In that embrace is much of my past and the future I am dreaming of, condensed into a single second. I haven't known this girl for long, yet we've been through something so intense that, paradoxically, she has become one of the people I trust most in my life.
I never trust anyone.
I didn't trust my parents' choices.
I didn't trust my grandfather, who told me to shoot into the woods.
I didn't trust Tito.
I didn't trust those three kids who stole 100 thousand euros from me.
I don't trust anyone.
But her, I do.
Maybe it's her gaze, the fact that she's very beautiful. Perhaps it's because I'm probably at the end of my life now, and I have no one else. Trust is a beautiful feeling to have, especially when two gigantic tough guys are about to shoot you.
And here's the surprise, the one that changes happy endings.
Ugolina breaks free from the hug and turns towards the two men. Is she making a heroic gesture? A plot twist that will save us?
Alas, no.
The sentence sounds a bit like a stab in the back: "There you go, guys, see? I brought him to you."
These words kill me more than the guns the other two are holding. They look at me and smile.
Ugolina turns back to me and says, "Sorry, handsome, you're nice, but I have a job here now."
I don't know what to think.
The guns rise; my mind cannot wander. Luckily, though, I have an ace up my sleeve: you see, when I was a Marquis and couldn't smoke, drink, or take drugs, my main outlet was soccer.
Now, I need to make a premise here: you can't tell the nobles of the old times that you play soccer. So, maybe, just maybe, I started telling lies even before I was 16, and perhaps I've even misled people in other ways... always for a good cause, of course.
My father and mother thought I was going to play golf on Wednesdays and Fridays—the proper sport for a future Marquis. I, for my part, was agreeable in letting them believe it; more than that, in fact. After all, there was a specific reason: golf is a very expensive sport. It requires equipment, suitable clothes, and the rental of an instructor and the course.
Do you know the difference compared to soccer? The latter is free.
So, during my glorious soccer period, even though I wasn't paid by a team, I still managed to save up a nice little sum.
The times they asked me where my clubs were, I said I'd left them at the course; when they wanted to know if there was a competition or a way to come and watch me, I said that, unfortunately, the club was very exclusive and didn't let anyone in. However, in these years of playing soccer, I managed to develop one thing that is proving incredibly useful to me: speed.
You see, I thought I had a great foot; then I believed I was a sturdy defender; finally, an attacker who scores a lot of goals. The reality, though, was different: my asset was being able to run up and down the wing. I didn't have the foot for an assist, but I had the one to make a decent cross. I didn't have the strength to stop an attacker, but I could run down the wing and intercept the ball. Goals? Not a chance. But I ran. A lot.
This digression is to say one thing: I AM FAST!
So, back to the present: with a feline dash, I slip under the guns. The two are caught off guard, and Ugolina can't stop me.
I reach the door. There's a number on it: 9. I can't afford to reflect on it now, so I open it and get out.
Stairs again. But, most importantly, a pole with which I block the door.
The truly strange thing is that I don't hear anyone trying to open it. No banging, no shoulder charges, nothing. It's as if, for them, the matter is closed. As if everything—their task, Ugolina's betrayal, the guns, and the malice—was confined to that floor.
Now I can stop and think about that number. I haven't seen a window yet, but that 9 suggests to me that I am in a building, and that it presumably has ten floors. I didn't fare very well on the first ones, which gives me two possibilities: I've seen the worst, and from here on, things can only get better; or the madness will continue for another eight floors.