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What the hell is going on?
The sudden commotion outside my window makes my skin crawl. Something is going very, very wrong.
I creep towards the glass, peering out into the darkness. Flickering torchlight reveals figures darting through the shadows, the shouts and cracks of gunfire growing louder. I wish I could open my window and have a better look, but the window is shuttered closed.
My heart hammers against my ribs. An attack? Impossible. The compound is heavily fortified, guarded day and night. Luca's empire is impregnable.
Who is attacking him? For a brief second, I smile. As long as someone puts that man in his place...
I press closer, straining to make out the indistinct forms below. As my eyes adjust, I glimpse unfamiliar faces - hardened men wielding automatic weapons, dressed in dark clothes. Not Conti's men.
The guards bark orders, their voices taut with alarm.
"It's the Chicago mob," I hear the guards stationed outside my door scream at someone down the hallway. "We need backup."
Realization dawns. The Chicago mob. Here, in the heart of Conti's territory. Have they come for revenge? I remember overhearing some rumors about how they had Luca Conti's previous underboss killed.
Suddenly, I'm petrified.
The new underboss is Stefano.
Are they here for Stefano?
Despite my anger toward him, I pray. No, god, no.
I pray it's something more. That they're here for Luca Conti himself.
Does Stefano know about this? Is he down there now, in the midst of that chaos? Bile rises in my throat as I imagine him lying broken, bleeding onto the pitiless earth.
An image of another body bleeding out on dark soil pushes into my mind, Papa. My heart clenches.
No. I cannot think that way. Stefano is strong, a survivor. Surely he would not be taken unaware.
Gunfire cracks through the night again, nearer now. I stumble back from the window, heart lurching. I must get away, find somewhere safe to hide. But my feet remain rooted, curiosity warring with fear.
I force myself to breathe, trying to calm my racing pulse. Panic will only make me careless. As much as I crave answers, I cannot risk drawing attention to myself. Not yet.
The sounds of fighting intensify, punctuated by shouts and cries of pain. Are Conti's men holding their own, or being overrun? Useless questions - I have no way of knowing what is truly happening.
My hands curl into fists, nails biting into my palms.
With effort, I turn away from the window. I must prepare for the worst. Find supplies, a weapon to defend myself if necessary. Stay out of sight until the fighting ends, and pray I am not discovered.
My gaze falls on the door, sturdy wood banded with iron. Without another thought, I move to block it with the heavy chest of drawers, grunting with the effort. There. At least now I will have some warning if anyone tries to break in.
Water. Food. I grab a half-empty bottle of water and a protein bar, tucking them into the pocket of my jacket. My knife, a butter knife I stole one day - where did I leave it? I scramble to retrieve it from under the bed, fingers closing around the familiar hilt.
Small comforts, but they will have to do.
I sink down against the wall, drawing deep breaths to quiet my nerves. The sounds of chaos rage on outside, but in here, all is silent. I grip my knife tightly, waiting.
I strain to hear any clues as to the source of the attack, the mob's intentions. Shouts in Italian, gunfire, the roar of engines - but nothing distinct. My imagination fills in the gaps, conjuring images of a full-scale assault, bodies littering the ground outside.
No. I must not assume the worst. Stay calm. Breathe.
An explosion rocks the compound, the blast wave rattling my door. I flinch away instinctively, knife clutched in a white-knuckled grip. What are they using, grenades? My heart pounds as acrid smoke begins to seep under the door.
Panic rises in my chest, choking me.
