Chapter 14 #2
He led me past the counter, into the kitchen, then out a narrow door into the alley.
The air was colder than before. The sky hadn’t changed at all.
We ran.
We moved as if the city were a logic puzzle, every block a variable to be solved.
Pietro led, but not by much. He’d mapped the escape in his head before we even left the bakery—he picked up the pace at every cross street, never hesitated at an alley mouth or a turn.
The first block, I counted steps behind him.
By the second, we were side by side, breathing in sync, ducking the same awnings and leaping the same patches of black ice.
He didn’t look at me, but I could feel it, the charge between us—a current that made my skin buzz.
A grey sedan crawled past at the end of the alley. Pietro yanked me against a loading dock, one arm braced across my body, pinning me to the shadow. His coat smelled like rain. I waited for the car to pass, then stepped out first. He didn’t say a word.
We cut through the loading bay, down a set of concrete stairs, into a service corridor under the hotel. The door was unmarked but propped open with a plastic wedge. We slipped inside, out of the wind, into a space so quiet the only sound was the click of our boots on the tile.
He made a right at the second hallway, then another right, then up a back staircase that stank of bleach and old onions. We surfaced in a ballroom, empty except for a man vacuuming the corners. Pietro nodded to the man, who didn’t even slow down. It was like we were invisible.
I was good at this. I’d always been good at this.
The hiding, the running, the keeping my head down while the world spun itself into disaster.
Two months ago, I’d made it from Pilsen to Evanston with eight hundred dollars, a forged ComEd bill, and nothing but my own paranoia to keep me breathing.
I’d thought that was the hardest thing I’d ever do.
The difference now: I wasn’t alone.
We hit the lobby. Pietro peeled off to the right, pulling me behind a row of fake palms. He checked the desk, the doors, the faces of the people waiting for cabs. Then he took my hand, squeezed once, and said: “Now.”
We crossed the lobby fast, both heads down, and out the side entrance.
The street was busier here—trash trucks, city workers, a jogger in reflective tights.
We joined the flow, walking fast but not running.
I scanned every car, every storefront, every face behind glass.
I saw them, too—the men in grey, two now, one on each side of the avenue, both pretending to check their phones. They didn’t know we’d clocked them.
We broke left at the Walgreens, up the ramp to the parking garage. I knew what he was doing—elevation, sight lines, escape route at every floor. We hit the second level. He stopped me at the window, checked the view. The men in grey had lost us, for now.
He looked at me, really looked, for the first time since we started running.
He said, “You’re good at this.”
I shrugged, breathless. “Years of practice.”
He smiled, just a flash. “You see the exit?”
I did. “West stairwell, down to the alley, two blocks, then right.”
He nodded. “Exactly.”
I felt it, then—a strange, wild thrill. Like being seen for the first time. Like every other man in my life had only wanted the surface, and here was someone who read the code underneath.
We went.
The alley was narrow, the brick slick with last night’s rain.
We jogged down it, dodging dumpsters, hopping a puddle so deep it might have been a pond.
At the end, the street opened up into a new neighborhood—one I didn’t know, with townhouses set back from the curb and a row of elms that had lost all their leaves.
“Just up here, safety, Baby Girl.”
Pietro slowed, walked like nothing was wrong. I followed suit. At the corner, he ducked into a vestibule, pulled a keycard from his coat, and slid it into the slot.
The door opened on a dark hallway, carpeted, silent. The only light came from a red exit sign at the far end. I waited for him to lead, but he stopped, turned to me.
He said, “You okay?”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
He said, “You don’t have to pretend.”
I shrugged. “I’m fine. Really.”
He looked at me, a long second, then put his hand on my face. It was warm, rough, steady.
He said, “This is almost over.”
I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe it so hard it hurt.
He punched a code into the second door on the right. It clicked. He opened it, waited for me to step in first.
I did.
“Another safe house,” he said.
“You guys own half the city.”
“It’s more true than you think.
The place was simple, clean, made up for a guest. There was a musty smell—I wondered how long it had been since someone had stayed here.
Pietro did the circuit, checked every blind, every latch, every corner. When he was satisfied, he double-locked the door and turned to face me.
I was still in my coat, still breathing hard, the sweat cooling on my back and making me shiver. I stood in the center of the room, arms folded tight.
He crossed the room, stopped two feet away. He didn’t reach for me—not at first. He just waited, eyes on mine, like he was waiting for me to break the silence.
So I did.
I said, “I’m tired of running, Pietro.”
He blinked. Once, slow.
I said, “I have been running for two years. This morning I ran with you, and it was different, and I still hated it. I don’t want to do this anymore.”
My voice wasn’t angry. It was empty. The exhaustion went all the way down.
I said, “Not from Marseilles, not from Enzo, not from your family. Not from anyone. I want this to stop.”
He looked at me, a mix of admiration and worry and something else, something like grief.
He said, “Are you sure? We can leave. Right now. We can be on a plane by nightfall. There are places nobody can find us. I mean it. I’d burn it all down for you.”
I shook my head. “You’d lose your family.”
He hesitated. “They’ll survive.”
I said, “You would never forgive yourself. I would never forgive myself.”
He started to protest, but I cut him off.
I said, “And I will not let you run, either. If we run, they will find us. If we run, you will lose your brothers, your home, everything you care about. I will not be the woman who costs you your family.”
I said it flat, like a number on a page.
He was closer now, close enough that I could see the lines at the corners of his eyes, the scar that split his left eyebrow. He lifted his hands, slow, and placed them on either side of my face. His palms were hot, rough. They cupped my cheeks, anchored me there.
He said, “I would give it up. For you.”
I shook my head, leaned into his hands, let him hold me up.
I said, “That’s not what I want.”
He didn’t answer, just searched my face like he was looking for an answer he didn’t know how to find.
I said, “Take me to your family. I want to talk to them. On my terms.”
He held my face, a long moment. He let go, finally, and let his arms drop to his sides.
He said, very quietly, “I am so proud of you, Angela.”
I felt it in my bones, the weight of the words. Nobody had ever said it to me and meant it.
I stepped in, closed the space, and put my forehead to his chest. He held me, arms around my shoulders, chin resting on the top of my head. We stood that way for a long time.
When I stepped back, I said, “Make the call.”
He did.
He dialed. He spoke to Dante, Italian fast and low. He told him everything—the bakery, the men, the route, the safe house. He said my name, my real name, and didn’t apologize for it.
He hung up.
He said, “They’re ready for us. We go in one hour.”
I nodded.
He reached for my hand.
He said, “You’re not alone anymore.”
I squeezed his hand, hard, and believed him.
For the first time in two years, I let myself believe it.
We waited, together, for the next thing to come.