Chapter 22 - Blood on the Marble
The world dissolved into the deafening roar of automatic gunfire and the bitter, chemical stench of cordite. Up in the vaulted rafters, the sniper’s muzzle flashes strobe-lit the drifting smoke like angry lightning strikes. Below, on the grand marble mezzanine, the slick pool of crimson beneath Luca’s shoulder was spreading at a terrifying speed.
"Luca, keep your eyes on me!" I screamed over the pandemonium, dropping to my knees. The delicate silk of my evening gown instantly soaked through with his burning blood. I didn't care about the dress; I didn't care about the shards of Venetian glass digging into my shins. My trembling hands tore frantically at the hem of my skirt, ripping away a wide strip of fabric to wad against the ragged entry wound just below his left clavicle.
Luca hissed, his teeth bared in an animalistic grimace of agony. His broad hand, calloused and lethal, came up and clamped over my wrist—not to push me away, but to steady me. Even pale as chalk, with sweat beading across his sculpted forehead, his dark eyes burned into mine with an intensity that defied death itself.
"I’m... not going anywhere, *tesoro*," he grated out through clenched teeth, his voice a ragged whisper. His right hand still gripped his Beretta, sweeping the perimeter even as his body trembled from shock. "Marco! Move! Rear exit, now!"
Marco didn't hesitate. With Isabella cradled completely under his massive tactical vest, shielding her small body with his own flesh, the head of security surged toward the steps. Three Moretti soldiers in tailored suits drew submachine guns from beneath their coats, forming an impenetrable wall of lead toward the upper gallery. The sound of their return fire was like thunder ripping through the cavernous hall.
"Elena, push harder!" Luca commanded softly, his head falling back against the marble for a brief second before he forced himself back up. "Don't let up the pressure."
I threw my entire body weight onto his shoulder, leaning into the wound. Hot blood surged between my fingers, slick and terrifying. Isabella was sobbing silently just feet away as Marco brought her up to us. Her little face was pale, tear-stained, and streaked with soot. The moment Marco took a knee beside us, Isabella’s tiny hands broke free.
Her fingers flew in frantic, jerky motions: *PAPA HURT. MY FAULT. PAPA HURT.*
"No, *piccola*," Luca whispered, his voice catching on a sudden coughing fit that brought a fleck of blood to his bottom lip. Despite the agony tearing through his chest, he forced his left hand—the arm barely responding—to lift an inch from the floor, curling his index finger and thumb into the sign for *LOVE*. "You saved us. You... saw him. My brave girl."
"Marco, we need to move him now!" I cried out, my tears cutting clean tracks through the dust on my face. "He’s losing too much blood!"
"Armored convoy is at the service bay!" Marco barked, signaling two more operatives. "Don Luca, with your permission—"
"Lift me," Luca growled, refusing to be carried like a corpse.
Between Marco and another operative, they hoisted Luca to his feet. Luca smothered a scream in the back of his throat, his boots skidding slightly in his own blood before finding purchase. His arm draped heavily over Marco’s neck, but his gaze never left me.
"Elena... stay in my shadow," he ordered, his chest heaving with shallow, agonizing breaths.
I scooped Isabella into my arms, pressing her face tight into the crook of my neck so she wouldn't see the carnage littering the floor—the fallen bodyguards, the trampled roses, the glass stained with her father’s blood. She wrapped her skinny legs around my waist, burying her face into my collarbone, her small hands clutching the remnants of my ruined dress as if I were the only tether keeping her from falling into an abyss.
"I'm right behind you, Luca," I vowed, my voice ringing with a fierce, protective resolve I hadn't known I possessed. "Always."
We sprinted through the service corridors, the symphony of gunfire slowly fading behind heavy steel blast doors that slammed shut in our wake. Down in the cavernous underground loading dock, three matte-black Cadillac Escalades sat idling, exhaust billowing into the chilled night air.
"Get him into the middle car!" Marco shouted, wrenching the heavy armored door open.
We tumbled inside into the dark, plush interior. The doors slammed shut, the heavy pneumatic locks engaged with a decisive *thunk*, and the convoy peeled out of the bay with screeching tires, plunging into the dark veins of the city.
Inside the cabin, Luca collapsed back against the leather seat, his eyes fluttering shut. The white shirt was completely saturated in dark, thick red.
"Luca! No, don't close your eyes!" I shouted, dropping Isabella onto the bench seat beside me and pressing both hands once again into his shattered shoulder. "Luca Moretti, you look at me!"
His eyelids cracked open, his dark pupils blown wide with pain, but a faint, arrogant smirk touched the corner of his bloodied lips. "Bossy... little wife..."
"Don't talk, just breathe," I wept, leaning over him, my forehead touching his damp brow. "You survived the streets, you survived the war, you survive this. Do you hear me? Isabella and I need you."
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Isabella reached across the leather, her small, trembling hand reaching up to touch his stubbled cheek. Her fingers formed a single sign against his skin: *STAY.*
A single tear slipped from the corner of Luca's eye, cutting through the grime. "I stay," he whispered, his hand weakly rising to cover hers. "I always stay."
