I need you to drive. Cazzo, drive before I blow your goddamn brains out!"I glanced over at him, my heart pounding in my chest. Blood was gushing all over me, soaking through the new suit I had just bought in Naples, but none of that mattered right now. My best friend, my ace, Luca "Il Corvo" Bianchi, had been shot in the chest and accused of being a rat.
The car sped through the narrow, winding streets of the ancient city. The rain poured down, turning the cobblestones slick and treacherous.
His breathing ragged and shallow."Hang in there, Luca," I muttered, trying to keep my voice steady. "Siamo quasi arrivati."
"Just keep breathing, okay?"The accusations against Luca had come out of nowhere. Someone had fingered him as an informant, a traditore working for the Carabinieri. It didn't matter that we'd been through hell and back together, that we'd grown up on the same streets and fought the same battles. In this life, trust was fragile, and loyalty was everything. If you were suspected of betrayal, you were as good as dead.
We screeched around a corner, the tires skidding on the slick cobblestones. The narrow streets of the old town echoed with the screech, sending pigeons scattering into the twilight. In the distance, the spire of the ancient church, Chiesa di San Michele, pierced the darkening sky, its silhouette stark against the gathering clouds. That was where we had arranged to meet Don Salvatore "Il Lupo" Moretti, a man known for his ability to make problems—and people—disappear.
Don Salvatore was one of the few remaining allies who might be able to help us. His reputation preceded him; he was a leggenda (legend) in the underworld, a fantasma (ghost) who slipped through the fingers of law enforcement and rival gangs alike. As the car sped closer, my cuore (heart) pounded with a mixture of hope and fear.
Just then, I noticed several cars inching forward in the distance. Their headlights pierced the gloom, revealing Don Salvatore standing under the church's portico. His face was pale, and even from this distance, I could see his lips moving. "Mi dispiace" (I'm sorry), he mouthed, his eyes filled with regret.
Before I could process his silent message, the night erupted with the staccato bursts of machine gun fire. Bullets whizzed past, shattering windows and ricocheting off the stone walls. The car lurched as I instinctively ducked, the cacophony of gunfire drowning out my racing thoughts.
"Vai indietro!" (Go back!) I yelled to the driver, my voice raw with panic and betrayal. "Quel bastardo ci ha traditi! Tutto perché mi sono avvicinato a sua sorella." (That bastard set us up! All because I got cozy with his sister.) The driver spun the wheel, and the car screeched in protest as we sped away from the imboscata (ambush).
My mind raced, replaying the brief moments of our doomed meeting. Don Salvatore had always been a uomo d'onore (man of honor), but it seemed even he had his limits. His sorella (sister), Maria, had been the unintended catalyst of this deadly game, and now we were paying the price for my indiscretion.
The sound of bullets faded as we rounded another corner, the church and its treacherous shadows disappearing behind us. But the tradimento (betrayal) lingered, a bitter taste in my mouth as we sped into the unknown, desperate to escape the wrath of "Il Lupo."
Luca was bleeding out and time wasn't on our side the only question that lingered in everyone mind was what do we do next.