Facing forward, the only thing left was the road stretching out in front of us, accompanied by the steady, relentless hum of the engine beneath us, vibrating up through the floor and seat and into our bones.
Time blurred after that. The adrenaline didn’t drop all at once. It leaked out slowly, leaving something heavier in its place, something akin to a dull awareness.
We merged onto the highway almost seamlessly, joining the sparse late-night traffic as if we had every right to be there. Just another vehicle carrying cargo from one place to another.
Ordinary and forgettable.
The driver adjusted his grip on the wheel, his eyes fixed straight ahead. He hadn’t spoken once, something he’d been paid well for.
Kyrill stretched his legs out as much as the cramped space allowed, his boots nudging the floor with a quiet thud. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes for a brief second before opening them again. My best friend was never fully off guard, never completely relaxed.
I understood this instinct. Letting my own eyes drift shut for half a second longer than necessary, enough to feel the monumental shift of my life’s trajectory.
Blackwood was finally behind us. The rules had changed, as had the boundaries.
We weren’t inmates anymore; we were free.
If everything went according to plan, we would be in Puerto Rico before the FBI were alerted. Since neither Kyrill nor I had been known members of the Bratva prior to Blackwood, I didn’t expect organized crime to be on our tail.
My uncle had assured me the officials in Puerto Rico had been paid off — corruption really was a beautiful thing. The city in which we were going to settle only had a rural police department staffed by officers who could easily be bribed or intimidated.
I would still have to keep a low profile, but I’d be able to move with almost no restrictions.
Somewhere at the back of my mind, beneath the logistics, the next steps, and the inevitable complications waiting for us on the other side, a thought had been waiting.
Patient, but unavoidable.
Addy.
Chapter 22
Addy
Itlookedasifmy apartment had been converted into a cardboard box factory. There were boxes everywhere. Big ones, small ones — some of which I’d definitely stolen from behind the liquor store, since desperation had killed any remaining sense of shame I might’ve had.
My bad luck had persisted. I’d exhausted every option, chased every freelancing gig and even tried applying for short-term positions, but I just couldn’t make ends meet. I wasn’t making enough money to pay the rent for this place, the second month in a row now.
The realization of what I had to do and of my failure at yet another thing hit me like a ton of bricks. I was sorting through things and packing on autopilot, trying to summon the unwavering optimism I usually displayed.
Sweat ran down my back. The August heat, combined with my attempt to save money by foregoing airconditioning, was doing its best to melt me into a goddamn puddle.
I’d turned on the TV for some background noise, leaving it on a local news channel I hadn’t deliberately chosen. I’d just let it autoplay because silence had started to feel a bit too honest lately.
Giving up on trying to stuff a stack of towels into an already overflowing box, something the anchor said suddenly caught my attention.
“… authorities are asking the public for any information regarding the escape of a convicted—”
I froze.
“… Sasha Markov…”
I choked, sending cinnamon dust down the wrong pipe. My eyes watered as I coughed, and the cereal box tipped dangerously in my lap. My brain was sayingNope, nope, nope. Absolutely not.
I stared at the TV in utter disbelief.
They’d put his face on the screen, and my first thought — my first, immediate, traitorous thought — was:Oh. That’s unfair.
Because he was devastating. He looked nothing like the vague mental image I’d created to protect myself and everything like the gift to womankind I’d once jokingly called him.