I’m leaving.
I have to.
Soon.
Chapter 22
Peighton
For a full week, I plan my escape the way a criminal plans a heist. Quietly. Patiently. Without a single misstep.
Gustav is still gone. He doesn’t care if I like him or not... Maybe he didn’t trust himself not to break me further. Maybe he didn’t trust me not to break him. I don’t know. All I know is that the space he left behind was empty in a way I hadn’t expected, and that scared me more than his cruelty ever had.
Because I still miss the man who took my virginity. Even if it was all a lie.
My bag is packed under my bed. Not my suitcase, just a canvas backpack with essentials. A passport. Cash. A change of clothes. A burner phone I bought off a student. The clothes I brought to Russia? All of it stays behind so my absence looks temporary,like a girl who stepped out and lost track of time. Not a mafia wife running for her life.
Saturday night arrives. Everyone is going into town for dinner and drinks. I pretend I’m sick, hand pressed to my forehead, voice weak. They accept it easily. Micha offers to bring soup later, but I tell him not to worry. When the last footsteps fade down the hall, my heart thunders so loudly I fear someone might hear it from outside.
I put on red lipstick, a color I never wear. It makes me look like someone else. I braid my hair tight, tug my hood up, and slip the window open. The cold slaps me immediately, searing my cheeks and lungs with the sharp, metallic sting of winter.
Southern California feels like a dream compared to this.
I lower myself carefully, boots hitting frozen earth. My phone, factory-reset to erase any trackers Gustav or his men might have installed, shows the glowing map of the town. The train station is a little over a mile and a half. I can do that. I have to.
Snow starts falling harder as I move through the busy weekend streets, weaving through crowds of people bundled up. Laughter spills from tavern doors; the smell of roasted meat drifts through the air. I keep my head down, eyes fixed ahead, pulse fluttering with each step.
Then I feel it. Someone behind me. Too close. Too matched to my pace.
I glance back. A man in a black coat. Familiar posture. Familiar build.
Probably a Sokolov enforcer.
My stomach drops. They already know.
I duck into the nearest bar, slipping between bodies as fast as I can. I pretend to browse the wall of bottles, pretending I belong. The man passes the front windows without pausing.
Relief makes my knees weak.
I approach a heavy-lidded woman at the bar. “I need a ride to the train station,” I whisper. “Two hundred dollars.”
Her laugh is sharp. “This is Russia, sweetheart, not Uber.”
Before I can try again, a lanky man with sunken cheeks and a beanie leans in. “I’ll take you.”
I hesitate, but fear presses me forward. “Fine.”
We leave out the back. He leads me to a rust-eaten sedan that smells like cigarettes and pine cleaner. I get in anyway. We chit chat, but I mostly stare out the window, watching the forest go by.
Halfway down the lonely highway, headlights appear in the rearview mirror. Too fast. Too controlled.
My blood chills.
The car swerves around us, then jerks in front, forcing us off the icy road. We spin, slide, and slam into a snowbank.
My heart thunders, and my hand shakes as I reach for the door handle. My door jams. I claw it open with pure adrenaline and run.
Snow stings my face. The forest rises ahead, dark, jagged, and seemingly endless. However, before the wreck, my phone showed I’m close. So close. If I can get to the train station, I have a chance. I rush ahead into the wilderness, phone clutched tightly, bag slung over my shoulder.
