Legs and hands trembling, she was frozen at the top of the stairs. Her skin humped with gooseflesh. She heard a creaking door open. Heard two voices talking. Then a third. Her mouth fell open and she wanted to cry. She was going to die today. In five minutes she would be dead. These were her last breaths. Visions of her and Rocco, in love, looking in his eyes, walking with his hand holding hers, were all swiped away like cobwebs. It was all so fragile. All of it.

She crept backwards, eyes glued down the end of the stairs that traveled straight down, polished and gleaming maple, curled to the left and pointed towards the kitchen. The voices were clearer and they echoed around the squared cathedral ceiling above her. The voices made no sense at first. Hushed whispers, men trying to be quiet, whispers over whispers, none of the words coming clear. She took another step back. A pattern emerged in their speech and the meaning began to reveal itself. Words slowly became concepts in her terrified mind. They weren’t English. They weren’t speaking English. But she comprehended...

Another step back. Italian. The hushed sounds were in Italian. She made out words. Bitch, dead, kill, then a laugh, then, you go downstairs, you go upstairs. She couldn’t breathe. They were going to find her and they were going to kill her.

Another step back, she was under the arch of the bedroom. It made sense now. They weren’t Nero’s men. They weren’t soldiers she recognized. The tight jeans with colored stitching, frosted hair and pointy shoes. European. They spoke Italian. What did it mean? Who in Italy hated her so much?

She stepped back once more, her bare foot had sweated in fear and it made a squeak on the hardwood. There was nowhere to hide. The house was empty. There was no furniture. There was no lower roof if she wanted to climb out the window. She turned and walked forward, fear loosening its grip, and a desire to stay alive forging her movements now. She made it to the window. Looked down. Twenty, thirty feet to the ground. She could drop out this window. She’d break something, sprain something, but she would probably live...unless she hit her head. Then what? Roll under a shrub. Cuddle up and stay warm, try and...they’d still find her, laying broken on the walkway...

Footsteps mounted the stairs. She waited too long, there was no way she would be out the window before whoever was on the stairs was on her. This was the first room when you reached the top. She whisked a glance back. Saw a rising shadow curling up the wall from the stairs, looking tall and menacing, lit from below by the kitchen lights. It carried a gun, held out at its hip. She tip-toed, her breath held in her lungs, seized there, tap-tap across the floor and into the closet. It was empty. Nothing to hide behind. No hanging overcoat and boots to slip on and pretend she was just a bunch of old disused clothing. It was stark and white and bare, one lone wire hanger on the rod. She worked herself into its corner, turned her head into the wall like if she couldn’t see him he wouldn’t see her. She trembled. Her neck ached with tension. The footsteps were in the hall and there was no hesitation in them. It was too easy. The steps came in the room, echoing around the empty space, nothing to absorb it, only flat surfaces reflecting it. Her knees were knocking. Her ankle cracked. The steps made their way to the closet. The door yanked open, she saw light on the bare corner ahead of her, then fingers wove through her hair in an instant and she was yanked back, her head snapping. She screamed.

<Shut up, bitch!> the man she couldn’t see yelled in Italian. His voice was panicked, frightening in its lack of control. Her hands scrabbled around her, nails digging at the wall, her fingers wrapped around the wooden rod. He yanked her harder and she felt her hairs plucking from her head and the nape of her neck. She screamed bloody murder but he pulled her harder, jerking and jerking til she thought her scalp would come off. Her grip seized the rod tighter. She was struck on the top of the head. It broke her scream as her brain exploded in twinkling stars. He’d hit her with the gun butt and she knew her scalp was torn, could feel her warm blood pattering on her shirt and trickling down her cleavage.

She was dazed and as he yanked one more time, her grip gave way and he pulled her to the room. But she’d brought that wire hanger with her and she snapped it across his face with all her might. It cracked like a whip on his cheek and she saw him, face to face, his eyes wide in astounding shock, his cheek blazing red.

<Fucking...> he whispered in wild and frenzied bewilderment. His hand went to his cheek. A triangular line of blotchy dark purple bruising had risen immediately to the surface of his skin. The point of the welted triangle trickled blood.

She snatched her arm back with the wire, set to whip him harder, set to whip his head right off his shoulders, but she was punched from the side. Another man charging up the stairs and she hadn’t seen him coming at all. Her head exploded and she went dim and fell to her knees, then scattered herself on the floor, felt someone remove her deadly wire weapon out of her hands. He kicked her in the belly. She watched up at them, dazed, coughing. One on the left was a dead-eyed dummy with slicked back hair, scrawny, with a tight purple v-neck shirt. The other one had frosted spiked hair and fingerless gloves. His shirt had sequins. His welted cheek rose like he had been branded and his blood ran down his neck.

