Chapter 38: Escapade

The sound didn’t stop.

It kept going — hammering, relentless — like the world was trying to erase whatever lay inside that car. Shells clinked against the ground, rolling, piling. The air trembled. People screamed, bolting in every direction. Mothers called their children by name, yanking them off their small feets and scramming. Market stalls fell silent as grown men flew over tables and chairs leaving their loved ones behind, half-finished words hanging in the air.

Then, quiet.

The shooters stood there, still as statues, rifles hanging low. Their breathing was steady, like this was just another day at work. The metal of the car steamed under the drizzle. Then, one of them moved — boots crunching over the scattered glass as he reached for the twisted door.

With a short pull, it came off the hinge like wet paper. The clang it made against the asphalt wasn’t loud — but it was heavy enough to echo through the entire street.

Inside, the driver sat slumped back, riddled with holes. His head tilted at an impossible angle, mouth frozen halfway open. Smoke still curled from all of the bullet wounds.

But Vittorio wasn’t there.

“Perquisire la zona — non poteva essere andato lontano.”

Search the area. He couldn’t have gone far.

The group split instantly. Some darted into the open road; others jumped into the car. They moved like a single thought divided among bodies.

Then — a shout.

“È laggiù!”

Over there

Every head turned. At the far end of the street, Vittorio limped across the slick pavement, one arm pressed to his side, dark blood running through his fingers. He wasn’t fast, but he was still moving — stubbornly, stupidly.

Engines roared. The cars lurched forward. Bullets cracked through the air, sparking against metal poles as Vittorio veered into a narrow alley.

He didn’t stop to think. His leg was nearly gone, crushed from the crash, but adrenaline had burned through the pain. He threw whatever his hands could find — crates, bins, wet cardboard — anything to slow them down.

The car behind him couldn’t follow — too narrow. Four men jumped out instead, shouting over each other as they ran. Their boots slapped hard on the dry concrete. The gunfire followed, tearing from all directions.

Vittorio ducked as rounds tore past him. He could smell the gunpowder, taste the metal in the air. His breathing turned ragged as his body wasn't built for this kind of trouble, but only one thing kept him moving— his resolve, if he could just make it out of the alley way before the car could make it around the block and double cross him, he would at least be alive for a couple more seconds. And now that it was open free and he was just a few feet away from it. Speed he didn't know he had burst through his broken limb.

Then he saw it — at the other end of the alley, a figure stood waiting.

Rifle raised.

He froze for half a second. The man shouted something, but Vittorio’s ears were ringing too loud to hear. He dove behind a metal bin just as bullets ripped into the wall beside him.

The voices were getting closer — the four from behind, the one ahead. He didn’t have time to think. He only had time to decide. It was a gamble — and gambles were what Vittorio was good at.

If the man at the exit was alone, then the car hadn’t made it yet and If the car wasn’t there, then there was still a way out. He could tackle the bastard, even with a bad leg and no weapon.

He braced himself. Hit his thigh with his fist like he was jump-starting a dead engine. The pain shot up his body, but it woke him up.

He lunged with a loud grunt that escaped his mouth.

The man saw him and raised the rifle, ready to gun down vittorio. He was at a safe distance and all he had to do was pull the trigger and tear holes through this bastards' head who was charging at him with a stupid limp and wasted resolve—

Then out of nowhere, a black car tore into the alley like a phantom, smashing the shooter clean off his feet before his finger could lie on the trigger. Bones breaking as he folded like taco and crashed against the asphalt with a sickening thud.

“Get in!” Jim shouted from the driver’s seat, one arm hanging out of the side door he had open.

Vittorio didn’t think twice. He dived in through the open door. Bullets followed immediately, punching through the side glass as Jim slammed the gas.

“Thanks,” Vittorio said between breaths, his voice low, adjusting himself on the chair almost casual despite the blood and the ringing in his ear.

Jim gave a short, humorless laugh. “Oh, I definitely didn’t come back risking my balls for just a thank you.”

They hit a bump — the man Jim had mowed down earlier. The car jerked. Vittorio grabbed the dashboard.

He said nothing. Just breathed. He could feel his heart pounding in his arm where the blood still leaked through his sleeve.

Behind them, the enemy car regrouped. It had stopped by the alley to take the four men

“move faster they’re right behind us,” Vittorio said quietly. The car from behind had already stopped to load the four men and wanted no time in closing up to them.

“I fucking know,” Jim snapped, hands shaking as he gripped the steering wheel, sweat rolling down his temple. “You don’t have to spell it out, I’m not retarded.”

The back window shattered. Both ducked instinctively as glass scattered over the seats.

“If they stay on our tail for too long,” Vittorio said between grunts, “they’ll multiply.”

“Yeah? Then maybe next time I don’t turn around for your suicidal ass,” Jim barked, but his voice was cracking — the fear bleeding through.

Vittorio smiled faintly, almost indulgent. “And yet, you did.”

“Where the fuck do you even get this confidence? You were rotten bagel before I showed up. Don’t act like you planned this all out”

Jim turned the wheel hard — the car skidded, and the tires screamed.

Up ahead — a barricade.

Vittorio grabbed the steering, forced Jim’s head down. “Hit the gas when I say.”

The air filled with thunder. Bullets showered them again as Vittorio spun the wheel into a drift, the back of the car smashing one of the gunmen and sending him flying into another vehicle.

“Now!”

Jim slammed the gas. The car leapt forward, tearing through the side of the barricade. They didn’t see the fat man in time — he went under the wheels with a wet, heavy crunch. His gun flew through the windshield, narrowly missing Vittorio’s head.

The car jerked again — stuck. The body had wedged under the chassis.

“Fuckkk!!” Jim screamed, flooring the pedal to no use.

Vittorio was already out of the car, dragging him by the arm.

“No, no — I can’t be seen with you! I can’t—”

“Move!” Vittorio snapped, voice cutting clean through the chaos.

Jim finally obeyed, stumbling as they bolted down a side street, into another maze of narrow alleys. Voices and engines roared behind them, but the turns came fast and tight. The pursuers split, confused by the labyrinth.

For a moment — brief, fragile — they disappeared into the dark.

Jim leaned against a wall, panting, hands shaking. “fuck” he cursed too loud for a whisper, yet almost to himself. “i got a lot to lose vito, I can't be seen dead with you." He wasn't trembling, but he was scared, the fear in his face mixed with fatigue as he panted, his back against the wall.

Vittorio smirked faintly through the blood on

his teeth. "Let's find a place to hide” he murmured, eyes scanning the street. “They won’t stop hunting.”