“Lucia?” he says, disbelief in his tone.
As he murmurs something into the cuff of his immaculate suit, I signal to the first taxi I see and then slide inside.
My heavy breaths fog the window when I tell the driver to go.
“Where?” he asks.
“Anywhere. Just go!”
As he drives away from the curb, the club doors suddenly open, and Dante stumbles out. While scanning the street, panic evident on his face, he shields his groin with the thick arm of a wooden chair and both hands.
Yes, he needs more than one hand, even when soft.
“Should I stop?” the driver asks, watching Dante approach the cab in the rearview mirror.
He hasn’t spotted me. He just somehow sensed where I went.
My shoulders sink as low as my tone when I say, “No. Keep going.”
I don’t know why I feel ashamed. This is the first time in ages that I’m not running because I’m cornered.
I’m running because it’s the right thing to do.