Frosted-Hair, mad as hell, bent and gripped her hair and he dragged her by it. She screamed again but she could barely hear her own voice over the ringing in her ears from being clocked. She clutched at his hand and his wrist to alleviate the pain from being dragged by her hair. Her bare legs kicked and thrashed but the flannel of her shirt made it easy for him to drag her. Purple-Shirt kicked the side of her thighs as she was pulled to the top of the stairs.

Unceremoniously, she was sent tumbling down the steps, banging and hoofing all the way to the bottom. She rolled, tucking her head and covering her face with her arms. She banged her shins and the pain set bright white electrical jolts to her brain. She cracked her ribs, her spine, her hip, then she was face down on the tile floor of the main floor. Someone else, standing and waiting at the bottom, grabbed her roughly by her upper arm and he hoisted her to her feet. She spit in his face. Didn’t even see him, just rose on her wobbly legs and she horked. Tried to run when he reeled, but her legs were viciously kicked out from under her and she fell to the floor. Her bloody hair clung to her face and her chest heaved and chugged like she’d been making love with Rocco. She cried. She was lifted again, couldn’t see, her hair in her face. She was shoved to the counter, bent back over it, the marble edge digging into her lower back, right at the crest of her buttocks. A man pressed his weight against her. She felt his belt buckle grind her tummy, his bulge pressing her, could smell his cigarette breath blasting around her face. All of them were worked up like jackals, all of them excited, all of them had hearts that were racing, like feral animals anticipating the kill. Her hair was ripped from her face and she was staring at the one with the welt on his cheek.

<If you spit on me I will cut your throat,> he said.

<Who sent you?> she said. <Who wants me dead?>

He laughed, and she heard the other two join in. She looked to her right, saw them casually arranged around her, relaxing now they’d beat the fight out of her. They were wanting to see where this fun would lead. Purple-Shirt had tucked his pistol into the front of his skinny jeans and the other one, a tall beefy dark-haired killer that looked like Rocco-lite, lazily held a machine pistol at his side.

Frosted-Hair was sniffing her now, making his friends laugh. He sniffed her collar, sniffed through her hair, stopping to giggle, then sniff some more; sniffing transforming to pig noises, snorting and snuffling up to her ear.

<What are you doing?> she cried, and tried to wriggle away, but he had her pinned. The other two laughed with frightening delight.

<He’s a dangerous man who wants you dead. He wants to send a message to the others.>

<Who?>

<You smell like turpentine.>

“What?”

<I think,> he said slyly, fishing a hand in his pocket, bumping it around, feeling it rubbing against her thigh. <Yes,> he said at last, and he presented something to her seized in his gloved fist. Then with a quick practiced move, it was flicked open, and a flame burst from it. A Zippo metal cigarette lighter. <I think you will catch fire so easy, Daniella. Do you think that’s a big enough message? Or do you think you would like to have some fun with us first. I can take that wire and heat it until it glows and do all sorts of wonderful things to your body...>

<No,> she cried, <please, don’t...>

He brought the flame closer, said, <I’m going to watch you burn.> He laughed, a wheezy maniacal sound.

“Fotta...fotta...”

<What?> he said.

“Fotta tua madre,” she said, then watched his face contort in a rising intense rage.

He snarled, roared, <What!?>

This dumb fuck. The whole time he messed with his lighter she had inched her hand along the counter, into the sink, and now she had the revolver in her grip. She pushed him back. “I said, fuck your mother,” she growled and she pulled the trigger twice.

She hadn’t fired guns before, and definitely never ever wanted to harm a living thing. Didn’t now, either. She held the gun at her waist, her elbow bent, the pistol blindly aimed in his direction. Two shots she fired, and immediately she wished she hadn’t. They were both hits. His clothes shook and his flesh quivered with the frightening impact. His mean face twisted into a howl.

The first thought she had, looking into his shocked face, was Please, don’t die, please, don’t die, I’m so sorry. She wasn’t a killer.

Frosted-Hair stood stunned as blood spritzed to the floor and his white shirt went black-red with a rapid rising flux. He stood dumbly and she snatched his gun out of his hand. She turned and it was like it was in slow motion; it wasn’t fluid, wasn’t quick, she held two guns and she turned, but moving her feet around in a circle, her body stiff as a board, her face drawn in horror at the realization that she had just shot a human being. Tears came. She blinked, saw she was alone. Her head creakily swiveled on her rigid neck and saw the other two scrambling for cover, firing at her over their shoulders but hitting the ceiling. Plaster fluttered to the floor. They scrambled deeper into the kitchen, towards the table and where the passageway led to the garage.

Frosted-Hair leaned back on the counter and his hands felt around his stomach. He was leaking bad. Blood flowing over his fingers and down his jeans. Then the cupboards exploded and she screamed again. Chunks of maple, splinters of cabinetry spearing off. Glass shattered off a display door, the oven display went black as it was pelted with lead. Knobs scattered and pinged, the counter chipped. She clutched Frosted-Hair and pulled him down to the floor with her. It was the one with the machine pistol, letting loose, filling up this beautiful space she’d shared with her Rocco with the sounds of tearing fabric and the devastation of bullets.

