Chapter 12 - Elena
Chap-ter 12 - Elena
Morn-ing light fil-ters through the cracks in the blinds, paint-ing the room in muted gold. Dust par-ti-cles float lazily in the air, undis-turbed by the still-ness that has set-tled over ev-ery-thing.
I sit on the edge of the bed, my fin-gers curl-ing into the sheets as I stare at the half-packed duf-fle bag on the floor. It gapes open, its con-tents spilling slightly onto the hard-wood—my pass-port, a wad of cash, a change of clothes. Es-sen-tials for an es-cape.
My chest feels hol-low.
I waited all day and night.
Hours passed, the clock on the night-stand mock-ing me with ev-ery slow tick for-ward. I paced the room, wear-ing tracks into the floor-boards, stop-ping ev-ery few min-utes to check my phone—only to see the same blank screen, the same deaf-en-ing si-lence.
Dante never came back.
I told my-self I wouldn't care. That it wouldn’t mat-ter.
But it does.
It mat-ters more than it should.
I had prayed—an old, fool-ish habit—to hear the sound of the front door creak-ing open, to feel his pres-ence in the room, to see him stand-ing there, con-flicted but un-will-ing to leave me be-hind.
But the door never opened.
No foot-steps. No voice. No Dante.
He made his choice.
And now, I’m mak-ing mine.
My hands trem-ble as I stuff the last of my clothes into the bag, zip-ping it shut with a fi-nal-ity that echoes in my ears.
I won’t cry.
Not now. Not ever again.
I’m done wait-ing for men to de-cide my fate. Nic-colò con-trolled my life for years. And Dante? Dante may have been dif-fer-ent, but in the end, he still made me feel like a pawn in a game I never wanted to play.
Enough.
Tak-ing a deep breath, I sling the bag over my shoul-der, my fin-gers tight-en-ing around the strap like it’s the only thing teth-er-ing me to re-al-ity.
I’m leav-ing.
And this time, I’m never look-ing back.
The small café on the cor-ner is warm, filled with the scent of fresh espresso and baked bread. Soft morn-ing light streams through the wide win-dows, cast-ing golden streaks across the wooden ta-bles. Con-ver-sa-tions mur-mur in the back-ground, the sound of clink-ing porce-lain and quiet laugh-ter a stark con-trast to the ice set-tling in my chest.
Sofia is al-ready there, seated by the win-dow, her dark eyes scan-ning my face the mo-ment I walk in.
She knows.
Of course, she knows.
I don’t have to say a word. It’s all writ-ten in the way my shoul-ders are tense, the way I grip the strap of my duf-fle bag like a life-line, the way my eyes—usu-ally sharp, guarded—are now just…tired.
Word-lessly, I slide into the chair across from her.
Sofia’s fin-gers tighten around her cof-fee cup, knuck-les whiten-ing. “Tell me you’re not do-ing this.”
I force a smile, but it feels wrong on my lips, forced and hol-low. “I have to.”
Sofia’s jaw clenches. “No, you don’t.”
The sharp-ness in her voice makes me wince. But I don’t ar-gue.
Sofia ex-hales, set-ting her cof-fee aside with a frus-trated clat-ter. “This is in-sane. You’re be-ing hunted, Elena. And you want to leave alone?”
I hold her gaze, steady and un-wa-ver-ing. “I don’t have a choice.”
Sofia scoffs, shak-ing her head. “You al-ways have a choice.”
I look away, star-ing at the steam curl-ing from Sofia’s un-touched cof-fee.
Choice.
I thought I had one once.
But the truth is, choices have al-ways been made for me.
By Nic-colò. And now, by Dante.
My fin-gers curl into fists in my lap.
“No, I don’t,” I mur-mur
Sofia leans for-ward, her brows knit-ting to-gether in frus-tra-tion. “You think run-ning is go-ing to fix this? You think dis-ap-pear-ing will make the tar-get on your back van-ish?”
I ex-hale sharply. “Dante isn’t com-ing.” The words taste bit-ter on my tongue. “If I stay, I’ll be a pris-oner. If I go…maybe I can start over.”
Sofia’s ex-pres-sion soft-ens.
I hate that look. That pity.
“Where will you even go?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know.” I let out a hu-mor-less laugh. “Any-where is bet-ter than here.”
Si-lence stretches be-tween us.
Then, slowly, Sofia reaches across the ta-ble and grabs my hand.
Tightly.
Des-per-ately.
Like she doesn’t want to let go.
“I don’t want to lose you,” she whis-pers.
I swal-low the lump in my throat.
“You never will,” I mur-mur, squeez-ing back.
But even as I say it—
I know it’s a lie.
My fin-gers tighten around the car door han-dle as the ve-hi-cle speeds to-ward the air-port. The city lights flicker past in a blur of neon and steel, their glow cast-ing eerie pat-terns against the rain-slicked win-dows. The ten-sion in the air is suf-fo-cat-ing, a silent weight press-ing against my chest.
The driver is silent. Too silent.
His knuck-les are white against the steer-ing wheel, his pos-ture stiff and un-nat-u-ral. I no-tice the way his eyes dart to the rear-view mir-ror ev-ery few sec-onds, the way his breath-ing has changed—short, clipped in-hales, like a man brac-ing for im-pact.
A slow trickle of un-ease slides down my spine.
Some-thing is wrong.
My fin-gers tighten around the door han-dle, my pulse be-gin-ning to race.
Then—
A sharp, deaf-en-ing crack.
Gun-fire.
The wind-shield shat-ters with a vi-o-lent burst, shards of glass ex-plod-ing into the car like deadly con-fetti. The driver jerks with a stran-gled noise, but he doesn’t stop. He yanks the wheel, send-ing the car veer-ing sharply to the left.
An-other round of bul-lets tear through the ve-hi-cle.
The side win-dow bursts, rain-ing glass onto my lap. The sharp scent of burnt rub-ber and metal fills the air as the tires screech against the pave-ment.
This isn’t ran-dom.
They knew I’d be here.
My stom-ach twists. My mind scram-bles for an es-cape, for some-thing—any-thing—but there’s no time.
An-other round of gun-fire.
A wet, sick-en-ing sound—a bul-let rip-ping through flesh.
The driver chokes, his body jolt-ing vi-o-lently. Blood splat-ters across the dash-board in a grue-some spray.
And then—
The car spins out of con-trol.
BAM!
Metal crum-ples. White-hot pain ex-plodes through my skull.
Black spots dance across my vi-sion.
Then—
Foot-steps. Heavy. Pur-pose-ful.
A voice cuts through the chaos. Cool. Calm. Lethal.
“You didn’t re-ally think you could just walk away, did you?”
My stom-ach drops.
And then—
Ev-ery-thing goes dark.