Chapter Five
Run.
The word pounded through Gia’s head like a war drum, driving out logic, drowning reason in a flood of panic.
She waited until Zach and Caleb disappeared down the road, then bolted for the bedroom, throat closing as adrenaline surged.
How had Vincente found her?
She was an East Coast girl who liked the finer things a city could offer. How na?ve to think changing her name and hiding across the country on the Navajo Nation would be enough.
His family had eyes everywhere.
Gia yanked the brown Louis Vuitton suitcase Vincente had insisted on buying her from the closet and hoisted it onto the bed, careful not to catch a wheel on the indigo, black, and red Navajo pattern bedcover.
The luxury brand, with its garish monogram and bloated price tag, looked absurd in her modest home. Once, the designer bag announced her status. Now, like the jewelry she’d brought with her, its only worth lay in what it could fetch at a pawnshop for cash if the need arose.
The one piece of jewelry she’d left behind was the five-carat princess-cut diamond engagement ring Vincente had slipped onto her finger. Taking it off had felt like removing handcuffs. Ones she intended never to be shackled by again .
Where could she go? The RAV4, paid for in cash when she arrived in Arizona, was too distinctive—metallic green, hard to miss. If Vincente’s men had noticed her plate and traced it, they’d know her real name.
Gianna Lucia Barone. Born in Brooklyn. Daughter of a man serving life for at least three murders.
Vincente would savor the irony. He’d known her as Abigail Winters—Upper East Side heiress, orphaned at eighteen.
A true story, mostly.
Just not hers.
The real Abigail Winters would have been Gia’s age if she hadn’t died as an infant.
So she’d borrowed the identity, and Abigail Winters had been born. Again. This time as a fully formed adult with a backstory. College. Med school. A residency at a top hospital followed by a career catering to Miami’s rich and powerful.
Then she’d fallen for a man who’d turned out to be as devious and dangerous as the world she’d fled.
Maybe the old saying blood will tell was true.
From the chest of drawers, Gia scooped up panties, bras, and socks, and tossed them into her suitcase. Then she stopped.
A copy of her twelve-week contract with the medical clinic lay on top of the chest. She unfolded the paper. Six more weeks to go, with a bonus at the end—a bonus she desperately needed in order to disappear again.
Farther this time.
Her patients needed her. The overworked nursing staff needed her. She and Jennie were organizing a wellness fair at the clinic in three weeks.
Jennie .
A nurse at the clinic, Jennie Tsosie was fast becoming a close friend. She didn’t know what had brought Gia to the Navajo Nation—or why Gia always found a reason not to join her and the others for a night out beyond its borders.
If Gia left now, Jennie would be stuck organizing the fair on her own, on top of everything else already on her shoulders. Gia needed to find a way to say goodbye. To explain.
But if she told Zach she was leaving, he’d try to talk her out of it. Tell her she was safer on the rez.
President Blackwater had gone out on a limb for her. He’d intervened so she could live and work here. He’d trusted her when no one else in their right mind would have. Walking away now—leaving the clinic short-staffed with no notice—would betray that trust.
She set down the contract and glanced at her open suitcase.
Vincente’s men had come across Abigail. A name she’d told them was passing through. Not staying. They didn’t know about Gianna Barone.
If she stayed put until her contract ended, they wouldn’t know where to find her.
Still, she frowned. If they started asking around, it wouldn’t take much to discover an Anglo doctor matching Abigail Winters’s description working on the rez.
With a rough exhale, she lifted a single pair of panties from the jumbled pile, folded it neatly, then placed it back in the suitcase.
For all her efforts to carve out a life of privilege, she’d never felt as at home as she did here. The Navajo had accepted her—not because of who she pretended to be, but who she was. They needed her.
She could see herself building a life here.
That is, if she was ever free of her old one .
“And that’s exactly why you can’t stay.” Her eyes watered. She gave them an irritated swipe and turned to the closet.
Screw destiny.
She’d remade herself before. Would do it again.
Shirts and pants hung in order, next to her white doctor’s coat. Her hand hesitated over the sleeveless black dress she’d packed when she fled Miami.
