Chapter 5: Blood on the Rug

I had taken a scalpel from the trauma bag that afternoon and slid it under my pillow without thinking about why.

My right hand was already moving.

I drove the blade into the man's forearm, deep, where I knew the muscle was thick.

He grunted and the knife left my throat.

I rolled off the bed and hit the floor on my knees.

"Bitch," he hissed.

He was big, with a ski mask and black gloves, and he had come through the window on a rope.

He grabbed my hair and dragged me up.

I kicked back and caught his shin, and his grip loosened for half a second.

That was all I needed.

I got my elbow into his stomach and screamed, as loud as I had ever screamed, one long word.

"Luciano!"

The man swore and clamped his bleeding arm around my neck.

He hauled me toward the window and I could smell sweat and cold rope.

Then the bedroom door slammed back against the wall.

Luciano stood in the doorway in a black undershirt, his left arm still strapped to his chest and his right holding a pistol.

He did not say a word.

The man spun me around to use as a shield.

I felt the knife rise again beside my cheek.

"Mara," Luciano said, very calm.

"Drop."

I went limp.

My knees folded and my whole weight dragged the man's arm downward, and the gun went off above my head.

The man jerked once and fell backward against the wall.

He slid down it and sat on my grey rug with his eyes half open.

Red spread across the front of his black sweater.

He did not move again.

I stayed on the floor on my hands and knees, panting, with the scalpel still slick in my fist.

The house filled up with boots and shouting.

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