Overhead, the departures board glows, a constellation of destinations and times that blurs before my tired eyes. I need a flight to anywhere in America that’s far from here, where I can disappear, where Raffaele won’t think to look for me first.
That rules out Cleveland.
But I need… no. I need to stay calm and keep thinking ahead. This is like a real-life game of chess. If I only consider my next move, I’ll never win. And I desperately need a checkmate here.
I refocus on the listings, finding there’s a flight to Miami in two hours, another to Atlanta shortly after. Both have connections that could get me north. My hand trembles as I stare at the board, the reality of my situation crashing down on me.
I have no ID. No passport. How am I going to board an international flight? I’m not sure three thousand is enough to secure me a ticket and offer a worthy bribe.
The weight of what I’ve done—what I’ve lost—threatens to crush me where I stand. Just this morning, I was in paradisewith my husband, celebrating our shared birthday. Now I’m a killer, a fugitive.
Focus, Alina. You need a plan.
I move toward the ticket counters, scanning for the shortest line, trying to look like I belong here. A family with small children moves ahead of me in line, the youngest is throwing a tantrum over a dropped ice cream cone.
The mother’s frazzled attempts to calm him only make him scream louder. Under different circumstances, I might have smiled and offered help. Now I just stare blankly, envying their normal problems.
What did Raffaele do when he found Andrea? Did he cry? Rage? Did he… oh God. What if every Russo is looking for me? I spin around as though I can magically suss out moles who might belong to the other Collectors.
Oh God, this is bad.
The questions circle my mind like vultures, picking at my resolve, making me doubt every decision.
“Alina!”
The voice cuts through the airport noise like a blade, freezing the blood in my veins. I know that voice. I turn slowly, as if moving through water, every muscle tensed to flee.
And there he is.
Raffaele stands across the terminal, his tall frame rigid with tension. Even at this distance, I can see the wildness in his eyes, the dishevelment of his usually immaculate appearance. He looks like a man possessed. Like a man hunting his prey.
“Alina!” he calls again, pushing through the crowd toward me.
Our eyes lock, and something passes between us—an electric current of recognition. His face transforms with… relief? But that can’t be right. He can’t be relieved to see me. Not after what I’ve done.
It must be satisfaction at finding his quarry. At cornering the woman who murdered his dad.
“No!” The scream is torn from my raw throat.
My body reacts before my mind can process—heart hammering, adrenaline flooding my system, legs tensing to run. The envelope crumples in my clenched fist as terror seizes me.
“Stop!” I hear him call as he shoves past a group of tourists.
But I’m already moving, abandoning the ticket line, pushing blindly through the crowd. A suitcase catches my ankle, nearly sending me sprawling. I recover, dodge around a pillar, past a coffee kiosk where the barista looks up in alarm at my desperate flight.
“Alina!” Raffaele’s voice sounds closer. Too close. “Don’t run from me again.”
But running is all I know now. All I can do. My lungs burn as I sprint toward the exit, knocking into people who curse after me in languages I don’t understand. I glimpse security guards turning their heads, alerted by the commotion.
The automatic doors slide open ahead of me. Salvation in the form of sunshine and the chaos of the pickup lane where I can lose myself.
“Alina!” Raffaele’s voice echoes behind me.
Those words shred the last remains of my heart, especially paired with the desperate plea that follows for me to stop. But I can’t stop. You can’t win the game if you’re not playing. And in this game, I have to keep moving.
I burst through the doors, my feet pounding against the concrete as I dash across the pedestrian crossing without looking. There’s a screech of tires—a sound so sudden and violent it seems to rip through the fabric of reality.
I turn my head instinctively toward the noise, and time slows to a crawl.
