Chapter 3 #2
Most of my team died at his hands. The rest were captured.
I was the only one who escaped.
And ever since that day... I’ve been running.
Even though Al Chapo is dead, I’m still running for my life.
Freedom never came with his death—only a new kind of fear.
I don’t stay anywhere long.
I choose seats facing exits. I scan reflections in glass, mirrors, anything that lets me see behind me without turning my head.
Every footstep, every passing glance, every car that slows for a second too long—I notice it all.
I sleep light, if I sleep at all.
One sound is enough to pull me awake, pulse racing, mind already mapping escape routes.
Doors are always checked twice. Windows, too.
I memorize streets the moment I step into them—turns, alleys, blind spots. Just in case.
Because I know he’s still out there.
Ruslan Baranov.
The man who took over after Al Chapo’s death.
More dangerous. More patient. And far more personal.
He’s not just hunting me for what happened on that mission—he’s hunting me because of what I took from him.
He swore he’d never stop. That no matter how long it took, no matter where I ran, he would find me.
And when he does... he’ll make sure I pay for everything.
This has been my life for the past five years.
Restless. Constantly moving. Always running.
From city to city. From shadow to shadow.
Like a fugitive who will never know peace—haunted by a past I can’t outrun, and a debt that’s still waiting to be collected.
Two hours ago, I had been sitting in a dingy restaurant on the edge of Bergamo.
If you could even call it that.
The place smelled like old grease and regret—Perfect for disappearing. Perfect for someone like me.
I had chosen the table near the window out of habit.
Always near an exit. Always with a line of sight.
My hands had been shaking when the plate was set down in front of me.
It had been three days since I’d tasted anything solid. Every attempt to steal scraps had failed. I’d gotten good at surviving on almost nothing—but even that had its limits.
Hunger like this isn’t just emptiness. It’s pain.
A slow, gnawing burn that twists your stomach until it feels like something inside you is eating itself alive.
Mine had been like that for years now—damaged, unpredictable. Sometimes it was a dull ache. Other times it came in sharp, crippling waves that forced me to double over, breathless, waiting for it to pass.
Five years on the run does that to a person.
No routine. No real food. No rest.
No life.
I couldn’t remember the last time my body felt normal.
My weight had dropped long ago. My strength came and went depending on when I last ate.
Even my own body had started turning against me—my menstrual cycles became irregular, and the pain became constant, like something inside me had been worn down beyond repair.
And the worst part?
You don’t get used to it.
Not the hunger. Not the weakness. Not the way your mind starts slipping when your body is pushed too far.
You just learn to endure it.
Barely.
I stared at the plate in front of me, my vision blurring slightly from how badly I needed it.
My hands trembled as I reached for the food, like my body didn’t quite trust that it was real, like it might be taken away if I hesitated too long.
I had barely taken three bites when I felt it—that subtle shift in the air, the quiet warning that had kept me alive all these years.
The unmistakable sensation of being watched.
I didn’t look up immediately. I never do.
Instead, I let my gaze drift lazily toward the glass beside me, using the reflection to scan without drawing attention.
That’s when I saw them—two men standing across the street.
They weren’t even trying to hide it.
Their focus was too sharp, too fixed, the kind of attention that doesn’t waver. The kind that hunts.
Baranov’s men.
I knew it instantly. You don’t survive five years on the run without learning how predators look at their prey.
My stomach dropped, not from fear, but from calculation. Distance. Exits. Timing. Every detail mapped itself out in my mind with practiced precision.
By the time they started moving, I was already on my feet.
I didn’t run. Not yet.
Running draws attention. Running confirms suspicion.
So I walked—steady, forcing my body to move like nothing was wrong, like I hadn’t just signed myself up for another fight for survival.
One step. Then another.
Every nerve in my body screamed at me to move faster, but I held it in, keeping my pace measured until I reached the door.
The second I crossed it, I ran.
The world dissolved into motion.
The streets blurred past me as instinct took over, guiding me through alleyways I barely registered but somehow knew.
Tight corners. Narrow paths.
I turned left, then right, my body moving on memory and urgency, vaulting over a stack of crates without breaking stride.
Behind me, shouts erupted—too close, closer than I liked.
My lungs burned, my muscles protested, but I didn’t slow down.
A ladder came into view, bolted against the side of a building.
