Then Berlin.
Then anywhere the Schengen zone stretched.
I had done it before.
I could do it again.
But this time—it felt different.
After Vincenzo had threatened me that morning—telling me he would cut me open and remove my uterus if Violet lost the baby—I hadn’t seen him again until night, when I finally escaped his heavily guarded mansion.
I hadn’t brought the phone I had bought after Vincenzo married me; I feared there could be trackers hidden in its casing, or code embedded deep enough to betray me.
And I knew a man like Vincenzo.
The moment he realized I had escaped, every resource he had would be unleashed.
Every satellite he owned. Every contact. Every man in his employ. Every corner of his power would activate in pursuit of me.
My grip tightened around the steering wheel.
Knuckles whitening as the leather creaked beneath my fingers.
I realized I had probably overstepped two of his sacred boundaries—one technically, but in his eyes, two of the three were broken.
The first: hurting Violet in her condition.
The second: I had dared to escape.
I couldn’t risk being caught; if he found me, the outcome would be catastrophic.
My stomach turned violently at the thought.
I pressed my foot harder on the accelerator.
The engine roared louder in protest.
The Fiat surged forward, tires gripping the asphalt as the road began to curve more sharply.
The forest thickened on both sides, trees closing in like silent witnesses.
Headlights cut through the darkness, carving twin tunnels into the unknown.
Each turn felt sharper.
Each bend more dangerous.
The chassis shuddered under the strain, rattling as though the car itself might fall apart beneath me.
And part of me—a reckless, defiant part—didn’t care.
Didn’t care if the next turn sent me careening off the road.
Didn’t care if the tires slipped, if the metal crumpled, if the car became nothing more than a twisted shell at the bottom of a ravine.
Better that.
Better a sudden end here—than being strapped to a table under his control.
