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After my recent encounter with the biker Stefan was working with - Billy the Kid - the sight of big hulking men dressed in leather and cuts sets off an instant attack of anxiety. The panic only intensifies when a few seconds later I recognise the patch they’re all wearing, featuring a flaming skeletal devil, as the one Billy wore.

“What weirdos walk around with their helmets on?” Sammy observes flippantly, completely unaware of the internal meltdown I’m experiencing next to her.

Strutting in a pack across the carpark, none of them have removed their helmets. It makes for an imposing scene; they look bigger, less human. The helmets are their masks. They don’t want their faces to be seen. They don’t want witnesses to be able to identify them.

Something very bad is about to happen. Something that I know will centre around me.

Seconds later and mere metres from the front door, the men pull their weapons out. I scream for Sammy to get behind the desk.

A few of the braver guys in the gym come running to see what’s going on. Three of them are shot down immediately and the screaming begins. First, only terrified screams of alarm, but then agonised screams of pain join the horrifying soundtrack.

In these seconds that feel like hours, I realise that Uncle David was right last night. Giovanna isn’t always going to be there to save me. She isn’t here now. I can’t rely on her stepping in front of me and shooting dead my attackers. No. If I am going to make it out of this alive and make sure that my friend does as well, I’m going to have to save myself.

First things first, we have to get away from the front desk. We are sitting ducks. I grab Sammy’s wrist and yank her towards me. “We need to find somewhere to hide. We’re dead if we stay here,” I whisper to her.

She nods, her striking green eyes wide in terror. I feel a pang of guilt that my world has bled into her bright carefree life. There is no doubt in my mind that these men come from my world. They’re here for me. I owe it to my friend, this ray of sunshine in my darkness, to protect her.

Pointing to a wall of shelves displaying uniformly folded towels and stacks of branded drink bottles, I tell Sammy to follow me and set off bear crawling on my hands and feet.

Plastering my back against the wall on the other side of the shelves, I pull Sammy around after me and a bullet whizzes past a second later. She gulps knowing it was meant for her. We stare at each other for a moment with matching round-eyed expressions that say, ‘Holy shit that was close’.

It seems like the gunmen are shooting pretty indiscriminately. They’re destroying equipment and making as much noise and creating as much damage as possible. If they hadn’t already killed at least three guys I would think this was an intimidation mission rather than an execution.

“We’ve got to keep moving,” I hiss.

She follows me as we duck between the rows of machines. Great big contraptions that you would think would be useful for hiding behind, prove to be useless with too many gaps that would leave us visible. The space is cluttered with gym equipment and yet totally exposed.

We keep moving and all the most obvious hiding places are already occupied by terrified gym members whose apologetic expressions tell us there is no room for us to hide with them, so we keep weaving our way toward the rear of the gym.

The bullets follow us as the bikers move further into the gym. They shout instructions out to each other and I swear one of the voices belongs to Billy. Their heavy black boots crunch over the piles of gym shrapnel they have created and their bursts of cruel laughter sound like pure evil to my ears.

The women’s changing room is up ahead of us, but my gut tells me allowing ourselves to be cornered in there is a bad idea. Fuck. We don’t have a lot of options, but once we enter the bathroom there will be only a few, very obvious, places to hide. No. That is not a good idea. We run past the tempting door.

“Francesca!” Billy barks out, confirming what I already know; I am the target.

Sammy falters and her hand squeezes tightly around mine. Realisation dawns on her frightened face and it is sinking in for her that these men are here for me. She’s remembering all the cryptic conversations we’ve had and the bits and pieces she has put together about the Famiglia from being at the Marino house. The idea that I am from a mafia family has always been there, but here is the brutal reality.

“Here, Sammy!” I whisper, pushing her behind a large, long rectangular stand that carries at least thirty big round 20kg plates. It is propped against the wall on an angle leaving a small cavity for hiding in, but there is only room for one of us so I shove her in and hiss, “Do not move!”

Still exposed and now totally on my own, I frantically look around for somewhere else and a feeling of inevitability comes over me. If I hand myself over they won’t hurt anyone else. They’ll kill me, I know, but then maybe they’ll leave without hurting anyone else.

I crouch behind a leg press machine, giving myself some time to think. More voices are calling my name now. All menacing, masculine, and deadly.

Time's up for me, I think.

Even though I’m mad at Giovanna for how she has treated me, I am suddenly full of regret that the last thing she will remember me by is me walking out of the kitchen last night. Maybe things will be simpler for everyone without me there though. Maybe it will be a relief for her to be rid of her ‘stage 5 clinger’.

Sirens sound in the distance bringing with them a flicker of hope. If I only last a few more minutes until the police arrive I can survive. The gunmen are going to have to run for it before the cops pull up. Staying alive for a few minutes should be simple, right?

Adjusting my crouching stance so I don’t cramp up, I press my face against the cool steel of the machine I’m behind and peer through a narrow gap. The bikers seem to have dropped back and are prowling around the front desk, but I see a pair of black suit pants and leather dress shoes approaching.

The legs don’t appear to belong to the bikies I saw charge through the doors. If anything, the male figure is dressed in standard mafia attire. The angle won’t let me get a glimpse of his face, but somehow I just know that this is the man who wants me dead. The bikers are just hired muscle.

The mafia man draws nearer. If I don’t move I’m dead. If I do move, I’m probably still dead. Neither are great options, but it takes no time at all for me to decide that I’d rather move than sit here and wait to die.

Sticking my head down, I sprint as fast as I can diagonally and backward toward the shelter of a cluster of bulky machines. They’re just a few more metres away. The sirens are close now. Help is coming.

Pumping my legs as fast as I can, I swear I hear the bullet leave the gun and know it will hit me.