I come thinking of a stranger whose face I never saw. A man I crave even as I fear what it means to need someone again.
I used that money to run as far as I could. Straight to the airport with my ticket to Seattle clutched in shaking hands, freedom just a boarding gate away.
I was standing in the security line, finally allowing myself to believe I might actually escape, when I saw him.
Viktor Kozlov. Dante’s right-hand man, his personal enforcer, the man who did all the dirty work Dante was too pristine to handle himself. He was dressed like any other traveler—jeans, baseball cap, backpack slung over his shoulder—but I’d recognize that hulking frame and those dead shark eyes anywhere.
He was scanning the crowd methodically, and when his gaze swept toward the security checkpoint, I ducked behind a family with screaming toddlers.
My heart hammered against my ribs. How had they found me so fast? I’d been so careful, paid for everything in cash, told no one where I was going.
Viktor’s head turned, and for one terrifying second, our eyes met across the terminal.
Recognition flashed across his face.
I ran.
Abandoning my place in line, I sprinted toward the departure gates, weaving between travelers and luggage carts. Behind me, I heard Viktor shouting into his phone, calling for backup.
“Gate forty-seven!” I heard him yell. “She’s heading for gate forty-seven!”
I changed direction, diving into a crowd heading toward the international terminal instead. My lungs burned as I pushed through the mass of bodies, using every trick I’d learned from two years of trying to escape Dante’s parties unnoticed.
The boarding announcement for my Seattle flight echoed overhead just as I spotted the gate. Viktor was there, along with two other men I didn’t recognize, all of them watching the passengers line up.
They thought they had me trapped.
I waited until the final boarding call, then sprinted from my hiding spot behind a coffee kiosk. The gate agent was reaching for her radio when I shoved my boarding pass at her.
“Please, I’m going to miss my flight!”
She hesitated, probably seeing the panic in my eyes, then waved me through.
I didn’t look back as I ran down the bridge, but I could hear Viktor cursing behind me, too late to follow without a ticket.
Thirty thousand feet up, watching the city disappear below, I knew this was just the beginning. They’d be waiting in Seattle. They’d have people at every hotel, every car rental, every place someone like me might try to hide.
So I’d gotten off the plane and walked straight to the train station instead. Bought a ticket to Portland with cash, then another to Sacramento, then another to this tiny mountain town that barely existed on most maps. Three different trains, three different identities scratched on napkins and thrown away, until even I wasn’t sure who I was anymore.
No phone. No credit cards. No digital footprint for them to follow.
I imagine Dante’s rage when his men reported back empty-handed. I picture my father’s panic when he realized his precious asset had slipped through their fingers. The thought brings a smile to my lips as I climb the narrow stairs to my apartment.
The space is barely big enough for a bed and a kitchenette, but it’s mine. I chose the furniture—secondhand from the local thrift store. I picked the curtains—pale yellow like sunshine. I decided where to hang the single piece of art on the wall—a photograph of wildflowers.
I’m taking out the trash when I spot the newspaper someone left by my door. The Rosehill Gazette, with its cheerful local news and community announcements.
I almost throw it away without looking. Then a headline on the front page catches my eye.
Prominent Businessman Dies in Private Jet Crash
My hands freeze on the paper. Below the headline is a photo that makes my blood stop flowing entirely.
Dante Moretti. Smiling that charming smile that fooled me for an entire year. The same green eyes that turned cold whenno one else was watching. The same face that haunted my nightmares for months.
Dead.
I sink onto my bed, legs suddenly too weak to support me, and read the article with shaking hands.
