chest. He stumbles. I shoot again, this time hitting his stomach, and he ends up facedown on the grass. A bullet whizzes by my head, and I quickly step back, taking cover behind a thick stone column on my right. Five more of Rocco’s people run out from the house and charge toward theshooters on the lawn, picking them off first before focusing on the group behind the cars.
The phone in my pocket vibrates once. Stefano’s signal that he has Milene secured in the vehicle. The pressure in my chest loosens.
When I leave the porch and head toward the attackers’ cars, most of the shooters are already dead. Rocco might be a little slow where business is concerned, but he knows how to choose his security.
The last two assailants are crouched behind one of the vehicles, hiding from Rocco’s men, who are peppering them with bullets from high-powered weapons somewhere on my right. The hostiles don’t notice me approaching since they’re too focused on keeping their heads low and returning fire. I aim for the head of the shooter closest to me and let a bullet fly. His head snaps to the side, and he crumples instantly. The other shooter looks down at his fallen comrade, then lifts his gun to aim at me. I shoot him twice in the chest before he has time to pull the trigger. The gunfire ceases. Rocco’s men scatter around to check for life among fallen people.
“Irish?” I ask as I approach Arturo while he’s looking over one of the dead shooters.
“Most likely,” he says. “How do you want this handled?”
