Then I slip outside.
The ground beneath my feet is uneven, gravel crunching softly as I move toward the outer perimeter of the estate. I keep my body low, hugging the stone wall as I work my way along its length.
Then I see it: the car.
A sleek black sedan, its lights off, parked just beyond the final stretch of hedges. My heart leaps in my chest.
Valentina came through for me.
Relief threatens to weaken my knees, but I don’t let it. I push forward, moving quickly but cautiously. The driver is barely visible behind the wheel, his head turned toward the road, watching for any sign of trouble.
I can almost taste my escape.
Just a few more steps.
Then—
A shout.
From behind me.
My stomach twists violently as I spin, my breath seizing in my lungs. A guard stands at the edge of the courtyard, his posture stiff, his hand already reaching for his gun.
There’s no time to think, so I run.
The sharp burst of movement sends a shock through my limbs, my heart pounding as I sprint toward the car.
The driver sees me. The engine rumbles to life.
The guard barks something into his radio, his voice sharp, frantic. More shouts echo in the distance—other men responding, the estate waking up too soon.
I push harder, my legs burning as I close the final distance.
The car door flies open, and without hesitating, without dwelling on theifsandbuts, I dive inside.
"Go!" I gasp, barely pulling the door shut before the driver slams his foot on the gas.
For a moment—a breath, a heartbeat—I feel it. The impossible weight of fear loosens, if only slightly.
I made it.
The city melts behind us, slipping into the distance, its towering shapes softened by the hush of early morning. The roads stretch ahead, empty and endless, the asphalt glisteningfaintly under the dying glow of streetlights. Buildings give way to rolling hills, the landscape undulating like the slow rise and fall of a giant’s breath. To the right, the ocean emerges, a vast, silver expanse, quiet and indifferent. The waves whisper against the shore, a lullaby I almost let myself believe in.
But peace is a fragile thing.
The shift is subtle at first—just a flicker in the rearview mirror, a set of headlights appearing too soon, too steady. My fingers curl against my lap as the cold slithers back in, winding tight around my ribs.
Then the lights surge closer.
I go rigid, my breath stalling as the weight of realization crashes down, sharp and unforgiving. We’re being followed.
"Hold on," the driver mutters, jaw tight, his grip flexing around the wheel. He jerks it hard to the right, taking the next turn too fast. Tires shriek against the pavement, the car tilting just enough to send my shoulder slamming into the door. I barely register the pain.
I look up.
The second car isn’t just following anymore—it’s closing in.
The driver curses, louder this time, rough with urgency. "We’re not gonna outrun them in this thing."
