Chapter 3 - Bullets and BloodlinesThe acrid smell of gunpowder instantly filled the cramped space beneath the table, mixing with the scent of garlic and spilled chianti. My ears were ringing so loudly that the screams of the terrified diners sounded like they were coming from underwater.
Yet, miraculously, the baby didn't wake up. He remained curled tightly against my chest, his tiny hand still anchored to my thumb, breathing in soft, rhythmic puffs against my collarbone.
Julian shielded my entire body with his broad frame, his left arm wrapped securely around my shoulders while his right hand kept the heavy pistol aimed squarely at the shattered entrance. His breathing was heavy, controlled, adrenaline pumping through his veins with lethal efficiency.
“Are you hit?” Julian demanded, his dark eyes scanning me frantically in the dim light.
“N-no,” I stammered, my teeth chattering so hard I could barely form words. “I’m fine. But your son—”
“He’s safe because he’s with you,” Julian interrupted fiercely.
Outside the booth, the heavy thud of combat boots echoed across the hardwood floor. Two of Julian’s bodyguards had engaged the intruders in the narrow aisle near the bar. Shouts in Russian—harsh and clipped—cut through the chaos, followed by the wet, sickening thud of hand-to-hand combat.
“Boss! Perimeter’s compromised! More coming through the alley!” one of the bodyguards yelled over the din.
Julian cursed under his breath—a dark, vicious sound in Italian. He looked down at me, his eyes burning with an urgency that left no room for argument.
“Listen to me very carefully, Elina,” Julian said, his fingers gripping my chin to force my gaze to lock onto his. “We are walking out the back kitchen exit right now. You are going to keep holding Leo, and you are not going to let go of him, no matter what you hear or see.”
“Leo?” I echoed stupidly. “Your son’s name is Leo?”
“Yes. And right now, he is the primary target for men who want to destroy me,” Julian said, his voice dropping into a lethal whisper. “Which means you are a target, too. Whether you believe you’re my dead wife or not, those men out there saw you calm my son. They know you hold the key to him. They won't hesitate to kill you to hurt me.”
The reality of the situation crashed over me like a tidal wave. I wasn't just a waitress anymore. I was caught in the crosshairs of a bloody, brutal underworld war, holding a mafia boss's baby while bullets riddled the walls around us.
“Okay,” I breathed out, the fear somehow crystallizing into a desperate kind of courage. “I’ll hold him. Just... don't let them shoot us.”
Julian’s lips pressed into a hard, grim line. He holstered his pistol for a fraction of a second, grabbed my hand, and hoisted both of us up from beneath the table in one fluid, powerful motion.
The kitchen doors were just twenty feet away. As we sprinted across the ruined dining room, stepping over broken glass and overturned chairs, a man lunged from behind a structural pillar, holding a hunting knife aimed directly at Julian’s back.
“Julian!” I screamed.
With preternatural speed, Julian spun around, parried the knife-wielding hand with his forearm, and drove his fist straight into the man’s jaw with a sickening crunch. The assassin dropped like a stone.
We burst through the swinging kitchen doors just as a barrage of fresh gunfire peppered the exterior brickwork. The kitchen staff was cowering behind the stainless-steel prep tables, wide-eyed and shaking.
“Out the loading dock! Now!” Julian ordered, shoving open the heavy metal back door that led into the dark, rain-slicked alleyway behind the restaurant.
As the cool night air hit my face, mixed with the smell of wet asphalt and garbage, a sleek, bulletproof black SUV idled with its rear door wide open, its engine rumbling like a caged beast.
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Julian bundled me into the back seat, diving in right behind us and slamming the heavy armored door shut just as a hail of bullets pinged harmlessly against the reinforced windows.
Inside the dimly lit cabin of the SUV, surrounded by leather and advanced tactical gear, the engine roared to life, and the vehicle surged forward into the rainy Manhattan night, leaving Ristorante Orelio—and my old, ordinary life—far behind in the burning wreckage.
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