Run Little Liar (Lombardi Legacy #1)

Prologue

CHLOE

THEN

TEN YEARS AGO

Agony slices through every muscle, my body carrying me forward despite how broken it is.

Tears fall against my cheeks, but my sobs are drowned out by gasping breaths.

If I can just escape, I can get medical attention.

That’s the only thought that drives me forward, the only hope I have as my life crashes down around me.

Dogs howl in the distance, and I stumble over a branch at the sound.

They know I’ve escaped.

Just keep running, I tell myself.

The wall is close. Or at least I think it is.

I’ve lived on these grounds my whole life, spent countless hours exploring and memorizing, but my panic-riddled mind struggles to identify anything other than the dark spots closing in around my vision.

The ache in my chest only seems to intensify the longer I run, but I can’t tell if it’s the exertion from running nonstop while broken and bleeding, or if it’s the heartbreak setting in.

The knowledge that the men who promised me the world were the same ones who led to my downfall.

Just the thought of Ronan and Damon has a fresh wave of tears blurring the path ahead of me.

I’ve done a decent job of compartmentalizing up until this point, but the closer I get to freedom, the harder it is not to think about them and all the promises they made me.

Made us.

My hand drops to my stomach, to the life that’s growing inside me, to the reason I have to escape now before they can kill me too.

If it was just me I was fighting for, I don’t think I would have half as much willpower to flee. After everything I’ve been through over the last few days, it would probably be easier just to lie down and die, but it’s not just me anymore, and I’m determined to give this baby a beautiful life.

Even if it’s on the run.

Even if I have no support system or way to provide for us.

Even if I spend the rest of our lives looking over my shoulder, waiting for them to find us.

It’ll be worth it.

Another round of barks startles me from my thoughts. They’re getting closer.

I break through the trees and stop short as the imposing concrete wall comes into view.

As kids, we spent hours climbing this thing, sneaking out when our parents were none the wiser. But I’ve never tried to scale it after being beaten and starved for days on end, and for the first time since I escaped, I’m beginning to doubt my ability to do this.

A fresh wave of panic slams into me, stealing the breath from my lungs. I press my eyes closed, trying and failing to regain my composure.

There will be plenty of time to fall apart later.

Once I’m safe. Once I’m away from the compound. Once the Lombardis are nothing but a memory of a past life.

But until then, I need to keep my shit together.

I glance up and down the fence line, the moon illuminating the area around me as I formulate a plan.

Or at the least the beginning of a plan.

I have no chance of scaling the wall unassisted, that much I know for sure. But there’s an overgrown tree on my left with a branch that hangs over the edge.

If I can climb the tree, I can shimmy across the branch and over the wall.

The drop off the other side of the ten-foot monstrosity is going to hurt my already broken body like a motherfucker, but that’s a problem for future me to solve.

Present me needs to get my ass up the tree before the guards and dogs find me.

From the base of the tree, I take stock of my body, finally allowing myself to admit how injured I am. I’ve been running on pure adrenaline up to this point, but my body has limitations, and realistically, I only have one shot at this given how close the dogs are getting.

I know for a fact my thumb and wrist are both more than likely broken. I used a trick Damon taught me for if I was ever kidnapped with my arms tied behind my back, and to say I was surprised when it actually worked would be an understatement.

Snapping your own bone is something that shouldn’t be possible, but I’m grateful I had the knowledge regardless.

Apart from that, I’m covered in cuts and bruises, but I don’t think anything else is broken.

I reach up with my good hand and grasp a branch, using all the strength I can muster to drag myself up, despite how many times my tennis shoes slip on the damp bark.

It wouldn’t be August in Florida if it weren’t humid as hell.

Once I’m stable, I reach for the next branch and repeat the process, not allowing myself to look down as the ground gets further away.

I wouldn’t say I’m afraid of heights. In fact, I’d almost go as far as to say I like them. As a child, I thrived off danger, but maybe that’s because my two best friends were mafia kings in the making, never afraid of anything, and that made me brave.

But in my condition, there’s no way I’ll be able to get back up if I fall from this height, and I suppose that’s what people truly fear.

The fall rather the height itself.

