Chapter 18
CHAPTER 18
VAL
The front door closed softly behind Stefano as he left the house with his second-in-command and his lead enforcer.
I would give it fifteen minutes.
It seemed like the longest fifteen minutes of my life, standing around in the kitchen, my arms braced on the island countertop while I stared at the clock.
When the small hand finally landed on roman numeral three, the silence around the house and outside in the front courtyard convinced me he’d cleared the property.
My opportunity had arrived.
A pain struck me in the stomach.
Still, after all my planning, I had doubts. Because whoever had come after my son remained at large, free as a bird.
I suspected if not Benedetta, then it had to be the Commission. Stefano’s marriage to the Capaldo princess would have shifted the power balance in the city, and the Commission would want to stop that before it became a reality.
No other explanation made sense to me.
Even if there was someone else, they got what they wanted…
Stefano did indeed call off the wedding.
Enzo should be safe now, at least long enough for me to get him out of the state.
Time to run.
I left the kitchen, keeping my stride slow and casual, despite the adrenaline rushing through me. I called out to the guys who Stefano left behind and told them the cookies wouldn’t be quite as good if they fully cooled down. A lie.
One of the guards thanked me as he and another cohort hurried to the kitchen.
Smiling down at them, I climbed the stairs and headed to our temporary suite. When I opened the door, Enzo lay on his bed with his arms wrapped around the same pillow he rested his head on and watched a Disney movie on the room’s large flatscreen TV.
Nervousness kicked into high gear, making my hands shake.
“Get up, Enzo,” I said. “Get your shoes. We're leaving now.”
He stared at me for a minute, then he sighed in a big way that deflated his entire body.
Disappointment. I could handle that.
I knew he liked Stefano’s house, even if we hadn’t been there for a full twenty-four hours. He enjoyed the big bed and the TV, the space I’d given him, and the idea of having a father around.
Disappointing him was the last thing I wanted to do, but it was necessary. As his mother, I had to keep him safe first and foremost, and seeing my baby’s disappointment had to be the price I paid. And because of our dangerous situation, I would pay it ten times over if necessary.
He didn't argue, though. He nodded, slipped on his shoes, and grabbed his book.
After making sure I had everything we needed, I ordered a car to pick us up on the street behind the estate.
We crept down the staircase, careful to not make any noise.
The plush carpets along the hallway muffled the tapping of our footsteps. The challenge was crossing the open foyer to the front door. You could see the front door from the kitchen.
With my back pressed against the wall, I ignored my slamming pulse and the sweat dampening my hair on the back of my neck as I peeked into the kitchen.
The two men still hung around the island, talking loudly as they stuffed their mouths full of cookies. Good. The cookie distraction turned out to be a win.
I turned back to my son, nodded at him, and mouthed the words, “You go first.”
Enzo gazed into the kitchen to make sure no one saw him, then he darted over to the front door.
Using only my hands, I signaled for him to stay right there. He understood. Then I waited thirty seconds to make my move, counting them down in my head.
The loud conversation in the kitchen continued on and on.
Why weren’t they watching the door? Oh, heads were going to roll when their boss returned.
I stared into the kitchen for a few more seconds. Still clear.
Right now, these trained men working for the notorious Stefano Vignali were more concerned about who could fit more cookies in their mouth.
The cruel part of me hoped for one of them to choke.
With a deep breath and forced courage, I darted across the floor to join Enzo, where he waited for me by the door.
No shouts for me to stop. No running, no footsteps at all.
So, as quickly as we could, Enzo and I slipped out the front door. It seemed way too easy, and that pushed the level of my nervousness higher.
No way would I breathe easily again until I had the confirmation for our airline tickets in my hand, and Enzo and I sat on a moving train headed out of the city.
Strangely, in that very moment as we escaped down the front steps, I couldn’t help noticing how the bright afternoon sun warmed up the chilly autumn breeze.
Neither of us said anything as we crept along the cobblestone driveway, ducking behind trees and shrubs, only to run into the huge wrought iron gate holding us on the estate like prisoners. A brick wall stretched along the property on either side of the gate.
There had to be a door somewhere.
Enzo grabbed my arm and pulled me behind a shrub just before the gate swung open and a black sedan passed through it.
Not Stefano’s car.
I caught a glimpse of the man in the back through his open window. Much older, smoking a cigar, and his skin appeared an unhealthy shade of gray. He had to be ill.
My first thought landed on Benedetta's father, Benedict Capaldo, but I couldn’t be one-hundred percent sure. The man in the vehicle seemed like a ghost compared to the pictures I’d seen online.
As the car made its way up the drive, my son and I used the opportunity to slide through the gates before they closed and locked us in again. We made it just as they shut behind us.
“Run, Enzo,” I shouted.
We ran hand in hand until we reached the little blue car idling at the curb, waiting for us. We darted to one side, and as soon as I verified the driver's identification, we slid onto the back seat and slammed the doors shut.
“Lock the door. Push the button on your side,” I said.
No one said a word on the drive to Brooklyn, not the driver, not my son, not me.
My mind jumped into overdrive, moving through all my various mental lists of what needed to be done now that we were out of the house and away from Stefano’s estate.
We wouldn’t be able to use the café’s front door, so we would have to use the rear entrance and head straight up the backstairs to the apartment.
