The flat tire was an ugly, final punctuation mark on a plan that had felt solid just an hour ago. Sofia eased onto the gravel shoulder, the crunch of stones loud in the quiet. Fields stretched out on either side, empty and indifferent. Not a single car had passed since the wobble began.
The wind whispered through the tall grass, raising goosebumps on her arms. She was exposed—a sitting duck on a forgotten stretch of road.
Her mind scrambled for a solution—any that didn’t involve him. She didn’t want to seem needy. She could change the tire herself. She popped the trunk and stared at the spare, the jack, the wrench—a collection of cold, unfamiliar metal. She didn’t even know where to begin, and the thought of the car slipping off the jack made her stomach knot.
Maybe she could just drive on it. She crouched to check. The tire wasn’t just low; it was shredded, a flat puddle of rubber. Driving on it would destroy the rim in minutes.
Defeated, she slumped against the side of the car. She raised her phone, its screen a mocking beacon of full battery, but the signal icon was a hollow zero.
No Service.
Panic, cold and sharp, pricked her throat. A tow truck was a fantasy out here. She was utterly cut off. She had to call Tonio.
She scrambled to the top of the gravel shoulder, arm stretched high, phone dancing in her hand as she searched for a single, precious bar. The wind snatched her breath. Nothing. She ran further down the road, shoes sinking into the dirt, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs.
Then a flicker. One bar, ghostly and unstable. It was enough. She punched in the number before the signal could flee.
He answered on the second ring, his voice low and alert. “Yes?”
“Hey, it’s Sofia.” She tried to sound casual, but it came out tight. “Listen, I—”
“What’s wrong?” he cut in, all suspicion gone, replaced by sharp focus.
Relief hit her, a wave so potent it left her knees unsteady. “Flat tire. I’m stranded. The signal is bad out here.”
“Where?” The question was a command.
She turned, scanning the emptiness—the fields, the gnarled oak, the faded green sign. “Uh... the middle of nowhere?State Route something. Mile marker 146. I was heading to the church.”
She heard the jangle of keys, the slam of a car door, and an engine roaring to life. “Stay in the car. Lock the doors. I’m fifteen minutes out.”
The line went dead. Her phone went black. For the first time since the car shuddered, she took a full breath. He would come for her.
When the black SUV pulled up twenty minutes later, she smiled. The window slid down, revealing Tonio. His dark eyes scanned her, the car, and the fields, then settled on her.
“Car trouble?” he asked, the faintest ghost of a smile on his lips.
Sofia hugged her arms around herself. “No, I just pulled over for the scenic view.”
The gloves were on before he left the SUV—black, pristine. He stepped out, his presence eating up the space around them. He crouched by the tire, his gloves tracing the rubber. The gash was long, straight, almost surgical—too clean for gravel, too deep for a stray nail.
Sofia’s pulse stuttered.Road debris doesn’t slice like that… does it?
His eyes flicked from the gash to the road ahead, his shoulders tightening. When he looked up, his gaze burned cold. He pressed the rubber; it didn’t flex like a puncture. It parted.
“This wasn’t wear. This was cut,” he said, his voice lethal. “I suspect they are waiting for you ahead, or perhaps they hoped you would crash.” The air left her lungs. The empty landscape turned into a kill box.
Before fear could take hold, he was already moving—sharp, controlled, furious. He went to her trunk, popping it with a violent precision that looked less like fixing a tire and more like countering an attack.
“You don’t have to—” she started.
“Get in the car,” he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. “Lock the doors.”
She obeyed. Through the window, she watched him work—fast, methodical, unflinching. He hoisted the spare, his gloved fingers probing the rim and checking the valve before fitting it into place. Ten minutes later, he tapped her window.
“It’s done. The spare’s good, but don’t push it.”
“Next time, I’ll change it myself,” she said, knuckles white on the wheel. “Teach me.”
