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Shit!
My mind is still racing to catch up to what’s happening as I run to the sitting room. Debris starts to fall around me like missiles aiming to kill me.
“Mamma!” I scream, my heart threatening to pound right out of my chest.
“Gabriella!” Gerardo shouts from the kitchen. “We’re here.”
I change direction and run toward the kitchen, and as I rush inside, the mansion groans before there are loud crashing sounds. It sounds like it’s collapsing on top of us.
“Caro Dio,” Mamma cries. “We need to call Damiano.”
Gerardo grabs my hand and yanks me down beside the island.
“Stay down,” he orders, his breaths bursting over his lips.
Seeing Mamma and Aunt Greta, I crawl closer to them and wrap my arm around Mamma.
“We have to call Damiano,” she cries again.
My breaths rush over my lips as I say, “I don’t have my phone. It’s up in the bedroom.”
“My phone is charging,” Gerardo spits out.
The gunfire grows louder, and terrified of what might happen, I pull Mamma to her feet. “Come.”
“Where are you going?” Gerardo snaps from where he’s standing guard by the doorway.
“I’m finding a hiding place!” I hiss at him.
I open the pantry door and shove Mamma inside. “Sit down and make yourself as small as possible,” I order before I pull boxes of coffee and sugar in front of her.
Luckily, we buy enough supplies to last us a couple of months, and I’m able to cover her partially.
“Stay here until one of us comes for you,” I order before shutting the door.
As I take a step away from it, Gerardo starts to fire one bullet after the other.
“Out the back door!” our guard shouts, panic lacing his words. “Get to the armory and lock yourselves in the building.”
“Caro Dio!” Aunt Greta sobs.
Just as she runs to me, Gerardo staggers back as bullets slam into him, and a second later, men pour into the kitchen.
Not thinking, I dive for Gerardo’s gun as it skids across the floor, and as I lift my arms to fire the weapon, horror crashes through me as I see a bullet hit Aunt Greta in the chest.
“Noooooo!” I let out an agonizing scream, pulling the trigger until the gun clicks in my hand. I manage to hit two attackers, but there are too many.
A shocked silence buzzes in my ears as I try to make sense of what’s happening. It’s all too sudden, and I struggle to cope.
“Is that the fucking mother?” One of the men asks.
“The mother is blind,” another replies.
I scramble to my feet and run to Aunt Greta. Pulling her into my arms, I press my hand to the wound.
As if it will help.
An intense feeling of acceptance spreads through my body as I look into Aunt Greta’s eyes.
