Chicago.
One-way.
Planned.
My gaze drags over the room again like the walls are going to tell me something they didn’t before.
They don’t.
All they do is sit there and hold the shape of her absence.
I look at the backpack in the corner and something in me twists.
Chicago.
Romeo Romero.
Capo now, after his father and brothers were butchered there.
If Ayla makes it anywhere near that city, he’s the closest thing I’ve got to a hand around her throat before she can disappear.
I pull up the photo again and just look at her.
“Who are you running from, Beda?”
The question dies in the empty room.
My phone buzzes again. Pietro.
I answer. “Tell me what you have.”
“We got the footage.”
I don’t speak.
He sighs. “Sending it now.”
The video loads before he hangs up.
Grainy garage feed. Bad angle. My car. Ayla stepping out with the bag on her shoulder, moving fast, head down.
I go still.
She doesn’t look lost.
Doesn’t look confused.
She looks like she knows exactly what she’s doing.
Then she drops her phone on the concrete. My jaw locks harder.
Her boot comes down on it.
Once.
Twice.
The second hit makes something violent rip through my chest.
