28. Gianna
Chapter 28
Gianna
I slump into the last row of a dimly lit bus, keeping my head low. Hours have bled together since I ran from the Terlizzi estate and abandoned my wedding. Hours since I walked out on the one man who both terrifies and captivates me.
The world outside these windows feels grimy and gray, a far cry from the carefully tended lawns of Dante Terlizzi’s property. Raindrops speckle the glass, and each streak on the window distorts flickers of passing headlights into splotches of smeared neon. The seat cushions smell of must, stale fast food, and old cigarette ash. It’s not exactly the escape I’ve dreamed of, but it’s better than where I was.
My reflection in the dark window glances back at me, a pale ghostly shape with hollow eyes. I press myself tighter against the seat, trying to disappear into the cracked vinyl. The possibility of being pregnant sinks talons into my thoughts no matter how hard I try to shove it away. I grip the metal bar next to me, focusing on the hum of the bus’s engine. If I’m pregnant, if that suspicion proves real, what then? A jolt of guilt stabs my chest: I ran from the father of my child. But how could I stay in that world?
I shake my head, freeing my thoughts of the idea that I might be carrying a child. Maybe it’s just stress. Maybe I’m not carrying anything but a broken heart.
I let my gaze drift to the handful of other passengers scattered through the bus. A woman in a thin jacket nods in and out of sleep. Two teenage boys in hoodies slump side by side, mumbling to each other. A heavyset man near the front coughs into his fist every few minutes. Nobody looks like they want conversation, and that suits me just fine.
After an interminable ride, the bus squeals to a stop at a small depot lit by a flickering fluorescent sign in the middle of western Kansas. My stomach twists, and I force myself to my feet. I need to keep moving. If I stay on one bus for too long, it’s only a matter of time before somebody checks the passenger list or a camera and sees me. The mafia touches everything. With enough money, they’ll find me eventually. I refuse to make it easy for them.
When the driver announces a fifteen-minute break, I snatch my bag and hurry down the aisle. A wave of fresh air hits me as I step onto the curb, the chill stinging my cheeks. The depot is nothing special—a squat building with peeling paint, a couple of vending machines, and a single streetlamp in the adjacent parking lot. Fewer than a dozen people mill about, most dragging suitcases or smoking cigarettes in the shadows.
I keep my head down, tucking my hair into the hood of my sweater. My hand trembles as I dig in my bag for some cash. Exhaustion weighs on me, but I need a plan, or I’ll collapse and have nowhere to go.
Inside, the depot’s overhead lights buzz with a dull electric hum that makes the corners of my vision waver. There’s a cramped ticket counter along one wall where a bored-looking clerk scrolls through her phone. A line of plastic chairs stands opposite an ancient soda machine, and a row of pay phones—two out of three clearly broken—lines the back. The entire place smells like burnt coffee and disinfectant.
I spot a small, dingy café corner in the same room. My stomach rumbles, and nausea churns in tandem. Despite the roiling in my gut, I figure some hot food might help me think clearer. So I shuffle over. A single worker mans the counter, a teenage girl with a dyed pink undercut. Her eyebrows arch at me like she’s already bored.
“What can I getcha?” She asks in a monotone.
I open my mouth, but a wave of dizziness washes over me. I press my hand against the counter to steady myself. “Just coffee,” I manage. “And fries… I guess. Something cheap.”
She punches buttons on the cash register. “Four eighty-two.”
I fish out a few crumpled bills. I wish I had a credit card—my father gave me one once, but it was for emergencies only. Not that I’d use it now since that would be a beacon pointing to my location. I silently vow to ration my limited cash better.
The girl hands me a styrofoam cup and a small receipt. “Name?” She asks, nodding toward the receipt. My heart stalls. Right—she wants a name for the order. My mouth goes dry, and panic sparks in my chest. Out of reflex, I scrawl Gianna on the slip. The pink-haired clerk snatches it away too quickly, tapping it into a battered metal ring.
