1. PROLOGUE #2
My stomach clenched. I'd expected a rundown motel, but this place looked like it rented rooms by the hour.
The parking lot was nearly empty—just three cars and a pickup truck with a missing tailgate.
Weeds pushed through cracks in the asphalt.
A vending machine stood like a sentinel near the office, its light the brightest thing in the lot.
But it was anonymous. It was the address Pretty Boy had given me. It was all we had.
I parked near the office, keeping the car running with Dante inside while I checked in.
The night air felt heavy with moisture and the smell of garbage from an overflowing dumpster nearby.
The office door jangled as I pushed it open, revealing a small room with faded wallpaper and a plastic barrier separating customers from the desk clerk.
A man sat behind the barrier, his face illuminated by the glow of a small television showing what looked like a cooking show. He didn't look up.
"Need a room," I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
He glanced up, his expression as blank as a mannequin's. "Single or double?"
"Double." I placed cash on the small metal tray—the exact amount Pretty Boy had told me to bring.
"Name?"
"Jane Wilson." The fake name felt foreign on my tongue.
He pushed a registration card toward me. I filled it out with shaky handwriting, making up an address in another state.
"ID?"
My heart skipped. Pretty Boy hadn't mentioned this. "I... left it in the car."
The clerk stared at me for a long moment. His eyes flicked to the cash, then back to my face. "Room 17. End of the row. Check-out's at eleven." He slid a key attached to a large plastic fob across the counter.
"Thanks." I grabbed it and hurried out, relief washing over me.
Back in the car, I drove to the far end of the single-story building. Room 17 was in the corner, partially hidden by an overgrown hedge. Perfect. I parked directly in front of it, positioning the car for a quick exit if needed.
Dante was fully awake now, looking around with curious eyes. "Is this where we're staying, Mommy?"
"Just for tonight, sweetie." I forced a smile. "It's part of our adventure."
I gathered our bag and helped Dante from his car seat. His small hand found mine as we approached the door, his trust in me absolute and terrifying. What if I'd made the wrong choice? What if Pretty Boy's plan failed?
The key stuck in the lock, requiring a jiggle and firm push before the door swung open with a groan. The smell hit me first—stale cigarettes layered over mildew and damp carpet. A single lamp cast sickly yellow light over a room that might have been clean once, years ago.
Two double beds with faded floral spreads dominated the space.
The carpet, once beige, now bore countless stains in various shapes and sizes.
Peeling wallpaper curled at the seams, revealing patches of mold in the corners.
The bathroom doorway showed a glimpse of cracked tiles and a rust-stained sink.
"It smells funny," Dante whispered, pressing closer to my leg.
"I know, baby." I set our bag down and quickly checked the bathroom and closet—habit from living with Tyler's unpredictable rages. "We'll open a window."
The window stuck, but I managed to force it open an inch. Cool air seeped in, diluting the stale smell slightly. I turned down one of the beds, checking for bugs or worse. The sheets, at least, seemed clean enough.
"Come on, let's get you back to sleep." I helped Dante onto the bed, removing only his shoes before tucking him under the thin blanket.
"Will Daddy find us here?" he asked, his small voice thick with sleep yet tinged with fear that no four-year-old should know.
My heart cracked. "No, sweetie. He won't find us." I stroked his hair, humming softly until his eyes closed and his breathing deepened.
I sat on the edge of the bed, exhaustion crashing over me in waves. The adrenaline that had carried me through the escape was fading, leaving my limbs heavy and my mind foggy. But I couldn't rest. Not yet.
Pretty Boy had promised help would come. I just had to keep us safe until then. I just had to stay awake.
I tucked the thin, scratchy blanket around Dante's sleeping form, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead.
In sleep, his face lost the wariness that had started creeping in over the past months—the way his eyes would track Tyler's movements across a room, how he'd flinch at sudden noises.
My baby was learning to be afraid, and it killed me inside.
But not anymore. I'd rather live in a hundred seedy motels than watch my son turn into a shadow of himself.
The burner phone Pretty Boy had given me last week felt foreign in my hand—a cheap flip phone, nothing like my sleek smartphone that I'd left behind because Tyler had installed tracking apps on it. My fingers trembled as I typed out the pre-arranged message:
"Mockingbird has landed. Room 17."
