Chapter 14
ELENA
The stolen Fiat roared north out of Lombardy, engine screaming as I pushed it past one hundred forty kilometers per hour on the narrow two-lane highway.
Old habits really do die hard.
Five years of running had refined this instinct down to muscle memory—different cars, different plates, different borders, all blending into the landscape as though I had never passed through them at all.
This one belonged to a middle-aged man who had made the mistake of trusting routine.
He had left the engine idling outside a gas station in Como, keys still in the ignition while he stepped inside to pay.
A perfect opening.
I had slammed myself into the driver’s seat, shifted fast, and pulled away before the pump even had a chance to stop.
No plates swapped.
No time for that.
No room for error.
The road ahead stretched like a black ribbon cutting through pine forest and moonlit hills.
The air was crisp, cold enough to sting through the cracked window, carrying the scent of trees and distant water.
Switzerland was less than forty kilometers away.
Close.
Close enough to taste.
My fake Schengen passport—Italian identity, clean, flawless, embedded with a biometric chip that would pass any scan—was tucked inside the lining of my jacket.
I had memorized every detail of that identity.
Date of birth. Place of issue.
Every lie layered so precisely that even I could almost believe it.
Once I crossed, everything changed.
Zurich.
Then Berlin.
Then anywhere the Schengen zone stretched.
I had done it before.
I could do it again.
But this time—it felt different.
After Vincenzo had threatened me that morning—telling me he would cut me open and remove my uterus if Violet lost the baby—I hadn’t seen him again until night, when I finally escaped his heavily guarded mansion.
I hadn’t brought the phone I had bought after Vincenzo married me; I feared there could be trackers hidden in its casing, or code embedded deep enough to betray me.
And I knew a man like Vincenzo.
The moment he realized I had escaped, every resource he had would be unleashed.
Every satellite he owned. Every contact. Every man in his employ. Every corner of his power would activate in pursuit of me.
My grip tightened around the steering wheel.
Knuckles whitening as the leather creaked beneath my fingers.
I realized I had probably overstepped two of his sacred boundaries—one technically, but in his eyes, two of the three were broken.
The first: hurting Violet in her condition.
The second: I had dared to escape.
I couldn’t risk being caught; if he found me, the outcome would be catastrophic.
My stomach turned violently at the thought.
I pressed my foot harder on the accelerator.
The engine roared louder in protest.
The Fiat surged forward, tires gripping the asphalt as the road began to curve more sharply.
The forest thickened on both sides, trees closing in like silent witnesses.
Headlights cut through the darkness, carving twin tunnels into the unknown.
Each turn felt sharper.
Each bend more dangerous.
The chassis shuddered under the strain, rattling as though the car itself might fall apart beneath me.
And part of me—a reckless, defiant part—didn’t care.
Didn’t care if the next turn sent me careening off the road.
Didn’t care if the tires slipped, if the metal crumpled, if the car became nothing more than a twisted shell at the bottom of a ravine.
Better that.
Better a sudden end here—than being strapped to a table under his control.
After what felt like hours—but was probably closer to twenty minutes—the border signs appeared ahead.
My foot eased off the gas.
The engine’s roar softened.
My heart, however, did not.
It slammed against my ribs, each beat louder than the last.
The checkpoint came into full view.
Two lanes.
Four border officers standing under harsh floodlights that turned the night into something sterile and exposed.
Automatic rifles hung low across their chests.
Their posture was relaxed—but not careless.
Alert. Watching.
Two cars ahead of me.
A sedan.
A compact hatchback.
Each one inching forward toward inspection.
My hands tightened slightly on the wheel as I slowed the Fiat to match the line.
Every second stretched.
Every breath felt too loud.
This was it.
The moment between running and being caught.
Between freedom and consequence.
I kept my face neutral.
My posture calm. My expression controlled.
But inside—everything waited.
Because whatever happened next—would decide whether I disappeared into the world.
Or was dragged back into his.
The first driver—a middle-aged man in a suit—was waved through with little more than a glance and a brief exchange.
He handed over his passport, nodded a few times, and within half a minute the officer stamped something and stepped aside.
His taillights shrank into the distance, slipping across the border and into Switzerland as if nothing could touch him.
The second vehicle—a compact hatchback carrying a young couple—wasn’t so lucky.
They were pulled aside.
The female officer gestured them over while another opened the rear door.
Questions floated faintly through the night air, carried on the cold breeze.
“Purpose of travel?”
“Business in Zurich.”
