Page 268 of Anti-Heroes in Love Duet

He fired the gun.

Straight into Bambi’s sternum.

I shouted wordlessly and raced across the twelve feet between Agostino holding her up against the wall and my hiding place.

Three.

There was a knife lying on the counter, a paring knife to cut fruits or vegetables. I gripped it in my fist and lunged at Don di Carlo.

I impacted with him as he was turning to look at the commotion I’d made. I was lucky to catch him off guard because he was almost as big as Dante. He staggered as I hit him, loosening his grip on Bambi who fell to the floor clutching her chest, leaving a big wet, red smear of blood on the white wall.

Fury turned my vision blood red.

I jammed the knife into the first place I could reach, Agostino’s upper right chest. It slid in deep enough to hit bone then got stuck.

At that moment, I wondered madly if I was going to die.

He flipped me so quickly, I wasn’t even aware I was moving until my back slammed into the floor and the air expelled entirely from my body.

“Elena Lombardi,” he greeted with a sneer, pulling the knife from his chest as if it was only a minor inconvenience. “What a pleasant surprise. Did this bitch enlist your help to get away from me?”

His hands found my neck, strangling me just enough for black spots to prance across my vision, but not enough to kill me.

Not yet.

I was grateful to have long legs.

I kicked the right one up and notched my foot against his belly where he crouched over me, pushing with all my might to get him to budge.

He didn’t.

So, using the last of my energy, I kicked him in the kidney again and again.

Finally, he cursed in Italian and shifted away from me, taking the pressure off my neck for just a second.

One second was enough.

I threw my right arm up and punched him straight in the throat.

He gurgled, his hands loosening. I rolled away and to my feet, grabbing for the knife on the floor again because the gun had fallen under the couch behind him.

He staggered to his feet with a growl. “Puttana.”

Whore.

I didn’t care what he called me. My focus was on his hands. He aimed a punch at my right cheek, so I tucked my shoulder and rolled under it, then came up and sliced at his belly with the knife. I’d learned my lesson about stabbing him, but the thin wound that bloomed on his stomach was hardly enough to stop him.

He came at me again.

And again.

And again.

Sweat dripped into my eyes and made them burn. There was no way I was going to be able to defend myself forever. He was bigger, stronger, better than me.

Maybe it was the defeatist thought, but on his next punch, he caught me on the chin and sent my head snapping back. The white ceiling whirled with black and white constellations as my knees turned to jelly.

He let me fall to the ground, my forehead bouncing against the corner of the chair at the dining room table before thumping to the ground.