Chapter 8 #4
I huffed a soft laugh. “Bold of you to assume you could carry me at all.”
I started for the door—
“Hey.”
I stilled, glancing back over my shoulder.
“Can you handle a gun?”
I tilted my head slightly.
“Do you think we shot at cardboard targets in the CIA?”
His brows lifted just a fraction.
Then he gave a small, grudging shrug.
“Fair.”
A pause.
I let a faint smirk settle on my lips as I turned and made my way back to my room.
If Vincenzo came back early—if he found the room empty, if he realized I had left—there would be consequences.
But staying was worse.
Standing still meant thinking, and thinking meant reliving everything I couldn’t escape.
The dinner with Violet.
The forced kiss.
The way he had walked out without a second glance, without hesitation.
If I stayed alone in this house, those thoughts would not fade.
They would circle endlessly, tightening with every pass, until they hollowed me out from the inside.
I could already see it—myself on the floor, curled into the dark, wondering how much more I could endure before something in me finally broke.
I refused to let it get that far.
Not tonight.
What I needed was movement.
Adrenaline. Risk.
Something loud enough to drown out the noise in my head.
Something sharp enough to cut through the ache settling deep in my chest.
Inside my room, I closed the door behind me with quiet control.
I pulled off the hoodie and lounge pants, letting them fall where they landed without care.
Cool air brushed over my skin, raising a faint trail of goosebumps,
I reached for black tactical leggings, pulling them on with practiced ease.
The material fit like a second skin—flexible, reinforced, designed for speed and impact.
A fitted long-sleeve top followed, streamlined and close to the body, made to move without resistance.
Over it, I slipped into a lightweight leather jacket.
The jacket was perfect—lightweight, flexible, tailored to move with me rather than against me, with hidden compartments sewn seamlessly into the lining.
I stepped into my boots last.
They were low-profile and worn in, molded to my movements, their soles designed to grip whatever surface I crossed.
Then I braided my hair back, pulling it tight and clean, securing every strand in place.
Nothing loose. Nothing distracting.
When I looked at myself in the mirror, the reflection that met my gaze was not a wife, not a captive, and certainly not something that could be owned.
It was me.
Elena.
The woman who had survived five years on the run.
The woman who had outrun Ruslan Baranov’s hunters more times than she could count.
The woman who had learned, again and again, how to endure without breaking.
I exhaled slowly, grounding myself in the moment, and then I moved.
I slipped out through the side door of the east wing, deliberately avoiding the main corridors, the guards, and the quiet, ever-watchful cameras mounted above.
Every step was calculated.
The night air met me the second I stepped outside, cool and clean, carrying the faint scent of pine and lake water drifting in from beyond the estate.
It steadied me, sharpening my focus.
I moved quickly but without sound, following the narrow service path along the edge of the property.
Gravel shifted softly beneath my boots.
The garages came into view ahead—dimly lit, isolated, waiting.
Renzo was already there.
Of course he was.
He leaned against a blacked-out Range Rover with the ease of someone entirely at home in the dark.
His arms were crossed, one leg slightly bent, his posture relaxed without ever being careless.
There was nothing idle about him.
A cigarette burned low between his fingers.
He took one last drag before flicking it to the ground and crushing it beneath his heel as I approached.
His gaze moved over me deliberately, taking in every detail.
Then something shifted—just enough to register.
Approval.
He pushed off the car and jerked his chin toward the twin superbikes parked beside it, their black frames gleaming under the dim garage lights.
The engines were silent, but there was something coiled in them—power waiting to be unleashed.
“Pick one,” he said.
I didn’t hesitate.
I stepped toward the nearer bike, my fingers brushing over the cold metal before I swung a leg over it in one fluid motion.
The seat settled beneath me, firm and familiar, the machine fitting like something I already knew how to control.
The scent of oil and steel rose faintly in the air, sharper than the enclosed weight of a car.
Renzo mounted the second bike with practiced ease, his movements smooth, unthinking.
The moment he brought it to life, the engine growled low and restrained, the vibration humming through the ground between us.
“Last chance to back out,” he said, voice carrying easily over the quiet rumble, his gaze fixed ahead.
He didn’t look at me.
“Once we leave these gates, you’re stepping into my world. There’s no safety net out there. No one to intervene. No Vincenzo to pull rank and save you.”
I pulled on the helmet resting on the handlebar, securing it with a firm click before settling my hands around the grips.
“Ride.”
That was all I gave him.
A smirk flickered across his face, brief and sharp, before he leaned forward slightly and rolled the throttle.
The bikes surged to life in unison, smooth but powerful, the sound low and predatory as we moved toward the gates.
They slid open without resistance, as though the estate itself had already decided to let us go.
We rode through.
Behind us, the boundary closed.
The road opened beneath us, winding through shadow.
In front of us lay uncertainty, danger, and the fragile possibility of a meeting that could end in diplomacy—or bloodshed.
Renzo rode ahead without speaking, his silhouette steady, controlled, never once faltering.
I followed, the rhythm of the bike grounding me, the vibration steady beneath my body, the speed cutting cleanly through the noise in my head.
And for the first time since marrying Vincenzo, I felt alive again.
Not like the version of me trapped within his walls, bound by expectations and control—but like myself.
Like Elena.
The woman who moved, who fought, who took risks without hesitation.
To hell with the consequences.
This was what I understood.
What I thrived in.
Not playing the obedient wife inside a gilded cage, not shrinking within the confines of a mafia boss’s world, but riding straight into danger with my pulse steady and my mind clear.
This—this was freedom.