Chapter 2 #4
A living shield. We stepped through the double doors.
The cool night air hit my skin like a blessing.
Freedom.
Two black SUVs waited outside with engines already running.
Ethan moved ahead and opened the back door of the first vehicle.
I climbed in first.
Dario slid in beside me.
Ethan settled on my other side.
Luca, Marco, Nico, and Vito entered the second SUV.
Doors slammed.
Engines roared.
The convoy pulled away smoothly, tires whispering over gravel before transitioning to asphalt.
Streetlights blurred past in streaks of gold and shadow.
I leaned my head against the cold window.
In the side mirror, I saw Ruslan’s estate shrinking.
Smaller. Further.
Until it disappeared completely.
Gone from sight. Not gone from memory.
But physically removed.
Ethan’s voice broke the silence beside me.
“Elena... will you let our doctor treat you in New York?”
His tone wasn’t pushy. It was careful.
Concerned.
“Full-time care. Therapy. Specialists. Whatever you need.”
I turned my head toward him.
Exhaustion pressed heavy on my bones.
Without proper treatment—the infections still raging inside me, the internal damage, the trauma that clawed at my mind—it was only a matter of time before my body failed again.
I had survived prison. Survived kidnapping. Survived losing my child.
But survival without healing was a slow death.
I nodded once.
Then lifted my hands.
Slow. Certain.
“I will.”
Ethan exhaled quietly in relief.
Dario’s hand squeezed mine gently.
The car continued moving through the dark highway, carrying me away from the house that had held my marriage—and my heartbreak.
I closed my eyes.
Let the rhythm of the engine steady my breathing.
Let distance separate me from the man who had once been my husband.
For the first time in months—
I was moving toward something that might resemble safety.
We soon arrived at the private airfield — it looked less like an airport and more like a fortified military zone.
Floodlights blazed overhead, cutting across the tarmac in harsh white beams that erased every shadow and replaced it with something sharper—something exposed.
As our convoy rolled through the reinforced chain-link gates, my eyes adjusted slowly to the scale of security surrounding us.
At least a hundred armed men.
Black tactical gear.
Rifles held low but ready.
Earpieces blinking faint blue against tense faces.
They weren’t standing randomly.
They were positioned in structured formations—two disciplined lines flanking the asphalt path that led straight to the waiting aircraft, clearing space while controlling every possible angle.
Perimeter secured.
Sniper vantage points occupied.
Vehicles inspected.
Nothing moved without being watched.
The jet parked at the far end of the runway was impossible to miss—a sleek Gulfstream G700 painted matte black, its engines already running with that deep, steady growl that vibrated through my chest.
Ready for immediate departure.
No delays. No vulnerability.
No chance of another ambush.
My stomach tightened at the sight of it.
The last time we tried to leave California, we had believed we were protected too.
Then came the attack.
That memory still felt fresh.
Still violent.
Still capable of stealing my breath.
They weren’t taking chances again.
Dario exited the SUV first.
He stepped out slowly, scanning left and right before moving to my door. His eyes tracked rooftops, parked cars, distant treelines—always calculating threats before they materialized.
Ethan came around to my other side.
The door opened.
Cold air rushed in.
Dario reached for me first.
Ethan followed.
They helped me out carefully—one arm under mine from each side, lifting me like I weighed nothing and everything at the same time.
My legs trembled the moment my feet touched the asphalt.
Pain shot through my thighs where the wounds from the warehouse still hadn’t healed.
Every step dragged.
Every movement pulled at raw tissue.
I bit down on my lip to keep from making a sound.
Luca walked ahead of us, clearing the path with a sharp gesture to the security detail.
Men shifted instantly.
Weapons adjusted.
Eyes moved.
Marco, Nico, and Vito formed behind us, locking into position like a mobile fortress.
They didn’t look relaxed.
They looked ready to kill anyone who even breathed wrong.
The metal stairs leading up to the jet felt taller than they actually were.
They loomed like a challenge.
Dario took most of my weight as we approached them.
“Almost there,” he murmured near my ear. “Just a few more steps.”
His voice was soft.
Comforting.
I caught only fragments through my damaged hearing aid, the sound slightly distorted—but the meaning was clear.
You’re safe.
Keep going.
Each step up the stairs sent a new wave of pain through my body.
My muscles shook. My knees threatened to buckle.
Ethan stayed close behind me, his hands hovering in case I slipped.
When we reached the top, he guided me through the narrow cabin doorway.
