I break my bike, skidding several feet before I can jump off and sprint forward.
The pounding in my ears amplifies into a high-pitched hum and I feel entirely disconnected from my legs as I run as fast as I ever have. I don’t register the slide of my knees against the ground or the ripping of my jeans as I crash down next to the lifeless form.
Everywhere, the snow is stained red. I can barely breathe just looking at it, but I have to find the head, search for the face.
I almost choke on a prayer when I find what I’m looking forand confirm it’s not Sera.Slava Bogu. The body broken almost to the point of being unrecognizable is Renzo di Salvo. The evil fucker is dead.
I stare down at him, then up at the car that’s accelerating away from me. If di Salvo is dead at my feet, then who has Sera?
“Is it…?” Gio skids across the snow in his fancy fucking shoes.
“It’s di Salvo. Not Sera.” I’m already returning to my bike.
“Meno male. But then—who the fuck is in the car with her?”
“Get in your fucking car. We’re about to find out.” I’m barely done speaking before we’re blinded by headlights. They’re shining at us straight on, bouncing off the snow, getting brighter and brighter the closer the oncoming vehicle gets. It’s moving fast, right for Gio’s Bugatti.
We can see the collision before it happens. Gio flings out his arms, stopping his forward momentum before he changes direction and lurches back toward me. We both haul our asses as far from his Bugatti as fast as we can. I have to abandon my bike as we race for the side of the road where Renzo’s body is.
The oncoming headlights get brighter. We run faster, trying like hell to clear the road before the sad bastard driving at us crashes into Gio’s car.
The engine revs.
I glance over my shoulder, expecting to see it barrel past the sedan carrying Sera and straight into the Bugatti. Except, the driver in the oncoming vehicle—a beast of a Cadillac—makes a last-minute turn.
They’re only a few yards away from the Mercedes when they turn straight toward it. There’s no screech of tires grasping at the road, only the sound of the engine revving. Whoever is behind the wheel hits the gas, not the breaks, and the Cadillac barrels full speed into the black sedan.
The two-ton machine lifts off the ground and I swear to God I reach out, delusional and panicked beyond rationalthought, as if I can catch it, stop it. As if I can save Sera from being scrambled inside as it barrel-rolls toward us.
“Alik. NO!” Gio is grabbing at me, but I’m running toward the car, not away from it. Which is how I’m in the absolute wrong place at the wrong time, my head in the perfect spot when a chunk of the Mercedes’s chassis comes loose and clocks me in the skull, muting my scream and knocking me out cold.
37
SERA
My arms are killing me. That’s the first thing I’m aware of.
The second is the smell. Like dead fish and mildew. I keep my breathing shallow, wincing as I force air between blood-crusted lips.
Cazzo. It’s not just my arms that hurt. As consciousness returns, I register that almost every part of me is in some sort of pain. My groan cuts short when I remember what happened.
The car crash.
The woman’s voice.
The agony of being dragged from the wreck and hauled into another car.
Memories flash behind my eyes, compounding the ache in my skull. My throat is painfully dry. I need to find water. I try to move.
That’s when I realize I can’t. And why.
I’m strung up, my wrists bound and pulled high above my head. Panicked, I move my legs, terror swelling when my toes just barely brush the ground.
“Finally. You’re awake.”
I crack open my eyes, searching for the source of that voice. One I’d recognize anywhere. “Mom?”
My vision is blurry but out of the darkness in front of me, a form appears. Tall but curvy. Hair long and dark. Feet forced into the kind of high heels I’ve always refused to wear. I blink fast and want to cry when my mother’s face appears. She’s the epitome of beautiful. Clear, smooth skin. Plump, red lips. Expensive clothes tailored to hug every sensuous slope of her body. Martina di Salvo is the kind of beauty I’ll never be. The kind women envy and men want. It’s not until you look in her eyes—green, so similar to mine—that you see she’s nothing but ugliness wrapped in a pretty package.