Trapped by the Mafia

7. The Hit

A hit, informally, and particularly in North America, could mean a murder, typically one planned and carried out by a criminal organization. Being hit on is another thing entirely.

***

The events are incredible, jumbled and lighting-fast.

Here I was, hopping, grabbing for Scali's hand with the phone. I was pissed out of my mind, because he's such an idiot. The Marble Angel stood in the way. The miniature explosion hit, chipping the Angel.

Next Scali grappled me to the ground, burying me completely under his body. There was no kissing and no contact other than the fall itself. If that's not an insult to my virtue, not an overwhelming outburst of a violent passion, then what is it?

Then...a dip into black.

And now, now the air isn't just kicked out of me, it's gone. For a second, my lungs are so deflated, breathing seems impossible.

I gape like a fish, fight for the trickle of life-giving oxygen, and stare up dumbly from the ground...at Scali.

His body presses me into the freshly mowed grass. His head is bent low over my face. I can detect the telltale signs of male arousal with my tingling senses, but he's scanning the graveyard, not whatever my body offers to mankind.

Another cork pops in the distance, and metal pings against the marble again. More stone shards helicopter through the air.

My eyes squeeze shut in denial as the inevitable conclusion dawns upon me.

Someone has just shot at me. From a gun. With a bullet. Twice.

Twice!

The first bullet might have hit the marble fold of Angel's toga, but it aimed to impale itself into my flesh. Maybe even my heart.

No, not you, idiot. Why would anyone shoot you? They were shooting at Matteo.

I've told him! I've literally told him three seconds ago he was in danger, and the arrogant jerk has dismissed my warning. He called me a suburban thrill-chaser. Well, duh!

"I t-told you!" I rasp through dry throat and parched lips. If my hands weren't pinned under his weight, I would have thrown them up into the air with a joyous cry of Hallelujah. I would have kicked him if I could. "Do you believe me now?"

"Yes."

Being vindicated pumps a single jolt of triumph through my veins, but the rush doesn't last. I still have to labor for every breath I take, and they grow shallower, faster...

How many bullets does the shooter still have in his gun? Can a bullet pass through Scali's muscular tissue and still kill me? Does he wear one of those kevlar vests under his designer jacket? If he doesn't, why is he such an idiot? If I was shot at whenever my father died, I'd be wearing one, for sure. Why is he such an idiot?

But he's an idiot protecting me. If he leaves...I don't want to think about what happens then. I just don't want it.

I clutch Scali's collar in my curling fingers in a panicked bid to keep him where he is. On top of me, like a mighty shield. Yeah, that's good. Very good.

Scali's body covers me entirely, so my nose barely sticks out from under his neck to draw breath. But I'm breathing deeper.

Why does his smell go so well with grass'?

He's overheating, with his chest compressing me on every rapid exhalation. We're both breathing. It's a good sign, right?

Slowly, panic recedes, and adrenaline drains with it. Behind its mad pulse a pulled ligament screams in my shoulder.