We smashed through the wooden side doors of the garage, wood splintering and metal grinding.

The car rocked violently as we hit the gravel driveway.

In the rearview mirror, I saw headlights turning toward us from the main villa.

Two black SUVs were speeding down the driveway, trying to cut us off before we reached the main gates.

Matteo shifted gears, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

“Hold on,” he said.

He drove straight toward the heavy iron gates at the end of the property.

The gates were closed.

Through the rain, I could see two guards standing near the security shack, raising their rifles.

The headlights of our car illuminated their wet faces and the black metal of their guns.

Matteo pushed the accelerator to the floor.

The car surged forward, the engine screaming.

The guards opened fire.

Bullets shattered the windshield, spiderwebs of cracked glass spreading across my view.

I screamed and tucked my head down between my knees, covering my ears.

The impact was deafening.

The front of the Alfa Romeo slammed into the iron gates, the metal bending and screeching as we broke through.