Chapter 3 - Shadows of Cicero|
Matteo’s jaw set so tightly the muscles quivered. He didn't look back at the glass doors. Instead, his hand clamped around Elena’s wrist, his grip like iron, sending a jolt of panic straight down her spine.
"Luca," Matteo commanded, his voice dropping into a razor-sharp whisper that sliced through the room's tense atmosphere. "Take the back exit. Now."
"Matteo, if that’s your father—" Luca started, his eyes wide with an alarm Elena hadn't seen before.
"It is my father," Matteo snarled, forcing Elena to step backward toward the darkened kitchen corridor. "Which means every man outside is carrying enough lead to tear this street apart. Move!"
The glass front doors shattered with a deafening CRACK.
Echoing screams erupted from the trapped patrons as heavy steel boots kicked through the remnants of the frame. Men in immaculate black suits flooded the dining room, their automatic weapons leveled at the ceiling. The air instantly thickened with the sharp, metallic tang of cordite and terror.
"Matteo!" an older voice bellowed—a voice like grinding stones, rich with decades of unchecked authority. "Leave the girl and stand down!"
Elena stumbled over a tray, her breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. Her mother's photograph was still clutched tightly in Matteo's free hand. Pregnant. The image burned behind her eyelids. The math spun violently in her head. Twenty-six years ago. September nineteenth.
"Is he..." Elena choked out, her legs trembling so hard she could barely keep pace as Matteo shoved her through the double kitchen doors. "Is he talking about me?"
"Don't speak," Matteo hissed, dragging her past the stainless-steel prep tables where abandoned pans still hissed on the burners. "If Don Carmine realizes who you are, you won't live to see sunrise."
They burst into the rear alleyway. The night air was freezing, slick with drizzling rain that coated the asphalt like oil. Luca was already waiting by a darkened armored sedan, its engine humming violently in the narrow space.
"In!" Matteo ordered, tossing Elena into the leather interior before sliding in beside her.
As the doors slammed shut, a hail of gunfire erupted against the reinforced glass behind them. Elena ducked, pressing her hands over her ears as the car accelerated wildly, throwing her back against the seat.
She stared at Matteo in the dim interior light. His pinstripe jacket was stained with rain, his dark hair disheveled, but his eyes were fixed entirely on her face.
"My mother..." Elena gasped, tears finally spilling over her lashes, hot against her cold skin. "Tell me the truth. Was my mother running from your family?"
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Matteo looked at the small silver hair clip resting on the console, then down at the worn photograph in his hand.
"She wasn't running from my family, Elena," he said quietly, his voice carrying a weight that chilled her to the bone. "She was running from me."
