27
Mia
On the bathroom floor, I lay flat on the tiles, breathing hard and listening intently. The guns, screaming, and crashing of glass that blasts through the house are like nothing I’ve ever known. It’s a war zone, and just like they did to warn of bombings in a war-stricken Europe, an alarm bell is ringing throughout the Moretti house. It’s a warning, however it’s too late. Panic waves through me, ordering me to escape as my chest is tightening and tightening, making it harder for me to breathe.
“Breath, Mia, Breath.” I have to talk to myself, to urge some inner strength to come forward. Antonio may think that safety will come from this room, but I know this room will only lead to my demise. I don’t even need to contemplate the idea of staying another goddamn minute in this place. I’ve got to get out of here.
On my hands and knees, I leopard-crawl out of the bathroom, around the bed, and out into the hallway. Crawling forward, it feels like for a moment my sense of hearing has disappeared, but I soon realize that all the erratic gunfire temporarily ceases, leaving me with a feeling of disorientation. I look up toward the railings that line the landing above the stairs. No sign of anyone, or I think so at least, as the lights flicker on and off—some ricochet shots must have damaged a circuit breaker somewhere. Slowly, I crawl forward, uncertainty running through me as I drag my body further. My own fear is screaming at me to get the hell out of here. Inch by inch I move, and whatever caused the gunmen to pause, that moment has passed as the war on the outskirts of New York City, in this house, continues in a way that’s so unpredictable that I can’t fathom any type of practical plan. I’m unable to follow any thought. However, I can’t slow down—the adrenaline won’t let me. So I keep moving and pray to God that I get out of here alive.
As I reach the landing, the only thing going for me is the fact that the gunfire doesn’t seem to be in my immediate surroundings anymore, and instead they’re fighting off in another part of the house somewhere. With trepidation, I peek through the gap between the landing and the railing. I have to stop myself from screaming when, for the first time in my life, I see not just one dead body, but several laid out by the bottom of the stairs. All of them are men with guns by their sides, most of which I don’t recognize, but there’s one who I’ve seen out in the courtyard before—one of Antonio’s smoking men, only this time there’s blood pooling around him as if he fell and spilled a tin of red paint. The thing that catches me off guard, however, isn’t the blood, but his eyes that look straight at me, frozen.
Without thinking about it, I rise up and start to run down the stairs as the thunder of bullets continues somewhere at the back of the house. With fast feet, I almost reach the front door but must have been so intent on my escape that I wasn’t keeping an eye on the ground until that is, I suddenly trip and fall on something. No, not something, someone. To my horror, someone grabs my foot and when I try to scramble to my feet, the man who has his hand firmly around my ankle squirms with pain.
“Help me,” he calls out, then coughs. “Help.”
“What?” I cringe towards him, his pain making me feel physically sick.
“Help me.”
I try to wriggle free, my eyes focused on the courtyard through the open front door.
“Please.” The guy coughs up blood.
I know it’s heartless, but I can’t help this guy, I know that. Whoever’s behind this, is all in, no survivors, and the only way to help anybody, is to get out of this alive. I wriggle and wriggle, finally kicking him away. But it’s all in vain because straight out ahead, approaching from the courtyard, I see someone else, a man in black, holding a rifle and coming my way.
“Help!”
“Shhh! Be quiet, someone’s coming.” I tell the man in pain but leave him behind as I run through an open door on my left and hide behind the wall.
I can hear footsteps getting closer.
“Hel…” A lone shot puts an end to the man’s pleas. The sound of the rifle is so deafening that I can hear a slight ringing in my ear, but more so, I can actually hear my heart thumping at a million miles an hour. It’s not only the sound of the shot but the absence of the man’s cries that sink deep into my soul.
I run for my life.
Without looking back, I sprint into the first room I see, slamming the door shut behind me. I look around to see that I’m in the office, the room with all the books. The only substantial thing to hide behind is the large desk, so I run around to push aside a chair and fall to the floor. To my surprise, I find Sophia huddled with her head between her knees and her arms over her head. She also thought to seek refuge under the desk. She jerks her head up and pulls me in next to her.
“Stay quiet,” she tells me. We’re both unable to hold our weeps as the door crashes open.
Two footsteps in, then, bang! A bullet crashes through the corner of the desk, then into the glass cabinet in front of us. The glass shatters, little pieces flying toward my face. Bang! Another shot, this time coming in above. Sophia grabs my hand and squeezes it for all it’s worth. Just as I turn my head to her, wanting to tell her that it’s going to be okay, the next gunshot rings out and all I see is her head whip forward, warm wetness splashing against my face. Her hand releases mine instantly as her whole upper body collapses toward the floor.
Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit!! Sophia! I want to scream her name, I want to wrap her in my arms and wake her up, but I need to stay completely silent as I hear heavy footsteps coming toward the desk. I just know that I’m next, helplessly waiting for that sound. I close my eyes, and when I expect my life to end, something else happens, I hear not a gunshot, but the gunman’s voice.
“Cocksucking piece of shit!”
I peek out to take a look at him, with his black overalls, he’s smacking the butt of the rifle as if it were a faulty TV remote. I don’t know if it’s jammed or malfunctioned, and I’m not waiting to find out. Without thought or time to evaluate my environment, I take the chair from behind the desk, and, with all my might, with my adrenaline propelling me forward, I charge the guy holding up the chair as if it were a spear, pushing him and his rifle over, pinning him to the floor. I jump over him and run, this time heading out to the back garden, though just as I exit, a pair of arms bear hug me from behind and throw me to the floor.
“You fucking bitch!” The man in black, having thrown the chair off himself, leans over me and punches me in the head, sending a jarring pain rushing through my skull. He then drags me by the hair back toward the front door.
I shout and scream, yelling at the top of my voice, giving everything my lungs would allow.
“No! Let me go!”
“Shut the fuck up, you stupid whore!”
He drags me further, and I reach out my hands as he does, hoping that I can hold on to something, anything to delay his actions. It’s only when my hair suddenly gets yanked in the opposite direction do I realize that the man who was dragging me is now getting pummeled to the ground. I look up as I’m freed to witness Vinnie, beating down on the guy, then with all his weight he flips the guy over, grabs his head with both hands, and with an almighty effort of force, twists his neck, taking his life away in an instant.
“There’s more coming from the front,” Vinnie tells me. “Run to the garden and hide.”