I swallow, forcing my features still. She glances up. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I murmur, stepping aside. “Just tired.” My pulse thunders as I shuffle away, coffee sloshing dangerously in my styrofoam cup. I find a seat at one of the plastic tables. The café’s overhead TV crackles with local news, but the volume’s too low to catch anything. Good. The last thing I need is to see coverage about a runaway bride from two feuding mob families. Yet my paranoid mind wonders if a segment might pop up any second— Missing bride. Possibly pregnant. My throat tightens around a sip of coffee, bitterness coating my tongue.
Someone behind me shifts, footsteps scuffing the tiled floor. My spine stiffens. I glance over my shoulder, expecting to see a policeman, my father, or one of the Terlizzis, but it’s only an older man gathering bus schedules from a rack. I let out a slow breath, cursing my jittery nerves.
The teen clerk calls my order. I shuffle over, forcing a polite nod when she hands me a bag of fries. My gut still churns with nausea, but maybe a little food will help. As I’m turning back to my seat, I catch a flicker of movement from the corner of my eye—a man, older, maybe in his fifties, wearing a baseball cap pulled low over his face. He’s eyeing me or maybe the overhead menu. It’s hard to tell. My pulse hiccups, but I clamp down the panic. He glances away, focusing on the pastry display instead. It’s probably just my imagination.
I settle back at the plastic table, nibbling on a fry that tastes like salted cardboard. The coffee is lukewarm, but I drink it anyway. My mind turns to the next step: another bus or a taxi, or maybe I should find a cheap motel to grab a few hours of rest. I can’t keep going like this—my eyelids feel like sandpaper, and every muscle in my body aches with fatigue.
The overhead speakers crackle again, announcing my bus’s departure in five minutes. This route was never going to take me far enough, but it’s better than nothing. I gather my trash, stuff it into a nearby bin, and head for the exit. Maybe I’ll keep bouncing from bus to bus, city to city, until I can get enough distance between me and the Midwest. I just need to vanish.
Outside, the bus idles by the curb. I board, flashing a ticket I purchased hours earlier, and slump into a seat near the middle. The driver closes the door, the bus lurches forward, and we’re off again. As the bus merges onto another highway, I try to zone out, my head resting against the cool glass. The darkness outside is a blur of streetlights, reflective road signs, and an endless stretch of asphalt. A swirl of loneliness washes over me. If I was sure I wasn’t pregnant, maybe this wouldn’t hurt as much. But the not-knowing tightens fear in my belly until my eyes sting with tears.
I doze, slipping in and out of a restless half-sleep. In some twisted dream, I see Luciano’s face as he reads my note. Hurt carves lines of anguish into his features—anguish morphs into fury, fury morphs into heartbreak. I jolt awake, heart racing, and have to remind myself that heartbreak is better than living the rest of my life afraid of what my husband will do to me.
Eventually, the bus squeals to a stop at a roadhouse diner. The driver announces another fifteen-minute break. Passengers file off wearily, some to smoke, some to grab coffee or use the restroom. I realize I need the restroom, too, so I follow.
Inside, the place is small, with a few vinyl booths and a counter along one wall. A battered jukebox stands in the corner, silent. The stench of fried grease slaps me in the face, making my stomach roll again. I hurry past the kitchen door toward a cramped restroom. I lock the door the second I step inside, approaching the sink and bracing my arms on either side. My reflection stares back, hollow-eyed. The ring of the faucet clangs as I turn it on, spitting water in erratic spurts. I splash it on my face, letting the cold shock re-center me.
I want to buy a pregnancy test, but that’s a pipe dream at nearly midnight in the middle of nowhere. Even if I found a 24-hour convenience store, it would be a risk. They might have cameras, or I might slip up and show my face. I can’t risk it. I’ll have to wait. The idea sets my teeth on edge. If I keep going without answers, I might go insane. But there’s no safe alternative.
A knock on the restroom door rattles me. “Hurry up,” a voice mutters. I realize I’ve been standing here too long. With a shaky breath, I unlock the door and slip out. A man in a trucker cap scowls at me as I rush past. His eyes rake over me with vague suspicion, or maybe it’s disinterest. I can’t tell. Everyone feels like a potential threat right now.
Through the big plate-glass windows, I see the bus driver returning from his break, a coffee cup in hand. That’s my cue. I hurry out, crossing the small parking lot, weaving past pickup trucks and half-dead streetlights. I climb on, find a new seat toward the back this time, and let my eyelids droop.
