I did it. I actually did it.
I didn’t think I’d make it this far and this long. Four more days of running, on top of the months I’d already spent hiding from Dante’s men, and I’m starting to understand the true cost of freedom.
Like how your body adapts to sleeping in bus station chairs and cheap motel beds with scratchy sheets, how protein bars taste like cardboard after the second day, but you eat them anyway because they’re fuel. How paranoid you become when every dark sedan might be hunting you, when every stranger’s lingering glance could mean discovery.
I thought I’d learned everything about survival during those first desperate weeks after escaping Dante. But being hunted by his father is different.
I pawn my mother’s necklace in a small city in Ohio, trying not to cry when the pawnbroker gives me seven hundred dollars for something worth ten times that. But it’s enough to buy bus tickets, cheap motels, and enough food to keep me moving.
I travel only during the day, mixing with commuter crowds and tourists. I stay in different motels each night, and always use fake names while I keep traveling west.
By the fourth day, I’m exhausted. Bone-deep, soul-crushing tired in a way that makes every step feel like I’m walking through quicksand. When the bus stops in a tiny town called Millfield, I see a diner across from the station and make an impulsive decision.
I’ll give myself twenty minutes to eat something that isn’t a protein bar, then get back on the road.
The diner is straight out of the 1950s with red vinyl booths, a black-and-white checkered floor, and a jukebox in the corner. Everyone knows everyone in this kind of place, except for the traveler passing through.
I slide into a corner booth where I can see both the entrance and the back exit, order coffee and the first real meal I’ve had in twodays. The waitress is friendly and not curious, which is exactly what I need.
I don’t wait for too long before the food arrives—meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans. It all tastes like food cooked by a person who put love into the act.
I’m halfway through my second cup of coffee when the front door bangs open.
Three men in leather jackets swagger in, and my blood turns to ice.
They’re young, cocky, with the kind of aura that means trouble. But they’re not wearing expensive suits, and they don’t move with the controlled precision of Moretti soldiers.
“Hey, old man,” one of them calls to the owner behind the counter. “We’re gonna need you to empty that register.”
The diner goes silent. The few other customers—an elderly couple, an older man, a woman with two young kids—all freeze.
My heart is hammering, but not from fear of these amateurs. I’m terrified because I thought they were here for me. For one horrible beat, I thought Alaric had found me.
“I’m calling the police,” the owner says, reaching for the phone.
“I don’t think so.” The leader pulls out a knife, not even a gun. “Just give us the money and nobody gets hurt.”
The owner, who’s probably in his sixties, looks around his diner at the frightened customers and, with a sigh, opens the register. “Take it and get out,” he says quietly.
They grab the cash and walk back toward the door, laughing like this is all a big joke. The woman with the kids is crying quietly, and the elderly man has his arm around his wife.
When the door swings shut behind them, everyone starts breathing again.
“Everyone okay?” the owner asks, and there’s a chorus of shaky acknowledgments.
He looks directly at me, likely noticing that I’m new in town. “I’m real sorry about that, miss. Don’t let those boys scare you too much. The thieves in these parts are different from those in the big cities. They’re not looking to hurt anybody, just need some quick cash. Long as you’re honest about what you got, they’ll leave you be.”
A few of the other customers chuckle softly, like this is just another Tuesday in Millfield. The elderly woman pats her husband’s hand. The older man goes back to his coffee like nothing happened.
All I can think about is finishing my food and getting the fuck out of here. The last thing I need is to draw more attention to myself, especially after that moment of panic when I thought those men were Moretti soldiers.
I force myself to take another bite of meatloaf, trying to look normal while my heart is still racing. Just a few more minutes, then I can disappear back into the crowd of anonymous travelers moving through small-town America. I finish eating, my hands shaking as I reach for my wallet, and I keep glancing at the door.
That’s when I see him make an entrance.
Alaric.
7