Cool air wrapped around me instantly.
The scent of leather and polished metal replaced the smell of blood and smoke that had followed me for weeks.
The interior was dimly lit.
Soft amber strips ran along the floor edges.
The seats were deep cream leather—wide, plush, capable of reclining into flat beds.
Luxury disguised as mobility. Escape disguised as comfort.
I collapsed into the nearest seat.
The leather molded around my body, cradling my sore muscles in something almost gentle.
My wrist throbbed painfully where I had pressed the knife against my skin earlier.
The thin cut had dried into a crusted line of dark red.
It burned whenever I flexed my fingers.
I shifted onto my side and curled inward instinctively.
Knees drawn up. Arms tucked close. Making myself small.
Invisible. Safe.
Dario stepped in last and pressed the button to seal the cabin door.
It shut with a quiet mechanical hiss.
Locked. Secure.
Engines outside spooled higher.
The vibration intensified beneath my body as the aircraft prepared to move.
I felt it in my ribs.
In my teeth. In my bones.
The jet began to roll forward, slowly at first as it taxied toward the runway.
My fingers gripped the edge of the seat.
Every movement outside was controlled. Coordinated.
Then the acceleration came.
The engines roared.
The pressure pressed me back into the leather.
And suddenly—
We lifted.
I felt the exact moment the wheels left the ground.
A gentle upward push. A strange weightlessness in my chest.
The city lights dropped away beneath us.
We were airborne. Away.
Far from the warehouse that still haunted my dreams.
Far from the marble mansion that had once represented marriage and betrayal in the same breath.
Far from the man who claimed to be my husband, the same man who wanted me destroyed for my sister’s sins.
Ruslan.
His face flashed briefly in my mind.
Blood on his hands. Fear in his eyes. Control slipping when I held the knife to my wrist.
I forced the image away.
New York. Somewhere safer. Somewhere anonymous.
Somewhere his influence didn’t reach as easily.
I didn’t know if it would feel like freedom.
I didn’t know if healing was even possible.
But maybe—just maybe—
It would be a place where I could breathe without expecting hands to grab me from behind.
A place where I could rebuild my body.
Rebuild my voice.
Rebuild whatever pieces of myself still remained intact.
Without thinking, my hand moved to my abdomen.
It was flat now. Empty.
My fingers traced slow, unconscious circles across the skin beneath the thin fabric of my shirt—the same motion I had used in the prison cell when the baby was still alive.
When it still kicked against my palm.
When those tiny movements had felt like silent promises.
I used to whisper to it in the dark.
“I’m here.”
“Stay strong.”
“Mama will protect you.”
The memory slammed into me without warning.
Labor had come in the eighth month.
Too early. Too violent. Too cruel.
I had been dragged to the prison infirmary in chains, wrists raw from metal cuffs that cut into my skin with every step.
The contractions had started as a dull ache.
Then intensified.
Then became unbearable waves that ripped through my abdomen like knives twisting deeper each time.
I remember collapsing halfway down the hallway because my legs gave out.
Guards laughed.
One of them grabbed my arm and yanked me upright.
“Walk,” he had ordered.
The prison guards who had turned authority into a weapon and cruelty into entertainment.
Harlan had stood at the foot of the delivery table that night — the one who had orchestrated every fresh hell inside those walls.
Arms crossed. Watching.
His eyes fixed between my spread thighs with a sick fascination that made my skin crawl.
The two nurses on duty were his. They answered to him.
They never once told him to leave. They never asked for privacy.
They barely looked at me like I was human.
The fluorescent lights above burned harshly into my retinas.
Cold metal restraints locked my wrists to the rails.
No epidural. No pain relief.
No monitoring equipment beyond the bare minimum.
Just my body. My pain.
And their indifference.
I pushed through wave after wave of agony.
Sweat soaked my hair. Stinging my eyes.
My throat burned from silent screams I couldn’t release.
I prayed—desperately—that this child would survive.
That despite starvation. Despite beatings. Despite infection. Despite everything—
It would be strong enough to break through the cruelty surrounding its birth.
Then, after hours that felt like eternity, the baby slipped free.
For one fractured second—
One perfect, suspended moment—
I felt overwhelming relief.
Joy surged through me so violently it almost knocked the pain away.
I thought maybe darkness hadn’t won completely.
Maybe something good had survived inside that prison.
Maybe I still had something worth fighting for.
Then I saw the nurses’ faces.
Blank. Emotionless. Almost bored.