Enzo and I needed to each pack a small bag, sticking to only the essentials. I planned to grab our passports and other fake documents quickly, and then we could be back out of there in less than ten minutes.
From there, we would take the second car I had ordered and go to the bank, so I could get everything out of my safe deposit box. Money for the airline tickets. A burner phone for booking flights.
For my son and me, a flight heading west. Maybe Phoenix. Maybe Los Angeles.
Then we would have to ditch our real IDs and get to the train station first before going to the airport.
Four train tickets then… two adults, one child, and an infant. And purchasing them with cash would make it a hell of a lot harder to track down. Whichever train left the earliest. The first one heading south would be the one Enzo and I would travel on.
The driver hit a big ass pothole, and Enzo banged his head on the window.
I reached over and touched his cheek. He hated it when I fussed over those things. He wanted to be tough like his…
No, like himself.
With any luck at all, my son and I would be out of New York before Stefano found out we were missing.
Once he found out, the situation could still get messy.
It would get really messy.
Stefano would track my movements by following the money or try to anyway. The trail would be easy to follow at first. Ubers to my apartment and then to the bank.
A man like Stefano with vast resources could easily track down the airline tickets purchased under our real names as well.
I didn't have any idea if his reach extended to TSA agents. I knew he could call the mayor. He could bribe someone to put a block on our IDs. Maybe even get us added to a no-fly list.
But none of that mattered.
They would find our seats empty on that flight.
Even if he saw through my fake money trail and checked the train station, no one could tell him about a woman who had bought a ticket for herself and a young boy.
Witnesses would only remember the information I fed them. A young mother trying to keep her cranky toddler happy while her husband changed the baby’s diaper in the restroom.
Claiming to be a family of four and making the story easily memorable would make us much harder to track.
Only when we made it safely out of this entire region of the country would I sit down with Enzo and explain everything to him. I would tell him the whole truth. I would finally tell him about my family and Stefano’s family.
My son would get the actual story this time.
He deserved that and more. He deserved to know why he could never go back.
But not until we made it safely to our destination.
Finally, after another fucking pothole, we were two blocks away from Con Amore, and I asked the driver to stop. Then my son and I ran the remaining distance to the back of the café.
Even with the colder autumn air, the alleyway reeked of trash and urine, though it smelled more bearable than during the hot summer months.
We dodged broken glass, bags of trash, and stray cats, and when we reached the rear entrance to the café, yellow crime scene tape and a sign posted by the police blocked the door.
“Wait here, Enzo. Stay put for just a second,” I said.
“Hurry, Mama.”
I broke through the tape and unlocked the door.
An image in my mind of all the shattered glass and furniture hit me. I couldn't bear to see it with my own eyes again, the carnage left behind in the attack. Everything we had, destroyed. I just couldn’t do it.
So I didn’t open the door between the kitchen and the dining room. Instead, I pressed my ear against it and shut my eyes. Maybe if I listened hard enough, I could confirm the emptiness of the place without looking.
Completely, eerily silent.
I returned to the back door and extended my hand to Enzo. He grabbed on, and we went up the back staircase to our apartment together.
No yellow police tape there.
Either the cops had been too careless to bother coming upstairs or they had considered it and kept it separate from the crime scene.
A comforting thought. A stupid thought.
“Come on, buddy. Change and pack for three days.”
I kept my voice at a half whisper.
“Socks and underwear too. Put everything in your backpack. Two books, that’s it. Do you understand me, Enzo?”
“Yes, I got it,” he said.
I watched him tiptoe to his bedroom. Then I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed I made the right decisions for my child.
In my room, I grabbed a duffel bag from the closet, shoved my bed aside, and pulled up two loose floorboards. In that dark little hidey-hole were stacks of cash, one-hundred and fifty thousand in large bills, ten thousand in small bills, and plastic bags containing our new identities.
I threw it all into the bag and put my clothes on top.
We needed to move freely and blend in, so I unzipped my dress and let it fall to the floor. I shoved my legs into a pair of jeans, pulled on a plain old sweater, and laced up my sneakers.
As I circled back to my bag and double checked everything, Enzo came in and handed me a framed photo of the woman who had taken me in when I arrived in Brooklyn.
My generous, beautiful, loving nonna .
We had our arms around each other in front of Con Amore while smiling at the camera.
Enzo must have gone downstairs very quietly, and the fact that he’d risked himself for that photo made my eyes burn with unshed tears. Tears of love. Tears of fear.
I wiped my eyes.
Swallowed the lump in my throat.
Kissed my thoughtful son on his forehead.
“You ready to go?” I asked.
“Yeah, I just have to put on my good high tops.”
“Perfect. Go on, baby, and get them. Hurry.”
He ran to his room, and I took a deep breath, slowly releasing it, collecting myself and my thoughts.
Stefano hadn't discovered we were gone yet. He would have been blowing up my phone by now on his way to come and get us if he knew.
So far, my plan had worked.
Yes, I was on the run again, but at least I had some experience with it this time, and that should help me keep Enzo safe.
The bell hanging above the door downstairs jingled.
My heart raced, but I couldn’t move my feet.
I opened my mouth to call for Enzo. Nothing came out.
Glass crunched beneath heavy footsteps.
Footsteps that came closer and closer to the back staircase.