“We’re safe in here,” he says.
The first bullet hits the car, and terror coats my throat like gasoline. Antonio holds me close as two more bullets bounce off the car before we turn out of the alley, and I see Northstar shrink behind us.
The passenger turns his head and says, “You good, tio?”
He looks young, but there’s no softness in him. Fit, sharp-eyed, jaw set like he was carved out of stone. His gaze flicks over me—quick assessment—then to Antonio.
Antonio’s arm is still around me, holding me firmly to his side. He nods briefly.
Wait… tio?
This is one of his nephews.
But neither of them seems very concerned about introducing me right at that moment.
“Breathe,” he murmurs in my ear, low enough that only I can hear.
I try.
Idon’t know what comes next.
I only know we’re moving, and he got me out.
Chapter Thirty Seven
Antonio
The drive back is a blur of turns and glass and my own pulse thudding in my ears.
Elsa sits beside me in the back seat like her body made it out, but her mind is still in that hallway. She hasn’t said much since we left Northstar.
She’s not shaking now, but I keep my arm around her anyway. I can feel the tension in her muscles through the fabric of her skirt when the SUV hits a pothole and she flinches. I take out the comms in my ear that kept me connected to Vito while we were making our way out.
Vito sits in the passenger seat, half-turned, eyes flicking between the mirrors and the street. The driver’s focus never wavers. We’ve already switched cars once, then merged back into traffic as if nothing happened.
New York City disappears behind us, and I don’t let myself look back.
I look down at Elsa’s hands instead. They’re folded in her lap, fingers laced too tight. Her knuckles are pale. There’s a faintred mark on the inside of her wrist where I grabbed her and hauled her into that office.
Guilt flashes.
I tighten my jaw and breathe through it.
“Elsa,” I murmur, low so only she can hear. “Look at me.”
Her eyes lift slowly. They’re clear. Almost too clear. Like she’s in that post-adrenaline space where your body has no more blood to spend on panic, so your brain goes sharp and cold. I know that feeling well.
“You hurt?” I ask.
She swallows. “No.”
“Any dizziness?”
She blinks once. “I feel a little queasy, but it’s not too bad.”
I study her face. The lipstick she wore this morning is gone, eaten by fear and biting her own mouth. There’s a faint smear of mascara under one eye. It makes her look vulnerable in a way that twists something in my chest.
“It’s normal. It’ll pass,” I say and use my thumb to clean it off.
