The Attack
1135 Words
I watched him from the couch, arms crossed tight over my chest, trying not to let my nerves show. Alessino was too calm. Too still. Like he was waiting for something. Or someone.
The way he had handled everything so far—the way he hadn’t even flinched when I accused him of killing people—told me one thing: he was in control. Always. And if he wasn’t? He’d never let me see it.
I wet my lips. “So, what now? Do we just sit here and wait for Marco to try again? Or do you actually have a plan?”
Alessino’s gaze lifted, slow and deliberate. “I don’t sit and wait, cara.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” I gestured around us. “We’re still here, aren’t we? Meanwhile, there’s a guy out there who apparently wants you dead. And possibly me, too.”
“You’re overestimating your importance in this.”
His words shouldn’t have stung, but they did.
I scoffed, leaning back. “Right. So if Marco’s people show up, I’m just collateral damage?”
He tilted his head slightly. “You think he’d waste resources on you?”
I wasn’t sure if that was supposed to be reassuring or insulting.
Before I could decide, the phone on his desk rang. Alessino didn’t hesitate. He picked it up, but didn’t speak.
I watched his expression, trying to gauge anything. His fingers stopped tapping the desk. His jaw flexed slightly. His eyes darkened, but not in anger. In calculation.
Then he said, voice sharp and cold, “You shouldn’t have called this number.”
The line crackled. Then a voice I didn’t recognize.
“I hope you said goodbye to her, Alessino.”
The call was cut off. The silence that followed was suffocating.
A chill ran through me as I processed the words. Goodbye to me. What does that even mean.
I wasn’t just caught in the crossfire anymore. I was a target.
Alessino didn’t move for a second. Then he exhaled through his nose and stood. The motion was smooth, unhurried, but everything about it screamed danger.
I barely had time to react before he pulled open a desk drawer, grabbed a gun, and checked the clip like it was just another part of his routine.
Something in my chest squeezed tight. “What—”
The office door exploded inward.
Gunfire shattered the air.
I ducked instinctively, hands flying to cover my head as glass rained down. Alessino was already moving, yanking me off the couch with a grip so firm it hurt.
“Move.” His voice was sharp, low. No hesitation.
My feet barely kept up as he dragged me toward a side door. More shots. The sound of something heavy hitting the floor behind us.
My breathing was erratic, my heartbeat a violent hammering in my chest. “Where are we going?”
“To deal with this.”
That wasn’t reassuring.
We burst into a hallway. A long, dimly lit corridor, cold and sterile compared to the polished office. The sounds of the fight continued behind us—more gunfire, more shouts—but Alessino never stopped moving.
He pushed me ahead of him. “Go.”
I ran.
We reached another door, and he yanked it open, revealing a stairwell. Before I could process, he pressed a firm hand between my shoulder blades and shoved me forward.
I stumbled but caught myself, gripping the railing. “You know, a little warning would be—”
Another gunshot rang out this one more closer.
Alessino shoved me again. “Down. Now.”
I ran. My pulse was in my throat, breath coming in quick, uneven gasps as I took the stairs two at a time. The sound of footsteps pounded behind us. More than two. Three. Maybe four.
Someone was following.
I didn’t dare look back.
We reached the bottom, another door. Alessino threw it open, revealing the underground garage. The air was thick with oil and concrete, the dim fluorescent lights casting long shadows.
A black SUV sat idle near the entrance. A man stood beside it, already holding the door open. Alessino’s people.
Alessino pushed me toward the vehicle. “Inside.”
I didn’t argue. I scrambled in, heart still hammering. He slid in after me just as another gunshot rang out, this one hitting the metal door behind us.
The driver hit the gas.
Tires screeched as we peeled out of the garage, merging onto the darkened street. My breath came fast, my hands trembling as I braced myself against the door.
We were still alive. For now.
I turned to Alessino. “What the hell was that? And shouldn't you have stayed behind to fight back?”
He didn’t answer. He was already dialing a number on his phone. His expression was like stone.
The call connected. His voice was quiet, but lethal. “Find out how they got in.” A pause. “And destroy them all. I want good news by tomorrow morning.”
I swallowed hard, hearing this.
Whoever had sent those men tonight… they wouldn’t live to try again.
Alessino finally looked at me. “You still think I just sit and wait?”
I clenched my jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response.
He smirked slightly, then turned his attention back to the city flashing past the tinted windows.
My pulse hadn’t slowed. The car felt both too big and too small, suffocating despite the luxury.
I was alive.
But something told me this was only the beginning.
Then, from the front seat, the driver muttered something under his breath.
Alessino stiffened. His gaze flicked to the side mirror.
I followed his line of sight—and felt my stomach drop.
Headlights.
A dark SUV, keeping pace with us.
Then another.
And another.
Three blacked-out vehicles. No headlights. No plates.
And closing in fast.
Alessino reached for his gun.
I barely had time to whisper, “Oh, s**t,” before the first car rammed into us.
The impact sent me hitting the glass even though the seat belt kept me locked in.
Alessino fired out the window, his gunshots deafening in the confined space of the car. The SUV swerved, tires screeching as the driver tried to shake off our pursuers. I gripped the seat belt tighter, my knuckles white, my heartbeat hammering in my ears.
Just as I thought backup might arrive, a sharp crack echoed through the car. A gunshot—too close.
For a split second, I thought it was Alessino’s shot. Then I saw the blood.
Dark. Dripping from his hand.
I went deadly still, Alessino—wounded.
The man who never flinched, never faltered—bleeding.
If they could hit him…
What chance did I have?
- Writer
