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I wish I could call Luca and talk to him right now. But the fact that he didn’t come to meet me backstage means he’s keeping a low profile.
Ever since we met as kids, his entire life has been about being in the shadow of action and dealing with the wrong crowd.
I’m not an idiot. I know that as much as he took care of me, Luca didn’t get his money legally, but as he says, the less I know, the better. He doesn’t want to put me in danger and neither do I.
So we kind of look out for each other from afar.
But I miss him.
I want to tell him all about today’s show and how the pain in my ankle kept me on the edge. I want to tell him about the blood because he’d understand what it means to be in pain.
He’s the only person I can call both family and a friend. And it’s been months since I last saw him. I had hoped he’d make an exception today and come out of the shadows, but apparently, that wasn’t the case.
I arrive at the parking garage of my building in less than thirty minutes. It’s located in a quiet suburban neighborhood in New York City and has excellent security that makes me feel safe at home.
My ankle is throbbing when I exit my car. I lean against the door to catch my breath and a cramp tries to break the surface. After taking a few deep breaths, I beep the locks, then remember my bouquet. I might not get Luca in the flesh, but I can at least feel his presence through the flowers.
I’m about to get them when a loud sound of screeching tires fills the garage. I duck down and remain in place when another screech follows.
Usually, I wouldn’t stop for any commotion, but hearing disturbing noises late at night at an apartment building like mine is rare. In fact, it should be almost impossible.
I stare up at the cameras blinking red in every corner and release a shaking breath.
I’m safe.
But for some reason, I don’t come out of my hiding spot beside my car. It seems vital at this moment, and if I get up, I feel like something disastrous will happen.
The ache in my ankle pulses harder, as if it’s sensing my stress and participating in it.
A black Mercedes comes to a shrill stop in my direct view, its tires leaving angry black marks in its wake.
No one gets out, though.
Another black car, a van this time, brakes behind it. Then I watch in horror as its window lowers and bullets fly in the direction of the Mercedes.
I jump, placing both hands over my ears to block out the loud gunshots. Inching back, I find myself crouched between my car and the wall. Thank God I always leave some space.
The gunshots go on and on like a crescendo of a musical, up and up, faster and harder andlouder. For a second, I think it’ll never end. That it’ll keep going for an eternity.
But it does stop.
My heart beats in my throat, nearly spilling my guts on the ground as I hear some rustling and then curses in a foreign language.
Could I be trapped in a nightmare?
I dig my nails into my wrist and squeeze until pain explodes on my skin. No. It’s not a nightmare. This is reality.
The voices are now high-pitched, angry, and not holding back. I probably shouldn’t look, but how am I going to escape this horribleBlack Mirrorepisode if I don’t see what’s going on?
Making sure my body is still hidden behind the car, I grab the hood and peer around it. The Mercedes that was shot at has multiple bullet holes in the windshield, but the glass didn’t break.
All its doors are open, and while I was fully prepared to find dead people, the car is empty. Instead, three men dressed in dark clothing are outside, all holding guns. Two of them are wearing suits. One is bulky and blond with a scowling face; the other is lean and has long brown hair tied at his nape. They’re forcing a chubby man to his knees in front of their third companion.
He’s wearing a simple black shirt and pants. His sleeves are rolled to above his wrists, exposing a hint of tattoos. One of his hands rests by his side and the other holds a gun to the chubby man’s head.
I only get the view of his side profile, but it’s enough to tell me he’s the one in charge.
The bossman.
