Chapter 9 – THE BULLET IN THE DARK

“Camille,” Dante said, his voice eerily calm as he slowly lowered his hand from the door.

“Put the gun down. You’re already facing life in prison. Don’t add my murder to the list.”

Camille laughed. It was a broken, hysterical sound.

“Life in prison? I have nothing left, Dante! You took my future. You took my dignity. You gave everything to that pathetic widow!”

I sat frozen in the driver’s seat of my car, my heart hammering violently against my ribs.

She hadn’t noticed me in the dark interior.

“How did you escape?” Dante asked, stalling for time.

“Victor’s men intercepted the transport van,” Camille spat, gripping the gun tighter.

“They got me out. But Victor is gone. The accounts are frozen. I have no money, no passport, no way out.”

She pointed the barrel squarely at his heart.

“But I have this. And I’m not dying alone.”

Dante didn’t flinch.

He stood tall, shielding the door to his mother’s apartment with his body.

“You always were a coward, Camille. You cut Sarah’s brakes because you couldn’t face rejection. You sold me to Victor because you couldn’t earn my trust. And now you’re going to shoot an unarmed man because you’re afraid of a jail cell.”

Camille’s hands shook wildly.

Tears streamed down her ruined makeup.

“Shut up! Just shut up!”

She pulled the hammer back with a sharp, metallic click.

She was going to pull the trigger.

I didn’t think.

I reacted.

I slammed my foot on the accelerator.

My little Honda Civic roared to life, tires screeching against the wet pavement.

I didn’t aim for Camille. I didn’t want to kill her.

I aimed for the trash dumpsters lined up against the alley wall right beside her.

The car slammed into the heavy steel dumpsters with a deafening crash.

The impact threw me violently against the steering wheel, the airbag deploying with a cloud of white smoke.

The dumpsters tipped over, crashing into Camille.

She screamed as the heavy steel knocked her to the ground. The revolver fired wildly into the air, the bullet shattering a streetlamp above us.

Dante moved instantly.

He lunged forward, kicking the gun out of Camille’s reach before pinning her to the wet pavement.

He pressed his knee into her back, pulling a pair of heavy zip-ties from his pocket—courtesy of Marco—and bound her wrists tightly.

Camille sobbed, her face pressed against the concrete.

“I hate you, Dante. I hate you.”

Dante didn’t answer.

He left her on the ground and sprinted to my car.

He yanked my door open.

“Megan!”

His voice was frantic, terrified.

I coughed, waving the airbag smoke away.

My forehead was bleeding where it had hit the steering wheel, but nothing felt broken.

“I’m okay,” I gasped. “I’m okay.”

Dante reached in, unbuckled my seatbelt, and pulled me out of the ruined car.

He didn’t just help me stand. He wrapped his arms around me, pulling me into a desperate, crushing embrace.

“You crazy, brave woman,” he whispered into my hair, his chest heaving against mine.

“You saved my life.”

I rested my head against his shoulder, letting the adrenaline finally crash.

“I couldn’t let her hurt you.”

Suddenly, the side door of the bakery creaked open.

Warm yellow light spilled out onto the dark, rainy street.

Standing in the doorway was an older woman.

She wore a simple apron over a flour-dusted dress. Her hair was silver, but her eyes—deep, warm, and familiar—were exactly like Dante’s.

She looked at the crashed car, the bound woman on the ground, and finally, at the tall man holding me.

She dropped the wooden spoon in her hand.

“Dante?”

Dante turned slowly.

Tears immediately filled his eyes.

“Mom.”

TITLE: The House We Built

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