“Duration of stay?”
“Three days.”
“Open the trunk, please.”
The sound of gloves snapping echoed sharply.
Flashlights cut through the darkness, sweeping across luggage, bags, the interior of the car.
A German Shepherd moved in slow, practiced circles around the vehicle—sniffing, pausing, circling again.
Its handler watched closely.
Then—the dog sat.
Clear.
The couple was waved through moments later, relief visible even from a distance as their car rolled forward and disappeared into the night.
My turn.
I exhaled once—slow, controlled—before inching the Fiat forward.
The red line approached.
I stopped.
Engine idling. Window lowered. Breathing even.
Face neutral. Eyes forward.
I could feel it—the weight of being watched. Measured. Assessed.
Two officers approached.
One younger. One older.
Both composed.
Both trained.
“Passport and registration, please.”
I reached for the glove box, fingers steady despite the tension coiling in my stomach.
I handed over the forged Italian passport and the vehicle documents—everything carefully arranged, everything stolen and repurposed.
The younger officer flipped open the passport.
Scanned it.
A pause.
A small green light flickered on the device.
No alarm. No flag.
Nothing.
“Purpose of travel?”
“Visiting family in Lucerne,” I said smoothly, my voice even, almost disinterested. “Short weekend.”
The lie rolled off my tongue easily.
The older officer didn’t look at the passport.
He looked at me.
His gaze lingered longer than necessary—studying, dissecting, searching for something just beneath the surface.
“Step out of the vehicle, ma’am.”
My stomach dropped.
Just slightly.
“Why?” I kept my tone light. Curious.. “The others didn’t have to.”
“Routine check,” he replied without inflection. “Please exit the car.”
I unbuckled slowly.
Took my time. Opened the door. Stepped out.
Hands visible.
Posture relaxed—at least on the outside.
The younger officer moved in first, performing a quick but thorough pat-down. Professional. Efficient.
Searching for weapons, contraband, anything that could justify escalation.
He found nothing.
Meanwhile, the older officer circled the Fiat, flashlight sweeping across the underside, checking the chassis, the wheel wells, the trunk.
Looking for anything.
Anything at all.
I stood still.
Breathing measured.
Heart pounding so loudly it felt like it might betray me.
Then—a third officer appeared.
Older.
More senior.
His uniform carried subtle distinctions—epaulets, insignia, authority that didn’t need to be announced.
He wasn’t looking at the car.
He was looking at me. Phone pressed to his ear.
Listening.
Processing.
Then his gaze sharpened.
His eyes flicked from my face to the screen in his hand.
Back to me.
Comparing. Matching.
My pulse stuttered.
Oh God.
No.
The border gate stayed down.
A small chance appeared.
I could move. I could run.
Step on the gas, smash through, and hope they didn’t react fast enough for me to get into the forest ahead.
Smash past the barrier and pray they hesitated long enough for me to disappear into the forest ahead.
But bullets would follow.
They wouldn’t hesitate if I forced their hand.
The senior officer lowered the phone.
“Please step this way, ma’am.”
“Am I being detained?” I asked, keeping my voice calm
He didn’t answer.
“Ma’am. Step this way.”
Before I could comply—a hand seized my right arm.
Rough.
Handcuffs—tight, unforgiving, cutting into my skin.
Adrenaline surged, making my heart pound in my ears.
I drew in a sharp breath and demanded, “What the hell is my offense?”
No answer. No explanation.
Just movement.
A black hood was yanked over my head.
Rough canvas.
Smelling faintly of oil.
Of sweat. Of use.
Darkness swallowed everything instantly.
Panic spiked.
My breath hitched against the fabric. My pulse roared in my ears.
My body tensed as hands gripped my upper arms, hauling me forward.
Gravel crunched beneath heavy boots.
Each step echoing.
No sane officer would cover my face with a hood right after handcuffing me.
This wasn’t routine—it felt like a kidnapping.
These men... were they working for someone?
The Spanish, maybe?
Could these officers really be delivering me to them?
After all, the Spanish had put a bounty on my head weeks ago.
But I never imagined border officers would be among those hunting me.
Then I heard it—the metallic click of doors opening.
And the sound wasn’t of a station or a van; it was a car.
Cold air brushed against my skin for a split second before I was shoved inside.
Head forced down.
Body folded into the backseat.
The door slammed shut behind me.
The sound sealed me in.
Engines roared to life.
And then—we moved.
I sat rigid.
Hooded. Cuffed. Blind.