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He offers his hand. I take it, my fingers curling gently into his palm. The boys are still bickering behind us as we leave the table, Omero telling Alfio his flavor choice was “embarrassingly basic,” and Alfio calling him a “walking cliché in Gucci loafers.”

The wind picks up just as we step outside. Enzo walks beside me, his hand at my back, guiding me gently.

Enzo opens the back door for me. “Alright, milady. Time to head home.”

Home sounds ironic.

I barely have a foot in the car when I hear it—the sharp grind of tires.

The screech rips through my chest like claws.

I turn to see a car that swings into view from the corner. Then doors fly open.

Enzo shoves me behind him so hard I nearly fall. “Stay back, Lunetta!” he barks, already reaching for the gun beneath his jacket.

The world explodes in flashes—bursts of red muzzle flare, the ear-piercing pop of gunfire ricocheting against brick and glass.

Someone grabs my arm. I twist, panic rising, throat burning. “Let her go!” Enzo roars.

The hand gripping me stumbles, and I almost slip free—until another man slams into me from the side.

My shoulder hits the car and pain blooms. Everything goes blurry.

Hands haul me up again. I kick weakly and try to scream, but a hand muffles my mouth, stealing my breath.

Enzo barrels toward us. “Lunetta!”

A shot tears through the noise.

He stumbles. Blood sprays. He has been shot.

“No!” I scream—choked, raw.

He falls to one knee, gripping his side. Omero yells his name, dragging him away. Alfio kneels down, firing.

I claw at the hand on my mouth, the other on my waist.

My cardigan tears.

“Get her in!” someone growls.

I see Enzo one more time.

Then I’m shoved forward.

The van door slams behind me. The cold metal bites into my back. And I’m gone.

****

The van rattles around me, each jolt shaking my spine like a cruel reminder that I’m not in control. My wrists ache where the zip ties bite into them, and the rough fabric of the blindfold presses against my eyes, trapping me in darkness. My heart won’t stop pounding. I try to count the minutes—one, two, three—anything to mark the distance, to know how far they’re taking me.

But time slips, slippery and untrustworthy, bending around corners I can’t see.

The van jerks. Brakes screech. Doors slam. A hand grabs my upper arm—rough, uncaring—and yanks me up. Gravel shifts beneath my feet. The scent of motor oil, something sour, and roasted coffee drift past me. A building door creaks open, then slams shut again behind us.

"Santa Madre, perché? Sono così impura che ogni angolo del mondo mi punisce?"

Blessed Mother, why? Am I so impure that every corner of the world punishes me?