I grabbed it without hesitation and climbed fast, my hands slipping slightly as strain shot through my arms.
Pain flared, sharp and familiar, but I forced myself upward, refusing to stop until I reached the top.
The rooftop gave me seconds. That was all.
I ran across it, the wind hitting my face as I pushed harder, then jumped.
The landing jarred through my body, pain shooting up my legs, but I rolled with it and kept moving, not daring to pause.
They were still behind me.
They never stopped.
I spotted the scooter just ahead—parked, unattended, the key still in place.
Luck didn’t exist in my world, but I took it anyway.
I swung onto it, the engine roaring to life beneath me as I sped off, weaving through traffic with reckless precision, ignoring the blaring horns and shouted curses.
All that mattered was distance.
Space. Escape.
I didn’t stop until the noise began to fade, until the city started to swallow me whole again.
Then I saw them.
Two power bikes, cutting through traffic behind me.
My stomach tightened as I glanced at the mirror and caught sight of the riders—the same two men. Still there. Still coming.
The bike beneath me stuttered slightly, just enough to send a flicker of unease through me. I looked down at the fuel gauge.
Empty.
Running on reserve.
It wouldn’t last much longer.
A sharp breath left me as reality settled in. I wasn’t outrunning them. Not like this.
My eyes scanned the road ahead, searching—anything, anywhere.
That’s when I saw it.
The cathedral.
I didn’t think or hesitate.
I swerved in on pure instinct, driving straight through the open entrance before the engine finally gave out.
I barely waited for it to die before I jumped off, my legs already moving, pushing myself forward.
Run. Hide. Disappear.
Anything to escape them.
Because I knew what would happen if they caught me.
They wouldn’t kill me.
No... they would take me to him.
To Ruslan Baranov.
And there would be no mercy in what followed.
Only judgment.
I pushed deeper inside, my pulse hammering, my mind racing for any kind of cover—
And then I saw him.
Vincenzo.
Of all places. Of all moments.
Here.
On his wedding day.
In his dressing room.
The same boy I had spent fourteen fleeting hours with when I was eight... now standing in front of me like something pulled straight out of a past I thought I had buried.
“Elena...”
Vincenzo’s voice cut through the fog of my thoughts, sharp and commanding, yanking me back to the present.
I blinked once, the memory of running dissolving as reality snapped back into place.
He was still there.
Standing tall. Watching. Waiting.
His presence filled the room like a storm about to break.
“Do you agree to be my bride?”
The question hung in the air between us, as if every second I hesitated fed the tension.
I froze, my mind spinning.
A thousand thoughts collided at once.
How would he...? How could he make me, a woman who had appeared out of nowhere as his bride, take the place of the one originally chosen?
What would happen to her?
Would she be humiliated, displaced, erased?
Or was this some twisted prank, a test of obedience, of power, of control?
I couldn’t breathe properly.
My pulse hammered in my ears.
The room felt smaller, charged with expectation.
“Yes,” I said, without hesitation.
My voice was steady, though my chest thudded like a drum.
I didn’t know how much power he had amassed, how far his influence reached, but one thing I understood—becoming his bride might be the only thing that could buy me some semblance of protection.
Some fragile shield in a world that had spent five long years trying to destroy me.
“Get the ladies to dress her,” he said, turning to the short, angry-looking man in a tailored suit.
Then he looked back at me. “I’ll be waiting at the altar.”
And just like that, he left, his presence lingering like a storm aftershock.
I was left dazed, standing in the lavish dressing room with only two men.
The short man in the suit radiated anger, while the other, an Italian soldier in full uniform, simply waited, tense.
Their eyes pinned me as if I were some kind of intruder, some mistake they hadn’t signed up to witness.
But they didn’t know me.
Did they even have the slightest idea what I’d survived to be here, alive, breathing?
The short man dismissed the soldier, who nodded stiffly and left without another word.
Then the short man stepped closer, his gaze sharpening.
“Who are you?” His hand hovered over his holster, but it was his eyes that were the deadliest—like he wanted to tear me apart with just a look.
“I know nearly everything about Vin... and you... I’ve never seen you anywhere before.”
I let out a slow sigh, letting the edge of my confidence cut through the tension in the room.
My hands flexed at my sides, ready to move if needed, but my voice remained steady.