Maybe I'd learn to drive a stick and challenge Vinny to a race. The thought brought a tired smile. Before tonight, I would've laughed at the idea of needing racing skills to survive. Now? Every assumption I'd made about safety felt dangerously naive.
I should've risked carrying a firearm in the car. Laws be damned—I'd rather explain an illegal weapon to a cop than die unarmed in a ditch. And more time at the range. A lot more time. Having a gun you couldn't shoot accurately wouldn't save your life. It would just give you false confidence while someone put a bullet in your head.
My hands started shaking.
That first shot tonight—the one that shattered my windshield—had missed my head by inches.Inches.A slight adjustment in the shooter's aim, a small bump in the road, and I'd be on a metal slab right now. Some morgue attendant would be zipping me into a body bag while my family planned my funeral.
I pressed my palms against my thighs to stop the trembling.
I'd come so close to dying tonight. Too close.
I cleared my throat, needing to think about something—anything—else. "What's going to happen to the two Mercedes we left in the field?"
Quentin eased off the gas as the light turned yellow ahead. "Stone will handle it. They'll disappear. No trace, no police reports, no questions. It's better that way."
"Better for whom?"
"Everyone." His jaw tightened. "Whoever came after you tonight is serious. Professional. If the police get involved, it gets messy. Complicated. And we lose control of the situation."
"Control?" I laughed, though there was no humor in it. "Someone just tried to kill me. I don't think I ever had control."
"You do now." He glanced at me, his expression fierce. "Because I'm not letting anyone hurt you. Not while I'm breathing."
The words shouldn't have affected me the way they did. Shouldn't have made warmth bloom in my chest despite everything.
But they did.
More than I wanted to admit.
We pulled into my apartment complex twenty minutes later. Quentin parked in a visitor spot and killed the engine, but made no move to get out.
"Stay here a second." He scanned the parking lot, the building entrance, the shadows between cars. "I want to make sure we weren't followed."
I waited, watching him work. The way his eyes tracked movement, assessed threats, calculated risks. This wasn't paranoia—this was survival. And I was beginning to understand the difference.
"Looks clear." He finally opened his door. "But I'm coming up with you."
"You don't have to—"
"Julia." His voice was firm. "Someone tried to kill you tonight. I'm walking you to your door. Actually, scratch that—I'm clearing your apartment. End of discussion."
Part of me wanted to argue. The independent part that had been trained to handle threats alone.
But another part—the part that was still shaking, still seeing that muzzle flash in my rearview mirror—was grateful.
"Okay."
We took the exterior stairs to my floor. Every shadow made my heart jump. Every sound echoed too loud in the night air.
Quentin stayed close, his hand resting near the gun holstered at his back.
At my door, I fumbled with my keys. My hands were shaking again.
"Here." Quentin took them gently, unlocked the door. "Wait here."
He pushed the door open slowly, hand on his weapon. Listened. Then stepped inside, movements controlled and purposeful.
I followed close behind, my heart hammering. Unarmed. Vulnerable. But not helpless—I knew how to move, how to stay out of his line of fire, how to watch for threats.
