Falling for Italy (22 page)

She had no idea what had actually happened, couldn’t grasp the notion that someone had just shot at them in their own home.

When they reached the study, Giovanni pulled her behind the massive desk, then took his cell phone out of his pocket and gave it to her.

“Call the police,” he said and went onto the other side of the desk, no doubt to retrieve the gun she knew he kept in the second drawer.

She dialed the emergency number, marveling with detachment at the trembling of her fingers. When someone finally answered, she started speaking in English, then cursed aloud and tried again.

“
Dammi la polizia, per favore!
”

The woman asked for her name and address, and Sonia gave them to her, then she was told to wait. Wait! How could she wait, when someone was hunting them like rabbits? Strangely, she didn’t feel hysterical, just panicked and very pissed off. She could hear Giovanni fumbling with the drawer, searching for his gun, and bit her lip with impatience.

She waited for the police to pick up the line, but stopped dead when she saw the blood trail leading behind the desk. Dimly, she realized Giovanni had been hit by the bullet.

Chapter Seventeen

Giovanni fumbled with the drawer one-handed, trying to stay below the window’s ledge and get his Beretta. He could hear Sonia grabbling in Italian as she gave the police their address. He was proud to hear she even managed to explain the situation in a few basic words. She was learning fast.

And what a thing to think about when you were in a life or death situation. The human mind works in such mysterious ways, he mused.

He’d hoped against hope that Sonia wouldn’t notice the bleeding hole in his sweater, but when he crawled back to her, he saw the blood trail on the wooden floor.

He hadn’t felt the pain when the bullet had penetrated his left shoulder. Just shock and maybe the pressure of a push. But now his shoulder ached from joint to elbow, growing stiff. He gritted his teeth against the pain and tried to support all of his weight on his right arm.

Having talked to the police, Sonia put down the phone and rushed to him, still on her knees. Her face was white as a sheet, her eyes huge and shining with tears as she asked, “Where? Where did he hit you? Why the bloody hell didn’t you tell me?”

As she spoke, she frantically ran her hands over his body, looking for the wound. When she touched his left shoulder, he jerked in reflex. Her intake of breath was audible, but to her credit, she didn’t scream, didn’t faint, didn’t become hysterical, as most women would have when confronted with the bloody mess.

Instead, she clamped her teeth hard on her lower lip, and then looked at his face.

“I’m okay, it’s just a scratch,” he told her, gripping her hand and managing to force a smile. “I don’t think there’s any major damage, really.”

At least, he hoped so. The thought of staying alive had occupied his mind completely and continued to do so. He didn’t flinch when she ripped the sleeve of his sweater up to his shoulder. The fabric was soaked with blood and the wound was the nastiest sight he’d ever seen. If adrenaline hadn’t been pumping through his veins right now, he would have probably been the one to faint. But not Sonia, no. She reacted swiftly, ripping the other sleeve of his sweater, and improvised a makeshift bandage.

After she’d wiped the bullet hole as best as she could, he saw it was more like a gash just above his left triceps, not very deep but surprisingly wide. It was still leaking blood, but not at an alarming rate. What was alarming was the fact his shoulder was starting to feel cold and numb. Thank God the bullet wasn’t still inside. He’d heard it hit the wall.

Sonia worked on him, bandaging his arm tightly. He realized she hadn’t uttered a sound all this time. When he looked up at her, she saw tears were streaming down her face silently, as she mercilessly bit her lower lip.

“Hey, hey! Look at me, baby,” he whispered, cupping her face between his palms. The movement made his shoulder scream with pain, but he hoped it didn’t show. He continued holding her face, looking into her eyes, wiping her tears with his thumbs. Her breath came out in short gusts and he thought she was ready to fall apart. How horrible it all must be for her—having his blood on her hands, seeing his flesh pierced. He doubted he could have handled himself so admirably if the roles were reversed.

“It’s just a scratch,” he said, speaking in a calm voice, trying to sound reassuring. “You heard the bullet slam into the wall, didn’t you? It only passed by me, that’s all.”

Then a thought struck him, clear and cold as the daylight streaming through the windows.

“Whoever has done this saw us fall. He was probably aiming at me, but when I bent to try and catch the star you dropped, he missed.”