I’ve just never been afraid of falling before because I always had someone to catch me.

The painful thought almost makes me miss the shouts coming from behind me. I’m high enough now that they probably won’t see me, but the dogs will scent me, meaning I need to hurry the fuck up if I want any chance of escape.

The branch that will take me over the wall beckons me forward, but the thought of the drop has a fresh wave of nausea rolling over me.

Why is it that as we get older, the fear of falling creeps in?

When you’re a kid, you’re fearless. Not afraid of failure when you crash your bike. Not afraid of falling from trees or getting sick. You’re genuinely brave.

And then somewhere along the way, fear begins to creep in, to seep into the things you once enjoyed, until you can barely remember a time that thing didn’t scare you.

I swallow heavily and take a few deep breaths.

Five feet to the fence.

Ignoring the fact that’s pretty much one whole me, it sounds doable.

“You can do this,” I whisper to myself. “You can do hard things. You can survive. You can do this.”

I repeat the mantra over and over again as I carefully shimmy myself along the branch, ignoring the way the bark cuts into my bare thighs and the fact anyone that stands beneath me will be able to see up my nightgown.

None of it matters as long as I can escape.

It’s not until my whole body is above the fence that I finally relinquish my death grip on the branch and transfer to the solid concrete.

Peering over the edge, a new wave of anxiety hits me.

Am I really about to throw myself over the side of this thing as if I weren’t terrified of falling from the same height a few moments ago?

The heavy footfall of security closes in, and before I can think better of it, I carefully turn myself around, using my elbows and limited upper body strength to lower myself over the edge.

A six- or seven-foot drop is vastly better than a ten-foot drop, and given how broken my body already is, I don’t want to risk hurting myself any more, especially when I have no idea when I’ll be able to be seen by a doctor.

The reality I’ve conveniently allowed myself to ignore is that the Lombardis run this city. They’re the oldest and most powerful mafia family in the South, which means if I present to a hospital, they’ll know about it.

Voices close in on me, dogs barking, people shouting, and before I can talk myself out of it, I release the wall, dropping to my feet and promptly falling on my ass.

Agony shoots through my ankles and shins, and I hiss out a breath, willing myself to stay quiet as I allow myself a few seconds to regain my composure.

Forcing myself to my feet, I limp for a few steps and lean against a nearby tree.

It’s unlikely any of the guards are going to hop the wall, but I want to be out of sight if they decide to look over it nonetheless.

Taking a look around the dark night, I realize I’m close to the back corner of the property, meaning two things.

One, I’m far from any of the gates, which will slow them down.

And two, I’m not far from a service road that has a gas station at the other end of it.

The guys and I used to go there for a popsicle on hot summer days, and even if I stay off the road itself, I’m fairly confident I can navigate the surrounding area.

I’m slow as I move through trees and over rocks, keeping out of sight of the road. Not that anyone seems to come looking for me.

Maybe they assume I’m dead. Or that I will be.

I’m sure there are gators around here, but I’m trying not to think about the dinosaurs that live in the nearby waterways.

Just another thing I’m living in denial about until later because I may be afraid of falling, but alligators are among my biggest fears.

I don’t know how much time passes, but I breathe a little easier once the gas station comes into view, and I even find myself moving a little faster despite the exhaustion dragging down every step I take.

The clerk, a guy around my age with a rat’s tail and a backward cap, looks up at me as I enter, his eyes widening slightly at the sight of the blood and dirt caked onto my skin.

“Would I be able to use your phone?” I ask, my voice shaking as the weight of everything that’s transpired over the last few days begins to hit me.

He nods slowly. “Do you need the police? An ambulance?”

“No.” I shake my head. “Just your phone, please.”

The clerk pushes it across the counter, and I take it with shaky hands.

“I’ll just stand over here, if that’s okay?” With an answering nod of approval, I step toward the fridges that line the far wall, dialing a number I thought I’d never have to use but am glad I memorized.

There’s only one man that will dare to go up against the Lombardi family.

“Hello?” His rough voice comes over the line, and my chest tightens at the sound.

“It’s Chloe Weaver,” I choke on a broken sob. “I need your help.”