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It feels like an hour has passed, but it's probably less than five minutes. Both of our bodyguards are either dead or incapacitated. If we try to make a run for it, we're as likely to get shot as not. I don't think it's worth it.
There's only one of them left. I see that he's moving toward the car, his stride confident. He thinks we're sitting ducks in an unarmored vehicle. He doesn't know about me though, that I have a gun and I know how to use it.
I've never shot at a person before, but I will do whatever I have to in order to protect my little sister.
"Do not move," I tell her in a harsh whisper. "No matter what. Stay still."
She doesn't reply, but I have to trust Carlotta will do as I say and not bump me at an inopportune moment. I take the Glock in both hands, like Zio Giovi taught me. I'll need to raise my head and shoulders above the backseat to take aim through the glassless window.
I have only seconds before the gunman reaches us and I know I will only get one chance. If I miss, the man will have a chance to shoot me and then there will be no one left to protect either of us.
Hoping my mom is watching over us, I rise up and take aim as I breathe in and fire the gun as I expel that breath. Not once, but over and over until I see the man fall backward with a shocked expression on his face.
I watch, but he doesn't move. Nobody moves outside the car. Even the man propped up against the SUV appears passed out. Or dead.
I'm sure the bodyguards would have sent an emergency call to my father, but I still say, "Carlotta, call Papà."
She doesn't move or reply.
"Carlotta," I say with more forcefulness, never taking my eyes of the men lying on the street.
It's like my fingers are frozen on the gun, my gaze locked irrevocably on the scene of carnage outside.
"What?" she finally asks in a shaky voice.
"Call Papà. I think I got the last one, but there might be more coming." They'd made their move on a stretch of road with trees on both sides and no houses.
That doesn't mean no one heard the gunshots. The cops might have been called. That's not my problem. Keeping my sister safe is. And there's no way of knowing if the masked men have reinforcements on the way.
"You shot one of them?" Carlotta asks, sounding dazed.
"Yes. Are you dialing Papà?"
"I am."
Then I hear the ring and realize my sister has her phone on speaker.
"We're on our way." My father says rather than answering. "Don't worry,stellina, we'll keep you safe."
"Catalina already did," Carlotta says.
"Catalina?" That's not my father's voice. It's Don De Luca.
My father must have his phone on speaker as well.
I don't know if the don is asking what Carlotta meant or for me to speak.
"I think all of the gunmen are dead, but they might just be passed out," I say, deciding to answer. My voice sounds weird to my own ears. "The bodyguards are down, but I don't know if they're dead."
Carlotta starts to cry. "Sorushot one of them."
"She shot one of our bodyguards?" my father demands, his tone filled with anger.
"No," my sister wails. "She shot one of the bad guys. She kept me safe. Why don't I know how to shoot a gun?"
Carlotta is sobbing now and it's hard to understand her, but my father's reply proves that he does. "Because ladies don't handle guns," he says with stark judgment toward me.
It's such bullpuckey. There are women all over the world that compete in shooting tournaments, even actual ladies of the nobility. I know because I watch the competitions online. They're fascinating. No one dies when those guns are fired. There is no blood.