Sonia’s gaze seemed to clear as she watched him, following his logic.

“When he saw you fall, he—we’re assuming it’s a he—thought he’d hit his target dead-on. He couldn’t know we’re both alive.”

“Yeah, he probably thinks I’m dead or incapacitated, and that you’re left alone, defenseless,” he mused, feeling cold rage liquefying in his blood. “Sonia,” he began, and then stopped abruptly when she put her fingers over his lips and signaled him to listen.

The faint sound of the backdoor opening carried through the study door, which they’d left ajar. Then footsteps—so soft they were almost unheard.

Giovanni was galvanized into motion. He pushed Sonia as silently as he could behind the massive walnut desk, where she would be invisible from the doorway. She was protesting vehemently with shakes of her head and hand gestures, but his eyes must have managed to convey his determination, as he mouthed, “I have the gun. Stay there!”

The footsteps had paused now. The shooter must have found the living room empty and was probably wondering what to do.

Follow the blood trail, you son of a bitch!
Giovanni put a finger to his lips and motioned Sonia to stay still, spearing her with his eyes. She looked worriedly at him, but stayed still, though he knew how much that must have cost her.

He crept along the wall behind the study door and opened it wider, making sure the blood trail on the floor was visible from the hall. Then he waited behind the door, gun at the ready. The Beretta was always loaded and ready to fire, if the need should arrive. He breathed slowly, listening to the footsteps.

They came slowly, hesitantly—or maybe just cautiously—up the stairs, into the hallway. When they reached the study door, they stopped, and so did Giovanni’s breath. He prayed the man would enter and advance enough into the room so he would have sufficient space to maneuver. He prayed his shoulder and arm would cooperate, though the pain was killing him and the feeling of numbness was now dropping down his forearm.

It was a big chance to take, but they had no choice. Until the police arrived, they were on their own. He had Sonia to protect.

The footsteps moved into the room. Giovanni had only a fraction of a second to act, and he did so. He caught only a glimpse of a man dressed in black and holding what he thought was a rifle. The gun was lethal from afar, but in that split second its awkward size and length worked against its owner. He’d probably seen Giovanni move from behind the door with his peripheral vision and tried to turn around to aim the rifle at him, but it was too late.

Giovanni had his left forearm—now singing with pain—wrapped around the man’s throat in an iron grip from behind, the Beretta glued hard to his right temple.

“You have one second to drop that gun or I fire, and believe me, I pray you don’t drop it,
bastardo
,” he growled in Italian, his voice gruff with barely suppressed fury.

The man weighed his options for just a moment, and then lowered his right arm slowly, letting the rifle fall to the floor.

Giovanni allowed himself a second to take a relieved breath, then said aloud, “Sonia! Get that gun.”

Sonia emerged from behind the desk, still pale as a specter, and picked up the gun.

“It’s loaded,” she told him after she checked the rifle’s chamber. Then she aimed it at the shooter, her eyes gleaming with so much hatred Giovanni was taken aback.

“There’s nothing I would enjoy more than to kill you right now, for spilling my man’s blood. You have no idea how slowly and painfully I can make it,” she said in English, in a low voice, hissing the words between her teeth. She looked so ferocious Giovanni thought he would have been intimidated himself to have that cold, deadly glare aimed at him.

He didn’t know if the man had understood her words, but he could smell his fear and felt his sweat dampening the forearm that kept him captive. Giovanni’s own sweat mixed with the blood that had started trickling down his side and underarm. He had to act now, while adrenaline kept him standing.

He could hear Guccio whining, scratching at the bedroom door and vaguely remembered they’d left him there earlier. The dog was distressed and couldn’t get out, but now that was the last thing on Giovanni’s mind.

He turned the shooter to face him and slammed him hard against the wall, pinning him there with one forearm on his throat.

“Who sent you?” he asked in Italian, taking his first good look at the man who had tried to kill them. He could only describe him as non-describable. Average height, average build, average looks. His head was shaven, his eyes and eyebrows were a light brown. The only striking thing about him was the blank, impassive stare in his eyes. He looked straight ahead, not giving any indication he had even heard Giovanni’s question.

The sound of police sirens came from afar. Giovanni looked at Sonia, who was still aiming the rifle at the shooter, her menacing gaze never wavering.

