Chapter 3 - Blood on White Silk
The second gunshot hit the Fiat.
I heard metal scream.
Carlo shoved me down behind the open door while men in dark suits moved around us.
Everything happened too quickly for my mind to understand.
People screamed.
A waiter dropped a tray.
Glass exploded across the sidewalk.
Someone yelled Carlo’s name.
Then Carlo grabbed my waist and pulled me toward the building.
“Move!”
“I’m trying!”
My shoes slipped over broken glass.
Another shot cracked through the street.
Carlo twisted.
His body jerked.
I felt his hand tighten around mine.
Then I saw blood spreading across the sleeve of his gray jacket.
“You’ve been shot.”
“Keep moving.”
“You’ve been shot!”
“I noticed.”
Somehow, even bleeding, he sounded irritated that I was stating the obvious.
We reached a service entrance.
One of Carlo’s men dragged us inside and slammed the steel door.
“Boss?”
“Arm.”
“Let me see.”
“No.”
Carlo looked at me.
“Elena first.”
“I’m not hurt.”
His eyes traveled over me, checking anyway.
Only when he was satisfied did he shrug off his jacket.
The bullet had grazed his upper arm.
It looked horrible to me.
Apparently, to Carlo Ferretti, it qualified as a minor inconvenience.
A man named Matteo pressed gauze against it.
“We need to leave.”
Carlo nodded.
Then he looked at me.
“You’re coming.”
“No.”
His expression hardened.
“Someone just opened fire while you were standing beside me.”
“Exactly. Which is why I would like to stop standing beside you.”
Matteo made a strange choking sound.
Carlo looked at him.
Matteo suddenly became fascinated by the floor.
“Elena.”
“No. I have work. I have a home. I have a perfectly normal life that, until 10 minutes ago, contained significantly fewer bullets.”
“You were seen with me.”
“So?”
“So whoever did this may assume you matter to me.”
I stared.
“Do I?”
Something flickered across his face.
“We met this morning.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Silence.
Then Carlo said, “That is exactly the problem.”
I should have walked away.
Instead, 20 minutes later, I was inside an armored SUV heading toward the hills above Naples.
Carlo sat opposite me while Matteo wrapped his arm.
I kept staring at the blood on Carlo’s shirt.
“You could have been killed.”
“So could you.”
“You covered me.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He looked genuinely confused.
“Was I supposed to let you get shot?”
I had no answer.
His estate appeared behind enormous iron gates.
I had expected vulgar wealth.
Instead, the villa was old, beautiful, and strangely quiet.
Olive trees lined the drive. Bougainvillea climbed pale stone walls. Beyond the terrace, Naples spread toward the sea.
An elderly woman rushed through the front doors.
“Carlo!”
“I’m fine, Mama.”
His mother.
She slapped him.
Hard.
I stared.
Matteo looked away.
Carlo sighed.
“Mama.”
“You were shot.”
“Grazed.”
She slapped him again.
“That was for saying ‘grazed.’”
I bit my lip.
Carlo caught me trying not to laugh.
“Enjoying yourself?”
“A little.”
His mother noticed me.
Everything stopped.
Her eyes widened.
Then she looked at Carlo.
Then back at me.
“You brought a woman home.”
“Mama—”
“You never bring women home.”
“She was caught in the attack.”
“That is terrible.”
She took both my hands.
Then whispered, “But still promising.”
“Mama.”
Her name was Lucia.
Within 15 minutes, she had fed me enough pasta for a family of 6 and extracted most of my life story.
Carlo disappeared with Matteo.
When he returned, he had changed into a black shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows.
There was something darker about him now.
“Who were they?” I asked.
Lucia became quiet.
Carlo sat across from me.
“We don’t know.”
“You have enemies.”
“Yes.”
“Because you own buildings?”
His gaze held mine.
“No.”
There it was.
The truth neither of us had spoken.
“What exactly do you do, Carlo?”
He leaned back.
“My family has legitimate businesses.”
“That was a very carefully constructed sentence.”
“Yes.”
“And the illegitimate ones?”
Lucia quietly left the room.
That scared me more than anything.
Carlo looked toward the windows.
“My father belonged to a world I spent years trying to pull this family out of.”
“Trying?”
“I never said I succeeded.”
I stood.
“I want to go home.”
“Elena.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“Then take me.”
He did.
Personally.
Two SUVs followed us.
When we reached my apartment building, Carlo walked me upstairs.
My front door was open.
I froze.
“I locked that.”
Carlo moved in front of me.
His hand disappeared beneath his jacket.
“Stay behind me.”
My apartment had been destroyed.
Drawers emptied.
Furniture overturned.
My computer gone.
My client files scattered across the floor.
On my kitchen table sat a single photograph.
Me.
Taken that morning.
Standing beside Carlo.
Across my face, someone had drawn a red X.
My knees weakened.
Carlo caught me.
For the first time since meeting him, there was no humor in his eyes.
Only fury.
“This isn’t about the parking spot anymore, is it?” I whispered.
“No.”
His arm tightened around me.
“What happens now?”
Carlo stared at the photograph.
Then he made a call.
“Bring everyone.”
He hung up.
I looked at him.
“Everyone?”
His gaze moved to mine.
“You’re staying with me.”
“I’m not.”
“Elena.”
“No.”
He stepped closer.
“You can argue with me about parking. You can insult my car. You can reject dinner until we’re both 90.”
His voice dropped.
“But tonight, someone put a target on your face because of me.”
May you like
He picked up the photograph.
“And until I know who did it, stubborn girl, you’re not leaving my sight.”
