answer, and went straight for Casato. The café door stood propped open, how Johnny Amaro kept it. Symbolic, he'd told Genna once. His doors were always open to everyone.
Fuck.
Dante's eyes darted around, hoping the man got out, but he knew better. The glints of metal mixed with the glass caught his eye. Shell casings. Someone had lit up the place with gunfire.
"Call 911!" he yelled.
"Already did," someone said.
"Well, fucking call them again!"
He edged closer the doorway, trying to get a good look inside, but the air was too hazy, already stinging his eyes.
"Jesus fuck," he whispered, grabbing his shirt and pulling the collar up, covering his nose and mouth. "Don't let this be the time I die."
He couldn't think about it, wouldn't chicken out, even though just the thought of fire made him want to pass the fuck out. Taking a deep breath, holding it, he burst through the doorway, dodging the flames edging the doorframe. He had maybe a minute, two at most, before he needed to get back out or he'd risk never making it out at all.
"Amaro!" he shouted, his eyes watering as he searched the smoky haze. "If you can hear me, make a noise or something!"
Dante rounded the counter, heading for the back, and slipped on something in his path. Blood. He grabbed ahold of the countertop to catch himself, pain ripping through his forearm when it hit a patch of flames. Yanking his arm away, hissing, he caught sight of a pair of black dress shoes. Johnny Amaro lay on the floor, bleeding from the chest.
"Amaro!" Dante shouted, choking on the name. His chest burned, lungs begging for more oxygen. Kneeling down, he shook the man, trying to get his attention, trying to force him awake. "Wake up. We need to get out of here."
Johnny stirred, his eyes cracking open, his voice hoarse as he whispered something Dante couldn't understand.
Dante's head pounded in rhythm with his frantic heartbeat, and fuck, his arm throbbed. "We have to go. Can you—?" A coughing fit hit Dante, and he managed to get control of himself just as Johnny's eyes closed again. "Oh fuck no, none of that."
Dante grabbed Johnny, using every bit of adrenaline he had to pull him to his feet. Johnny was heavy, and Dante was growing weak, but he managed to drag him through the cafe, the man having just enough strength left in him to stagger. Dante lugged him outside, dropping him to the sidewalk in front of the burning building.
Dante tore off his shirt, yanking it over his head, and balled it up, pressing it hard against Johnny's chest. They needed to stop the bleeding if the man stood a chance. The crowd still swarmed, people shouting, red and blue lights flashing down the block, fast approaching.
For the first time in his life, Dante was grateful to hear sirens.
Johnny opened his eyes, wheezing. "Dante?"
"Yeah," Dante said. "Just relax, help is on the way."
Johnny's mouth moved, like he had something more to say, but a coughing fit hit him. He hacked, his eyes watering, blood streaming along his lips, managing to vocalize just a single word: "Sorry."
Dante scanned the area as the first responders arrived, having no desire to take some deathbed confession, not wanting to witness the man's last breath. As long as he fought, he'd survive. Police cars, ambulances, and fire trucks surrounded them. Others took over, and Dante felt like he could take a deep breath again when medics assessed Johnny, giving him the help he needed.
Dante moved out of their way, glancing down the street, catching sight of someone watching from the outskirts of the crowd, standing alone and dressed in all black. Umberto. The moment that Dante caught his eye, Umberto took a few leisurely steps back before turning away. Son of a bitch.
Dante started to go after him, feet moving on their own, but an officer intercepted him along the barrier they'd put up. "Whoa, whoa, where are you going?"
"There's somewhere I need to be."
"You're right," the officer said, "and that somewhere is over there with a medic. You're injured."
"I'm fine," Dante said. "I need—"
He couldn't finish before dissolving into another coughing fit, his face turning red as his lungs struggled, overwhelmed by smoke. Oxygen. He needed fucking oxygen. Doubling over, hands on his knees, he fought to catch his breath.
Medics were on him, leading him to an awaiting ambulance, the back of it wide open. He sat down on the bumper, not fighting them when they