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Yeah. Right.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
He flings a glower back at me as I follow him out. I love the way he strides, head up. All action. No fear.
The ballroom is a squall of people, a mass of dashing and diving, bodies flying in every direction. Heads turn and duck, dip, and bob, bodies whip left and right.
As he sees me follow him out, he turns, fast. Picks me up by my waist and dashes me to the space behind the bar.
The force of his voice shocks me. “Stay here.” He glares in my eyes. “I want you safe.”
At the far side of the room, four or five men are formed into a tight group, facing out, arms outstretched in classic shooting stances. Bruno grips an automatic with both hands, pointed up. As he advances, anytime he sees a potential sight-line, he cocks his head to line his eye along the sights. With people frantically milling across his path, there’s no way he can get a clear shot.
He moves with his left foot forward, knees bent, back foot angled for power and balance. He keeps his position, shoulders low, his body turned to present the narrowest target.
All around the room, men are drawing weapons. Who are these idiots who thought of shooting their way through a mob party? I dash sideways around the big room, keeping low, my eyes fixed on the tight pack of intruders. They’re all covered with heavy body armor. From the front, their arms and hands, and their feet and ankles are the only clear and viable targets.
Not quite such idiots. And they’re tight against the door, so they can back out fast when the element of surprise fades and the bustle of panic and confusion dies down. They seem to be aiming around, hunting targets. Threatening more than taking shots.
Gunfire comes in spurts from around the room, directed at the attackers. They shudder and jar as occasional shots thud into their protective padding, but they keep their position and formation. At a guess, I would say they were preparing to leave. Did they come to take something? Or did they bust in, make an attempt, and then give up?
Crouching as I advance on them, I keep low, blend into the mess of the crowd. Not too hard to do. Like I would expect in any mob gathering, there’s no shortage of physical courage in evidence, but no coordination and no visible discipline.
Except in Bruno’s steady advance.
I’m ashamed to say that I can’t see either of my brothers, or Daddy, stepping up. Don Fortuna is near the group, but with his back against the far wall and looking like he’s eager to inch away.
In the corner of my eye, I spot Carlo. Down on his haunches to my left, moving smartly toward the group. So very inconspicuous, I don’t want to compromise him by even looking his way. And then I feel him noticing. Complicit. We feel like a team. He has no weapon showing.
All around, men crouch, kneel and some even stand in firing stances, blasting steady volleys of shots into the padded armor. And the group do return fire. A bold man in a tux stands, firing a rhythmic stream in the classic double-handed stance. Until two of the attackers direct their fire at him. He jolts and blood splashes from his shirt. He reels back, shakes and goes down, rocked by one bullet kick after another.
As I move, I’m looking out for a loose weapon. Carlo dips to pick up a Ruger. Still without looking at him, I wave my left hand, low to the floor. Gimme. Our eyes barely connect, but we’re communicating. A team.
He dashes to me and for an instant, I think he’s going to give me the gun. Instead, he upturns a massive table of glasses and bottles, toppling it to make a refuge. He grabs me roughly. Shoves me behind the table.
Glowering, he tells me, “Stay. Fucking. There.”
I still get a charge from the unmistakeable bond.
Carlo moves off, crouching low and rounding on the group.
Now I notice Alessio, slipping along the wall to the right. He carries a gun in each hand, pointed down, avoiding attention.
I’m watching the group by the door. Apron-style body armor with more shocks, puffs like powder, and pock-marks every instant. Knee, ankle, elbow and wrist guards, and thinly slotted face coverings. Whatever their intention, somebody put some prep into this.
As I stay focused on the targets, a stray thought drifts across my mind that the three Fortuna brothers and I seem to be the only people acting with cool heads and sense in this mess.
I slip out from behind the table. Now I’m close enough to see the group clearly. There are five gunmen. An extra pair of legs is penned in at the center. Well-toned calves in black stockings and spiky turquoise heels.
I recognize the shoes. That’s Adrianna Bagniola.
Carlo rises, with the Ruger aimed.
Like they’ve been choreographed, the three Fortuna men all fire at once. The bullets all thud into padding and armor. Nobody drops, but the force of impact is enough to push the men backward.
The barrage of fire keeps up. None of the men go down or seem to be injured.
I’m close enough to grab a discarded silver tray. It’s scattered with glass stems and broken flutes, sloshing in a pool of spilled Champagne. Ducking low, I grab the tray and swing it, swiping the edge hard at the legs of the two closest men.