The destruction stopped. She heard a dry click of his gun. He was out of ammo. The other one fired single shots in her direction. Rocco-Lite reloaded his machine pistol, she could hear him thunk a clip into it, pull back a slide or something. A smoke detector began its overhead chime now, and she could smell a high acrid smoke from his gun.

“No, no, no,” she cried, plugging her ears, a gun in each hand but too frightened to pop up and start firing back. Frosted-Hair sat dumbly next to her, his back to the cupboards, his legs splayed out before him, sitting in a spreading pool of blood.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, “please, don’t die, okay? Don’t die.” His mouth worked uselessly. Then the gun sprayed death again and splinters scattered around her, a door fell right off its hinges and clattered next to her on the floor. She plugged her ears and screamed. They were just wasting bullets. She couldn’t be hit, ducked down like this, the island between them and her. But they were terrifying her. The two guns she held didn’t make her feel more safe. They frightened her. If they came around either side of the island she would use them, but she didn’t want to. She never wanted to shoot someone again. She wished she had one of those grenades or whatever Rocco had in the stairwell, knock them on their asses and she could run out the door while they were dazed.

Rocco-Lite fired his gun dry again. Purple-Shirt fired off random shots, putting two holes in the fridge. Cream spilled from the closed seam at the bottom of the door. Then there was a new sound. A concussive pop-pop. One of them yelled and screamed. A high-pitched girlish cry. There was scattering footsteps. Swearing in Italian. Desperate wild profanity, hisses and curses. Then another pop-pop. She heard the machine pistol get racked again and she prepared herself for another horrifying volley.

Another new sound. Loud and unexpected. She was rocked by a massive concussive force and a blistering white light that fried her eyeballs. A bang. So loud she couldn’t hear afterward. A pounding whining air horn racing through her brain was all that was left. The force blew the lights out in the kitchen. It had tugged at her clothes and felt like someone had slapped her on her back.

It was dark now, and though she was facing Frosted-Hair and not looking out over the counter her eyes were still blown out like she was snow blind. She blinked and blinked, dazed and lost for a second. She heard yelling from the other side, shouts in Italian, high and excited, fearful. A pop-pop again and then it was quiet. She crawled through the broken glass on her hands and knees, headed to the corner of the island. The glass shredded her bare knees. She peeked around the corner, popped one eye around quickly and carefully. It was hazy and she made out a man there. One she didn’t recognize. He was working through the smoke, a pistol held calmly out in front of him. It had a long silencer attached to the barrel. He was medium build, lean, big shoulders and arms. Looked like tattoos up his hands and wrists. He had faded jeans and cowboy boots, a pilot’s jacket in drab green.

There was a column between the kitchen and the hall to the garage, the wall where she’d been held against and made love to, where Rocco had leaned the roll of canvas, now flat on its side; and this new man sidestepped around it carefully, gun held at the ready. He moved like Rocco. Moved like a professional. She saw in the haze that Purple-Shirt was moving, going clockwise around it trying to get a bead on this new guy. He’d been injured though, blinking like she was, dazed, one arm hung uselessly at his side. He was badly bloodied. At his feet was Rocco-Lite, flat on his back, looking deader than dead, wide eyes staring up into the ceiling, arm and legs laid out prostrate, gun six feet to the side.

The new one sidestepped again, like he was toying with Purple-Shirt. He caught Daniella’s eye and she moved the gun in his direction, poked it around the corner of the island, just below her chin. He smiled a weird crazy kind of confident smile. Then he winked and he held up a hand, keeping her at bay, indicating she didn’t need to shoot at him. He had long thick blonde hair and a bushy brown beard. There was a twinkle in his eye, like he was enjoying himself; and bright yellow in his ears. Ear plugs. He stepped around the brick column now, upright and casual and he shot Purple-Shirt four times in the chest before he could raise his pistol.

Then he put another one in Rocco-Lite and he was coming her way quickly. She scurried away, threw her guns down and walked backwards on her hands and feet like a crab.

“No, no,” she cried as he loomed around the corner. He held his hands up, gun still in his grip but his fingers up and wagging.

He said, “Daniella...Daniella, I’m with Rocco, girl...”

“Rocco?” she whimpered.

“I’m with Rocco,” he said.

“You are?”

He aimed without looking and shot Frosted-Hair and she hollered out and plugged her ears. A brass cartridge danced in the litter of the ruined kitchen.

“Sorry, girl, come with me,” he said and now he tucked his pistol behind his back and he held his hands out. She stared at him, contemplated his words, weighed his veracity. He had an accent. A brogue? No, not a lilting light sing-song, but Irish just the same. Guttural. Killian. He had to be Killian.

“Killian?”

“Daniella, I’m really pleased to meet ya...I don’t want to set you off but we’re in a bit of a hurry. It’s best if we introduce ourselves while we’re leggin’ it.”