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Two men who I’d met in Sicily. One of which Jayla had a fling with.

Both men have their guns drawn and are on high alert. They might as well be the hotel’s official defense against the shooters who opened fire, because everyone else runs and screams in hysterics.

“They got away,” Maurizio answers. “They didn’t hit anyone except for a server.”

“Warning shots,” Rafael says. The muscle in his jaw tightens. “They were sending a message.”

Adagio holsters his handgun and walks up to one of the hall’s tall windows to peer out. “They sprayed a couple bullets, then drove off before anybody could react.”

I hover a few feet away, in the middle of the aftermath. Dinner guests have gathered at one end of hall, scandalized and terrified. Hotel staff have rushed toward the only casualty. Where I’d normally be bursting with curiosity and my investigative streak, I’m still frozen in shock at what’s happened.

I’ve reported on countless shootings. But I’ve never been involved in a shooting myself.

Who were those men and what were they after? Why were they intent on shooting up a dinner for a charity helping underprivileged children? How much more evil could you get?

Rafael’s arm drips with blood.

I see it despite his dark suit. A droplet of blood splatters to the floor and wakes me up from my trance.

“You’ve been shot!” I exclaim, rushing forward. “Rafael, you’re bleeding.”

He’s wholly unconcerned as he glances down at his arm. “It’s a graze. They must’ve clipped me as we dove behind the column.”

“You need medical attention. You need to be checked out.”

He seems on the brink of disputing my claim until he meets my gaze and realizes how shaken I am.

“Alright, alright. Calm down,dolcezza. I’ll let a paramedic look at me.”

The police and paramedics arrive in the next minute. The parking lot of the Plaza fills with flashing lights, emergency responders in uniform and upset dinner guests. The hotel employee who’s been shot is wheeled on a stretcher and placed into an ambulance.

Rafael expects to be treated on the spot.

“Sir, we’re going to have to ask you to ride in an ambulance to the ER,” says one of the paramedics. “We’ll be able to better treat your gunshot wound.”

He stares blankly at the man. “It’s not a gunshot wound. It’s a simple graze. It’s nonthreatening.”

“The wound will be better patched up at the ER. Please get in the ambulance.”

A dismissive chuckle leaves him. “I’ll pass on that invite. I have my own doctors.”

“Rafael,” I moan from his side. “Please, just get in the ambulance and let the ER take a look at it.”

For a second time in a few minutes, Rafael looks at me as if my concern means something. It matters more than his own injury.

“Alright,dolcezza,” he says, then he grabs my hand. “But you’re coming with me.”

“What? I don’t…”

There’s no use arguing with him on it.

I’ve dug my own grave insisting he goes to the ER.

The next thing I know, he’s climbed into the back of the ambulance and dragged me inside with him. The doors slam shut and we’re off in a whir of flashing sirens.

For the duration of the ride, we sit side by side in silence. So close I can still feel his body heat, but so consumed by the tension and uncertainty between us that I can barely form a thought.

Rafael seems to be satisfied enough that I’m alone with him. He finally has my company even if no words are exchanged.