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Chellie isn’t looking at me, and I don’t want her to. But the open space now makes aiming easy. I point and fire toward the tires of what I realize is a second car that hit us. Luigi’s window is open and firing at the driver of the car. Their windshield shatters as blood splatters it from inside.
Motherfucker! Goddamn that hurts. I press my free hand to my left ribs. This one grazed me, whereas the one in my shoulder is there until someone pulls it out. Fucking hell. Everything is getting blurry. I blink as I try to focus and shoot. I’m bleeding faster than I thought. The pain is worse than I expected. This isn’t the first time I’ve been shot, and morbidly, I pray it isn’t the last. That would mean I’m dead. I can hear nothing past the ringing in my ears. Everything is turning black as someone pries the gun from my hand.
“Chellie?”
“Lie down.”
I can barely see as I watch her hold the gun like an expert marksman. She fires off a round of shots in quick succession, and I hear a car crash, but it isn’t into us.
“Luigi, they shot Enzo twice. Where do we go?”
“Carlotta’s.”
“Hurry.”
That’s the last thing I hear.
* * *
“Enzo?”
“Mama?”
“Sono qui.” I’m here.
“Dov'è Michelle?” Where’s Michelle?
“Con Carlotta.” With Carlotta.
I’m woozy as I sit up abruptly. Stitches tug in my shoulder and ribs. It’s enough to make me think I’m going to throw up. I swallow it down.
“Chellie!”
“Shh. Sta bene. Tutti vogliono solo essere al sicuro.” Shh. She's fine. Everyone just wants to be on the safe side.
I lean back against the pillows as Mama adjusts them. Everyone. I look around and realize I’m in my childhood bedroom. My entire family must have come here. It wouldn’t surprise me if Auntie Carlotta and Mama were already here together. If they have the time, they often bake together. I sniff and smell fresh bread.
“Enzo?”
I look up and see Chellie in the doorway.
“Vieni qui. I mean, come here.”
I wave her forward with the hand that isn’t in a sling. We all learned Italian before English, so it doesn’t surprise me to realize I slipped back into that. Unlike my parents’ generation, mine learned English before going to school. But I didn’t know anyone outside my family who took sardines or bruschetta for lunch. My parents’ generation learned English in kindergarten.
I reach across me and pat the edge of the bed. Chellie’s tentative, looking at Mama rather than me. When she nods, Chellie perches next to me.
“Are you all right,piccolina?”
I don’t care if my mom hears me call my fiancée that. I’m certain she already spotted the ring. I’m not the only man in this family to call his woman that. Old fashioned and outdated as that sounds, I love thinking it.
“I’m fine. Carlotta checked me out since I got a minor cut on my hand when the window shattered.”
I look down and see the bandage. That’s not a minor cut.
“Stitches?”
“A couple. How do you feel?”
