His fingers tightened around the edge of his seat. For a moment, I thought he might cry. Instead, he swallowed hard, jaw setting with a stubbornness that was painfully familiar.
“She’s going to be okay,” he whispered. Not to me—to himself. Like saying it out loud might force the world to listen. “She has to be.”
I didn’t answer. I eased the car out of the lot, tires crunching over gravel darkened by blood, and pointed the nose toward the highway.
The Albanian safehouse shrank behind us in the mirror, its lights dull and indifferent, as if it hadn’t nearly spilled a war into my lap.
The road ahead was empty—no traffic, no headlights, just a ribbon of asphalt cutting through darkness.
The night pressed in from all sides, thick and watchful.
I accelerated, the engine responding instantly, speed climbing fast. Too fast for comfort. Not fast enough for my nerves.
Behind me, the woman’s breathing rasped—short, uneven pulls of air that sounded like they hurt.
Each one seemed weaker than the last. I kept checking the rearview mirror, half expecting to see her chest stop moving altogether.
The other half of my attention strained for danger.
Every pair of headlights in the distance set my pulse ticking faster. Every shadow on the roadside looked like a place someone could be waiting.
The Albanians might claim ignorance, but ignorance didn’t mean innocence. If they realized she was gone—if she mattered to them—this road could turn into a kill zone very quickly.
Nothing happened.
No pursuit. No gunfire. No sudden flash of headlights closing fast.
Just the steady hum of the engine and the sound of a woman bleeding out in my backseat.
Minutes stretched. Miles disappeared under the tires. Vanya fell silent, eyes fixed forward now, hands clenched in his lap. I could feel the tension radiating off him like heat. He was listening too, counting breaths that weren’t his own.
“She’s still breathing,” he said suddenly, like a report.
“Yes,” I replied. “For now.”
I pushed the speedometer higher. The car ate the road, suspension hugging every curve.
Lake Como was still hours away—too far, considering her condition—but it was the closest place with doctors I trusted and walls thick enough to keep enemies out.
If she survived the drive, she would answer questions.
Who she was.
Who had done this to her.
And why someone thought leaving her in my car was a good idea.
I tightened my grip on the wheel, jaw set.
Because if this was a gift, wrapped in violence and blood—
Then someone had badly misjudged how I handled gifts.
Chapter 3
PENELOPE
Lake Como, Italy