I steal a glance out the back window, my heart hammering against my ribs. Three black SUVs follow us, gaining ground with each curve in the road. Even through the tinted windows, I can make out the silhouettes of men in the lead vehicle. Suit jackets, sunglasses.
Viktor. Timur, and Konstantin.
Relief and shame flood me in equal measure, making me dizzy with their contradictions. Relief that maybe I won’t die on this coastal road. Shame, because now we’re in the middle of a life-or-death car chase with guns and professional killers and people bleeding in the backseat of a Dodge Charger.
A violent jolt rocks the Charger, tires squealing as we swerve hard around a blind curve. I slam into the door again, snapping me back to the now. No time to think. No time to breathe.
“They’re still coming,” the front passenger snaps, pulling a sleek handgun from his jacket. “We need to lose them before the next turn.”
My heart punches against my ribs, frantic.
No, please. Please, no.
The driver barks something back in Russian, his knuckles white on the steering wheel as he pushes the Charger harder. The engine screams in protest. The man beside me, still bleeding from where I shot him, leans forward between the seats.
“Use her,” he snarls, nodding toward me. “Belov won’t risk shooting if she’s visible.”
The front passenger turns, eyes narrowing behind his mask. “Get her up. Make sure they see her.”
Before I can process what’s happening, the wounded man grabs a fistful of my hair, yanking me toward the window. Pain explodes across my scalp as he forces my face against the glass.
“Wave to your husband,” he sneers against my ear, his breath hot and metallic. “Let him see what his pretty wife has gotten herself into.”
Pride makes me struggle against his grip, even as fear makes me want to go limp. I’m not some damsel to be dangled as bait. I’ve spent my entire adult life protecting my family, making the hard choices, being the responsible one.
Except this time, my “responsible” choice might get us all killed.
“Fuck you,” I spit, blood from my split lip speckling the window. “He’s going to—”
The car lurches suddenly as a bullet shatters the back window, sending glass spraying across the interior. The man holding mecurses, ducking instinctively, his grip on my hair loosening just enough that I wrench free.
“They’re shooting!” Alexei yells, the car fishtailing as he accelerates even more. “Are they insane?”
“It’s just a warning,” the front passenger shouts back. “They won’t risk hitting her.”
But there’s uncertainty in his voice now. These men don’t know Konstantin like I do. They don’t understand that while he might want me safe, he wants them dead more.
The coastal road narrows further, the guardrail between us and the ocean looking frighteningly flimsy. My stomach drops as we take each curve, the ocean a dizzying blue blur beyond the cliffs. I try to think, to plan, but my head is pounding, and my wrists are slick with blood from fighting the zip ties.
I see them now—the black SUVs, closer than before. The lead vehicle pulls alongside us, matching our speed on the narrow road. Through the tinted window, a familiar silhouette turns toward our car.
Konstantin.
My heart stutters. Even at this distance, even through bulletproof glass, I feel the weight of his gaze like a physical thing. Cold. Calculating. Furious.
The front passenger rolls down his window and fires twice at Konstantin’s SUV. The shots ping harmlessly off the reinforced metal, but Alexei uses the distraction to swerve sharply, trying to cut off the pursuit.
“Faster!” the bleeding man shouts. “We lose them here, or we’re dead!”
But we’re coming up on a hairpin turn—too sharp, too fast. Alexei hits the brakes too late, tires squealing as the car begins to slide. The world outside my window tilts sickeningly, the ocean and sky switching places as we lose control.
I think of Julian and Lila. Of how I was trying to protect them. Of how, instead, they might be orphaned again because their big sister thought she could outmaneuver a mafia war.
I think of Konstantin, of the way he looked at me across his office this morning, coffee in hand, waiting for me to trust him.
The car hits the guardrail with a deafening crunch of metal, the impact slamming me forward. Without a seatbelt, I’m thrown against the front seats, pain exploding across my chest. Behind us, brakes screech as the pursuing vehicles skid to a halt.
Time slows. In movies, car crashes are quick—a flash of movement, a scream cut short. In reality, there’s an excruciating eternity between impact and aftermath. Enough time to realize exactly how badly you’ve fucked up.