“I say we shoot him,” she told Giovanni, and he couldn’t decide if she was serious or just trying to intimidate the man. “No one could question it was self-defense. If I shoot him in the gut, he could live for hours. Enough time to think about what he did before dying.”

“Tell me who sent you or I swear I let her shoot you,” he shouted into the man’s face. He didn’t even blink, but his jaw tensed.

The sirens grew louder, came closer, then stopped. Giovanni stared hard into the hollow-looking eyes, willing the answer from the man’s tight lips, but he made no sound.

The front door opened and heavy footsteps rushed inside.

“
Polizia! Questa è la polizia! Dove sei?
”

“
Sopra!
” Sonia shouted back, gritting her teeth in frustration, and her finger tightened on the trigger. “You son of a bitch, you’ll pay for this, I swear it!” she vowed to the man, and then lowered the gun, as two police officers barged into the room.

“It’s him,” Giovanni told them in Italian, nodding to the guy he was still holding by the throat. “Secure him well.”

After assessing the situation, two of the men—there were four now—cuffed the stranger and ushered him downstairs. Giovanni lowered his arms, feeling lightheaded with pain, effort and the loss of blood.

Sonia hurried to his side, supporting him, telling the other two officers in rapid English, “Call an ambulance quickly, please! He’s hurt.”

She indicated his shoulder and arm soaked with blood and the men seemed to understand her. One of them took out a cell phone from his pocket and dialed a number.

“I need an ambulance fast, a man shot in the shoulder,” he said into the receiver, and then gave their address.

“How badly are you hurt,
signore
?” he asked Giovanni after he hung up. “The ambulance is on its way.”

Giovanni had sat on a small sofa in the study. His head was beginning to spin a bit, so he lowered it onto the sofa’s backrest. Sonia was next to him, holding his hand hard, her palm cold and damp. He looked at her and grimaced a smile. He imagined he was as pale as she. He refocused his attention on the waiting officers, remembering one of them had asked him a question.

“I don’t know. I don’t think it’s so bad. The bullet just grazed me, I think,” he told the men in Italian, then switched to English, addressing Sonia.

“What the hell bullet was that, I wonder? It made a hell of a wide gash.”

Her eyes were shining with tears, but she sniffed them back. “It’s probably because he fired through the window. When the bullet went through the thick glass, the metal got deformed and expanded. If… If it had gone through a bone, it would’ve shattered it and made a hell of a mess.”

Her voice broke and she turned her head away, burying her face in her hands, not able to contain her sobs any longer. He reached for her with his good arm, alarmed to feel her whole body trembling. He drew her to him, gathering her against his chest, whispering comfort words in her hair.

“Don’t cry, baby, please. It’s nothing, just a scratch, that’s all. I’ll be fine in no time, I promise.”

He stroked her head, rocking her gently, as the officers stood by the door waiting for the ambulance and probably for a
commissario
—which was a kind of detective, as far as he knew.

He lifted Sonia’s face to him, though moving his left arm had become increasingly hard and painful. Tears were streaming down her beautiful face. Her voice quivered as she said through sobs, “Why couldn’t it have been me he shot? Why didn’t you let me kill the bastard? Oh, Giovanni, I’d die if anything would happen to you. What if this is really bad? What if you’ll lose your arm?”

Her voice had increasingly lifted in desperation and he felt the terror gripping her as she spoke. He cupped her cheek in his palm.

“Don’t ever say that, Sonia. If he’d hit you, he’d be dead. Don’t wish for that yet, because we need answers. As for my shoulder, it will be fine, I promise. Don’t you think I’d know if I had a shattered bone?” he asked, trying to sound reasonable and reassuring, although he felt a bit unsure himself. All that talk about shattered bones made him uneasy.

The ambulance had arrived and the police officers standing by stepped outside to allow a middle-aged man and a young woman dressed in medical attire to enter the room.

“What have we here?” the man asked. Giovanni saw his nametag, which read,
Dottore G. Galliano
. “Please step aside,
signorina
,” he addressed Sonia, who understood and moved away, making room.

Giovanni told the doctor in a few words what had happened, as the nurse assisting him set down her medical kit and started working on untying the makeshift bandage.