We ran.
Wemovedasifthe city were a logic puzzle, every block a variable to be solved.
Pietro led, but not by much. He’d mapped the escape in his head before we even left the bakery—he picked up the pace at every cross street, never hesitated at an alley mouth or a turn. The first block, I counted steps behind him. By the second, we were side by side, breathing in sync, ducking the same awnings and leaping the same patches of black ice. He didn’t look at me, but I could feel it, the charge between us—a current that made my skin buzz.
A grey sedan crawled past at the end of the alley. Pietro yanked me against a loading dock, one arm braced across my body, pinning me to the shadow. His coat smelled like rain. I waited for the car to pass, then stepped out first. He didn’t say a word.
We cut through the loading bay, down a set of concrete stairs, into a service corridor under the hotel. The door was unmarked but propped open with a plastic wedge. We slipped inside, out ofthe wind, into a space so quiet the only sound was the click of our boots on the tile.
He made a right at the second hallway, then another right, then up a back staircase that stank of bleach and old onions. We surfaced in a ballroom, empty except for a man vacuuming the corners. Pietro nodded to the man, who didn’t even slow down. It was like we were invisible.
I was good at this. I’d always been good at this. The hiding, the running, the keeping my head down while the world spun itself into disaster. Two months ago, I’d made it from Pilsen to Evanston with eight hundred dollars, a forged ComEd bill, and nothing but my own paranoia to keep me breathing. I’d thought that was the hardest thing I’d ever do.
The difference now: I wasn’t alone.
We hit the lobby. Pietro peeled off to the right, pulling me behind a row of fake palms. He checked the desk, the doors, the faces of the people waiting for cabs. Then he took my hand, squeezed once, and said: “Now.”
We crossed the lobby fast, both heads down, and out the side entrance. The street was busier here—trash trucks, city workers, a jogger in reflective tights. We joined the flow, walking fast but not running. I scanned every car, every storefront, every face behind glass. I saw them, too—the men in grey, two now, one on each side of the avenue, both pretending to check their phones. They didn’t know we’d clocked them.
We broke left at the Walgreens, up the ramp to the parking garage. I knew what he was doing—elevation, sight lines, escape route at every floor. We hit the second level. He stopped me at the window, checked the view. The men in grey had lost us, for now.
He looked at me, really looked, for the first time since we started running.
He said, “You’re good at this.”
I shrugged, breathless. “Years of practice.”
He smiled, just a flash. “You see the exit?”
I did. “West stairwell, down to the alley, two blocks, then right.”
He nodded. “Exactly.”
I felt it, then—a strange, wild thrill. Like being seen for the first time. Like every other man in my life had only wanted the surface, and here was someone who read the code underneath.
We went.
The alley was narrow, the brick slick with last night’s rain. We jogged down it, dodging dumpsters, hopping a puddle so deep it might have been a pond. At the end, the street opened up into a new neighborhood—one I didn’t know, with townhouses set back from the curb and a row of elms that had lost all their leaves.
“Just up here, safety, Baby Girl.”
Pietro slowed, walked like nothing was wrong. I followed suit. At the corner, he ducked into a vestibule, pulled a keycard from his coat, and slid it into the slot.
The door opened on a dark hallway, carpeted, silent. The only light came from a red exit sign at the far end. I waited for him to lead, but he stopped, turned to me.
He said, “You okay?”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
He said, “You don’t have to pretend.”
I shrugged. “I’m fine. Really.”
He looked at me, a long second, then put his hand on my face. It was warm, rough, steady.
He said, “This is almost over.”
I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe it so hard it hurt.