Simple. Untraceable. I'd become a code name in my brother's elaborate escape plan. I hit send and held my breath, unsure if the message would even go through. The motel's location was deliberately remote, the signal bars flickering between one and none.
Three minutes passed. Five. I paced the small stretch of carpet between the door and the bathroom, checking the locks repeatedly, jumping at every sound from the parking lot.
Finally, the phone buzzed.
"Wicked Mayhem en route. Trust them."
That was it. No estimation of arrival time, no description of who to expect, no reassurance that everything would be okay. Just seven words that I was supposed to stake my future on. And Dante's.
Wicked Mayhem. I'd heard whispers about the motorcycle club from Pretty Boy. He ran with a different MC—the Hades Abyss—but had connections everywhere. "They're hardcore," he'd told me, "but they have a code. They protect their own. And once you're under their protection, you're family."
I set the phone down and moved to the window, carefully pulling back the edge of the stained curtain. The parking lot was still mostly empty. A single security light cast harsh shadows across the cracked asphalt. My car sat directly outside, packed and ready for a quick escape if needed.
What kind of people would be arriving? I pictured tattooed men on rumbling motorcycles, leather cuts and hard eyes.
Would they be worse than what I was running from?
Tyler was a monster dressed in designer clothes, his violence hidden behind closed doors and family connections.
At least with bikers, the danger was visible. Wasn't it?
Doubt crept in like the chill from the partially open window.
Maybe I'd made a mistake. Maybe I should have stuck it out, found a lawyer, fought for custody through proper channels.
But Tyler's father was a judge. His uncle was the police chief.
The system had failed me before—the one time I'd tried to report the abuse, I'd been the one treated like a criminal. A gold-digger. A liar.
A soft whimper from the bed drew my attention.
Dante had rolled onto his side, his small face scrunched in what might have been a bad dream.
I crossed to him quickly, sliding onto the bed and gathering him into my arms. He settled instantly against my chest, his warmth and weight both comforting and terrifying in their trust.
"I've got you," I whispered. "Mommy's got you."
Outside, a car door slammed. My entire body tensed, ears straining for any additional sound. Voices—male, loud enough to hear but too muffled to make out words. Then silence. Were they coming for us? Was it Tyler already? My parents? Or just other motel guests?
The digital clock on the nightstand read 3:47 AM. Less than two hours before dawn. Less than four before my parents would discover our empty beds. The clock was ticking.
Another sound—footsteps on gravel, passing our door, continuing down the row of rooms. I released a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. False alarm.
My mind drifted back to the night Pretty Boy had offered me this chance. Three weeks ago, he'd shown up unexpectedly at our parents' house for Sunday dinner—a rare occurrence since he'd patched into his MC and been all but disowned.
"You look like shit, Ophelia," he'd whispered when we were alone in the kitchen.
I'd tugged my sleeve down to cover the bruises. "I'm fine."
"Bullshit." His eyes, so like mine, had hardened. "How bad has it gotten?"
I'd broken down then, told him everything—Tyler's escalating violence, my parents' willful blindness, my fear for Dante. Pretty Boy had listened, really listened, then handed me a burner phone with a single number programmed into it.
"When you're ready to leave, call me. I know people who can help."
I'd kept the phone hidden in the lining of my winter coat. For weeks, I'd wavered, too scared to leave, too scared to stay. Then yesterday, Tyler had thrown a glass at the wall near Dante's head during one of his rages. It had missed by inches. The decision was made in that moment.
A revving engine startled me back to the present. Through the thin walls of the motel room, I could hear a television playing in an adjacent room, the indistinct sounds of a sitcom laugh track. Every noise set my nerves on edge.
What would happen when Wicked Mayhem arrived? Would they take us to a safe house? Help us disappear? Give us new identities? Pretty Boy had been vague on details—"the less you know, the safer you are," he'd said.
I was throwing away everything—my education, my inheritance, my identity. Cutting ties with my past completely. The thought should have terrified me more than it did. But when I looked at Dante's sleeping face, I knew I'd walk through fire for him. Give up anything. Become anyone.
A loud group of voices erupted from somewhere in the parking lot—raucous laughter, a woman's high-pitched squeal. I flinched, disturbing Dante enough that he stirred in my arms.