Elegant. Timeless.
Fit for a funeral.
“Caleb Varella.”
She whispered the name aloud, the consonants flowing over her tongue like a lover’s caress. It had weight. Strength. Protection.
And that terrified her.
Not because she feared him. Because for the first time, she wanted someone and felt safe wanting him.
A shrill ring shattered her thoughts. The sound came from her living room.
She hurried down the hall and found her phone in her jacket pocket. If it was the clinic, it might be an emergency. With Doctor Chee out on maternity leave and Doctor Lewis at a conference, there were no nights off anymore.
Another reason to stay.
Her patients and the staff were beginning to trust her, to believe she had their best interests at heart. If she up and disappeared on them now, what would they think?
What would that say about her?
An unfamiliar number lit the screen. It wasn’t local.
Her finger hovered over the green button.
“It’s not Miami.” She’d recognize that area code.
Her hand shook. “He doesn’t know this number—he can’t. ”
She’d left the old phone behind. Bought this prepaid one after she arrived in Arizona. Paid for the phone and the minutes in cash. No trace.
But those men had found her at Lucero’s.
Coincidence?
Or had they known where to look?
The phone went quiet.
Her stomach flip-flopped like a fish out of water.
A blinking message icon. Voicemail.
Her hand trembled as it hovered over the notification.
She pressed play.
If you owe back taxes, the government is offering—
A spam call. Her head swam. Never thought she’d see the day she’d be grateful for one.
She deleted the message with a jab of her thumb. “You’re being paranoid.”
Only tell that to her racing heart.
She made a quick call to the clinic’s nurse on call—just in case. “Hey, Wanda. Everything quiet? Great. Let’s hope it stays that way. I’m here if anyone needs me.”
At least for tonight.
Guilt bored a hole in her stomach.
“Have a good night.”
On her way back to the bedroom, her gaze snagged on Caleb’s bloodied t-shirt lying on the floor.
She kneeled to pick it up. Held it to her nose.
Blood—copper and iron. But beneath that, sandalwood and spice.
Warmth unfurled in her belly. Just touching the shirt sent awareness brushing over her skin—the way his sculpted muscles flexed beneath her hands. The calm in his voice. The heat in his eyes .
He was dangerous—he’d proven that by the way he handled those men.
Yet she’d felt safe in his presence.
He’d looked at her with male appreciation.
And she hadn’t been afraid.
His job was to protect people. What if she asked him to protect her? Then she could stay here. Make a real difference in people’s lives.
Gia gave an unladylike snort. “Who are you kidding?”
Vincente was too powerful. Too many connections. Anyone who tried to help her would probably end up dead, just like…
Her brain shied from the memory.
If she wanted Caleb’s help, it should be to drive her to the airport and drop her off without looking back. She’d throw an imaginary dart at the outgoing flights board and hop a plane to a random destination.
Her hasty idea died a quick death. Now that he knew where she was, Vincente would have eyes at every airport in the Southwest.
Flying was out.
Back to her original plan. Drive north. Stick to back roads. Trade the RAV4 for another vehicle at a used car lot across the state line. Then keep going. Utah. Wyoming. Montana. Maybe Canada. Then Alaska. Start over again. New name. A new life.
Again.
She dropped Caleb’s shirt in the trash.
Back at the closet, her fingers brushed the black dress. Instead of packing it, she left it on the hanger.
As tempting as it would be to rely on Caleb Varella, she couldn’t involve him.
Still, he’d saved her life tonight.
She owed him more than the weak thank you she’d offered up before he left .
The least she could do was attend his mother’s funeral.
Although, given the trouble she’d brought him, he might be thankful never to see her again.
Her heart gave a strange twist. In a different life, she would have liked to have gotten to know Caleb better.
A yawn cracked her jaw. The adrenaline spike from the evening’s events had burned out. Gravity pulled her exhausted limbs closer to the floor. All she wanted was sleep—deep, dreamless, and long enough so when she woke up, Vincente would have forgotten about her.
She could live in peace.
But real life didn’t work that way.
Her gaze returned to the black dress.
Caleb planned to leave after his mother’s funeral.
So would she.