Again, I slip in and out of fitful half-sleep. My dreams swirl with images of Cupcake meowing in an empty house, searching for me. I see Luciano’s haunted eyes as he storms through the front door, reading my letter for the hundredth time. Then, there’s my father sneering at the news that I’m gone. The nightmares force me awake once more. My seat neighbor across the aisle—a middle-aged woman crocheting something in pastel yarn—gives me a startled look.
Finally, the bus announces a terminal stop in some small town with a name I don’t recognize. The crocheting lady stands and gathers her things. We all file off slowly. The driver flicks a switch, bathing the interior in a harsh fluorescent glow, then leans back in his seat with a sigh. “End of the line, folks,” he calls.
End of the line. The phrase snags in my thoughts. I hoist the bag over my shoulder and trudge down the aisle. My entire body is begging for rest. I guess I’ll figure out some cheap motel for the night. The sign near the bus station says the next bus out is in six hours. That’s too long to just wander. I need a bed, even if it’s a flea-ridden mattress in a hole-in-the-wall pay-by-the-hour motel.
I step onto the sidewalk, the bus behind me hissing as the driver switches off the engine. Across the street, I spot a neon sign for a local diner. Next to it is a small convenience store with bars on its windows. A battered sign points to a motel two blocks down. My legs practically groan in relief at the prospect of lying down. I brace myself and start walking. Distantly, a dog barks, and I glance behind me to see if I’m being followed. The empty street should comfort me, but it only heightens my paranoia.
I reach a dilapidated single-story structure two blocks away, just as the sign predicted. The office door stands propped open, casting a rectangle of light on the gravel lot. Inside, a bored clerk stands behind a metal desk. Public spaces mean cameras, but maybe a dingy place like this doesn’t bother.
The clerk—a tired-looking woman with watery eyes—barely glances at me. She leans forward and braces her elbows on the desk. “Need a room?”
“Yes.” My voice cracks. “Just for tonight.”
She slides a form across the counter. “Name?”
I think about giving a random alias, but I’m so exhausted I might forget who I’m pretending to be. I’m too sleep-deprived to think straight. “Gianna,” I say carefully. “Gianna… Lynn.” It’s not a great alias, but it’s something. She nods, unimpressed, and scrawls it on a battered ledger.
“Fifty for the night,” she mutters. “Cash?”
I nod, rummaging through my bag. I produce a pair of twenties and a ten, shoving them across the counter. My fingers brush the clerk’s as she picks them up. She sets a heavy key on the counter. “Room eight, all the way to the left. Towels are in the bathroom. Don’t expect much.”
“That’s fine.” I accept the key, ignoring the surge of anxiety in my chest. “Thanks.”
She yawns, turning back to a magazine as I leave. No cameras in sight—maybe I’m safe.
I find room eight, jam the key into a rusted lock, and shove the door open. Inside, the smell of must hits me like a gut punch. The carpet is a dull brown, stained from decades of uncertain spills. The bedspread is an unappealing floral pattern, worn so thin the colors have bled into each other. A small TV stands on a chipped dresser, and a single lamp glows beside the bed.
I let the door lock behind me, sliding the chain for good measure. For a moment, I stand there, knees threatening to buckle. Tears sting the back of my eyes. A bitter laugh bubbles up: This is the glorious life I left a five-star wedding for—a motel room that looks like it’s going to give me a communicable disease.
I sink onto the bed, and the mattress springs creak beneath my weight. The room spins in exhausted, slow motion. My entire body craves sleep, but fear lingers, warning me to keep watch. I slide off my shoes and let them drop to the floor. Dragging the scratchy bedspread aside, I crawl onto the mattress. The pillow is lumpy, and the sheets are stiff and overused. But it’s a horizontal surface, and my body wants to collapse. I tug my sweater tighter around me, not even bothering to change out of my clothes. A tear slips free, hot against my cheek, and I let out a shaky breath.
I left Luciano. I left our wedding, left the possibility that my husband might have chosen me over vengeance. A sob threatens, but I swallow it down. My head throbs as I close my eyes. There’s no time for regrets. I am free, or as close to free as I can manage in a world where men like my father and men like Luciano hold all the power.