5
1016 Words
— The Night Before the Wedding
Highway A45, Outskirts of Naples | 11:38 PM
Matteo Arcuri rode in silence.
The hum of the Cadillac limo was steady—comforting, almost. A tank on wheels, the custom black beast was built like it had something to prove. Bulletproof windows, reinforced panels, enough torque to plow through a riot. Matteo never moved without precision. Especially not tonight. Especially not when a message needed sending.
He was en route to a late-night meeting—a calculated show of dominance for a smaller family that had been growing too bold, too vocal. Some lines needed redrawing, and Matteo always stood on business. It didn’t matter that his wedding was less than twelve hours away. He’d handle this and still be back in time to tie his cufflinks and walk down the aisle like nothing happened.
No escort. No convoy. Just Esteban driving and two bodyguards: Marco riding shotgun, and Gianni in the back with him.
“Almost there,” Esteban muttered from the driver’s seat.
Matteo didn’t reply. His eyes were fixed ahead, absorbing every flicker of the road. Empty fields on both sides, no streetlights. The kind of darkness that listened. That waited.
Then—a blur. A black Toyota Tundra sped past them, no plates, no signals. Matteo’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. Just watched it disappear into the horizon.
“Odd,” Gianni mumbled.
A kilometer later, a white Ford F-450 appeared, headlights high, swaying slightly in its lane.
This one didn’t pass.
The Ford grazed the left side of the limo with a harsh scrape. Esteban swore, trying to steady the wheel. The limo swerved slightly off course but stayed upright.
“What the hell?” Marco swore.
it was uncertain if it was an accident. But the road was clear. The driver must have been really drunk or...
The Ford stopped—angled, sideways—blocking half the road. A moment of silence passed. A breath.
Marco unbuckled and stepped out.
He didn’t take a second step before the night erupted.
Gunfire—loud, close, merciless. Muzzle flashes lit up the dark. Marco dropped instantly, riddled in red. No warning shots. No mercy.
The windshield cracked from the outside in. Bullets danced across the body of the limo like hail. Esteban ducked and floored it, trying to steer them back onto the road, but the Ford rammed into them, shoving the limo further off course.
“Go! GO!” Matteo shouted.
The roar of the engine surged. Esteban spun the wheel, fighting to regain control—but there was no escape. The sound of tires screeched behind them.
The black Tundra had Doubled back.
It rammed into them from the rear, shaking the entire vehicle. At the same time, a Toyota 4Runner slammed into them from the front, pinning them in. It was coordinated—surgical.
The limo was now wedged between the Ford, the 4Runner, and a thick tree trunk on the passenger side. They were boxed in. Caged.
Automatic fire resumed. Gunmen outside laid suppressing fire on every inch of glass and steel. The limo held—for now. But it groaned under the pressure.
“They’re trying to pin us down,” Gianni hissed, loading his weapon. “They’re gonna open it like a soup can.”
“Esteban!” Matteo barked.
“I can’t—driver’s side’s locked against the tree!”
The vehicle rocked as the attackers continued to push against it. Cracks spiderwebbed across the bulletproof windows.
Gianni turned to Matteo. “We’ll be sitting ducks in minutes.”
Marco was dead. Esteban was boxed in. Gianni looked at Matteo, bleeding confidence but sweating fear. “You can still run. Out the other side. I’ll lay cover. The second I hear them reload, I go out shooting. You move then.”
Matteo looked at him. Eyes steady. Unshaken. He didn’t argue.
Outside, the gunfire paused—clicks, reloads.
“Now!” Gianni shouted.
He kicked the door open and stepped into the crossfire, weapon up, unleashing rapid fire to the right, forcing some of the attackers to duck behind the Ford. Matteo burst out of the left side, 1911 in hand, into the woods.
He didn’t look back.
But he heard the scream—short, wet.
He turned once, just once. Gianni’s body was jerking with bullets, then still.
A shot cracked through the trees and tore through Matteo’s thigh. He staggered and fell, face-first into leaves. Pain screamed through his nerves. He bit down hard on his knuckle, muffling the sound.
No stopping.
He dragged himself into the undergrowth, leaving a slick trail of blood. Branches tore at his jacket. His breaths came in quiet, ragged bursts. He found a fallen oak—wide, thick, hollow underneath. He crawled into its shadow and pressed his back to the bark.
He checked his pistol. Seven rounds. Just seven.
Voices now. Crunching leaves. Boots. The forest was alive with the hunt.
He listened—counted. Then, when he felt them close enough, he broke from cover and fired. One bullet, one target. Another. Another. Shadows dropped. Screams echoed. He wasn’t shooting blind. He never did.
Matteo was many things—but he was no amateur. He had been in the field before he could walk.
He emptied the clip, then ducked back behind the tree. A beat passed. Then—
Crunch. Crunch. Slow, deliberate steps.
One man.
Matteo gripped the pistol tighter. Useless now, but it felt better than empty hands.
The man stepped into view, framed by moonlight. He was really young, younger than his son early-twenties, maybe. Freckled face. Black hair. Eyepatch over his left eye. Not familiar—but distinct.
Matteo stared at him, committing every feature to memory.
" faresti meglio ad assicurarti che io muoia stanotte", Matteo muttered as he clutched his red thigh.
He was not young anymore. his vision was blurring .
The man didn’t flinch.
He raised the Glock he was holding and replied in English.
“Trust me. That’s the plan.”
The barrel met Matteo’s forehead. The forest exhaled.
- Writer
