A door slams.
“¡Luna!” a voice yells.
Not Rafael’s.
Not Marco’s.
Another shout, this time in harsh Italian.
“Armas abajo!” Guns down.
And then chaos explodes.
Black SUVs.
Doors flying open.
Men in dark clothes, guns drawn, moving with a precision that screams training and money.
One of the masked men curses, pulls his weapon fully free.
A shot cracks the air.
I flinch, ducking instinctively.
A car window shatters.
Someone screams from an open apartment window above us.
The dog across the hall barks like it’s going to rupture its throat.
Time gets weird.
Slow and fast at once.
I see Rafael take a punch to the ribs, stagger, then come back swinging.
I see one of the black‑clad men grab the other masked attacker from behind, wrench his arm up until something pops.
I see th
