I know I’m making a mistake the second my boots hit the subway platform.
I place my gloved palm against the grimy subway beam like it might talk me out of it, just as the train screeches into the station, belching out a blast of stale air that smells like old cigarettes.
Charming.
I step on because clearly, common sense and I are on a break. My foot hovers over the threshold, the last sane part of me whispering, Don’t do this, Eva. Finally, I move my foot, the door slamming closed with a metallic clunk, and just like that, I’m locked in with my bad decision.
I slide into one of the sticky plastic seats and rest a hand over my belly—something I keep doing without even thinking—like I can shield the baby from the insanity of my life.
A fatherless baby. At least that’s what I’ll be giving this little one if I keep running.
The train jolts forward, the windows smeared with graffiti and God knows what else. Across the way, a woman sits in faded scrubs, offering me a soft, sympathetic smile. I nod politely. She probably thinks I’m just another overworked New Yorker riding the late train home.
God, I wish that were true.
Instead, I’m sitting here haunted by images of hazel eyes that could burn right through me—Dante Bellacino—in all his complicated, maddening glory. I swear, one look from him makes me feel like I could either take on the world or crumble like a sugar cookie.
The image of Dante shaking hands with the man who fired the bullet that killed my father plays over and over in my brain on repeat. It’s burned into my mind like a scar.
Anger boils up sharp and sudden. My fingers curl around the edge of the seat like I could dig my way back to sanity if I just hold tight enough. You’re doing the right thing, I tell myself for the hundredth time. But it doesn’t feel right, it just feels necessary, like it’s the only way forward.
This baby deserves more than growing up in mafia violence and backroom deals. That alone should be enough to justify me walking away.
My phone buzzes in my coat pocket, dragging me out of my mental spiral. Halsey again. God love her, she’s relentless, but I don’t answer. If I talk to her, I’ll break.
I can’t let anyone know where I’m going, not even her.
Three stops later, I switch trains, weaving through trash-littered platforms beneath flickering florescent lights. The station hums with edgy, late-night quiet. Eventually, I emerge onto the streets of the Queens neighborhood Luca claimed would set me free.
What a joke.
Overhead, a cracked streetlight buzzes like it’s on its last leg. A torn poster taped to a bus stop shelter for some ancient block party flaps in the wind, faded and forgotten. Even the rats scurrying nearby have an attitude—like they’re guarding their turf and I’m an invader.
I pull my coat tighter around me and scan the street. It’s eerily empty. This is it—the address Luca scribbled on a crumpled piece of paper. I’m just a few steps away from whatever fresh hell he’s sending me into. Every part of me whispers, turn back.
A half-collapsed awning sits above the door of the address Luca gave me. They’ll help you disappear. No questions asked.
I push open the grimy metal door. The hallway reeks of mold and garbage, my boots clicking ominously on the wood floor. My heart hammers, but I force myself forward. At the end of the corridor, a single bulb dangles over a door left slightly ajar. Its yellowed paint is peeling off in ragged curls, like it wants to flee this place, too.
I rap my knuckles against the wood. Nothing. My pulse bangs in my ears, but I ease the door open anyway. The small, dusty room inside is crammed with boxes, a flickering desk lamp casting jittery shadows on the walls.
Suddenly, an all-too familiar and unwelcome female voice breaks the silence. “Look who finally came knocking.”
I whirl around to find Linda Patterson standing in the doorway, arms folded over a sleek black jacket, radiating privilege. Behind her, Gianni Lombardi steps forward, tall and broad-shouldered, a wicked grin on his face.
My stomach flips.
“Eva Petrova,” he says, my true surname rolling too easily off his tongue. “We’ve been expecting you.”
I clench my fists, summoning courage from deep within. “A welcoming committee? I’m touched.” My voice drips sarcasm even though panic claws at my insides.
Linda snorts, flicking a glance at Gianni. “Apparently she thinks she still has options,” she says, her gaze locking onto me. “I’ve been waiting to talk to you alone ever since you inserted yourself into Dante’s life. Never imagined he’d fall for someone like you.”
My heart thuds in my chest. “Someone like me? You mean a woman with a conscience?”
Gianni steps closer, studying me. “I see you’ve got a spine.”
Linda exhales sharply. “We need to do this now, before anything else can complicate matters. We can’t have our prize strolling the city like she’s untouchable.”
“Prize?” I echo, keeping my tone defiant. “I walked in here on my own.”
Linda’s eyes gleam. “You sure did, thanks to Luca telling you the perfect story, that someone at this address could help you vanish. And here you are, a sitting duck.”
My blood chills. “This is about the baby.”
She smirks. “Oh, honey. It’s more than that. Dante is the father of your unborn child, which makes it a direct threat to Luca’s future. You think Dante is going to pass the throne to his estranged son when there’s a brand-new heir on the way?”
I straighten, ignoring the knots twisting in my gut. “Dante won’t stop until he finds me.”
Linda shrugs. “He’ll find nothing. No note, no body, no leads. Just another heartbreak.”
Rage replaces fear, at least for a moment. “That’s low, even for you, Linda. You’d really risk everything, including your son’s life, for money and power?”
Her wicked grin widens. “You have no idea what I’m capable of.”
Gianni clasps his hands together in finality. “It’s nothing personal, Eva. Just business.”
My fists tighten, my nails digging into my palms. “I’m not going to make this easy for you.”
Linda laughs, an evil and bitter sound. “You already did. You waltzed straight into our hands.”
I glare at her then scan the room for an exit. Two bulky men appear behind me—Linda’s muscle. The fear is back. My gaze returns to her. “Fuck you.”
Linda’s smile is cruel as she steps toward me. She slaps me across the face so fast I barely register the flash of her hand. My cheek stings, and I taste blood on my lip. I slowly turn back to her, not giving her the satisfaction of knowing it hurt. Instead, I stare her down.
Gianni looks bored. “We don’t need any more speeches. Let’s get this done.”
Linda lifts a finger, her eyes never leaving mine. “On the contrary, Gianni. I want her to know why I’m doing this. Remember that wedding ambush? Gianni and I orchestrated that to show Dante he’s not invincible. You were nothing more than collateral damage, though you did prove useful as a distraction.”
My stomach churns, thinking of the gunmen at Luca’s wedding. All that violence. “You’re vile,” I mutter.
“I prefer practical.” She smirks, then turns to Gianni. “Alright, that’s enough talk now. Take her downstairs.”
A burst of desperate adrenaline surges through me. I lash out, kicking one henchman’s thigh. He staggers, but the other slams me into the desk, pain rattling my spine. I clamp my jaw shut to keep from crying out.
“Move,” Gianni orders coldly.
They drag me through a door revealing a narrow flight of stairs leading underground. The stale odor of mildew rises to meet us. Lights flicker overhead, each step downward feeling like a final descent. At the bottom of the stairs is a narrow corridor leading to a steel door. Beyond that is a cramped concrete cell with one decrepit cot. No windows, no exit, no hope.
My captors shove me forward, and I drop to my knees on the gritty floor.
Linda’s heels click behind me. “We’ll keep you alive for a while,” she says casually, “Let Dante assume you took off and left him. When the time’s right, we’ll dispose of you and that little bastard you’re carrying.”
Terror threatens to consume me, but I stay strong. “You’ll regret this,” I hiss, refusing to crumble.
Linda laughs. “Sure. I’ll regret it just as much as I regret leaving Dante all those years ago. Believe me, I’ve wanted him to suffer ever since.” She lingers in the doorway, arms crossed, chin high, drinking in the view of her little dungeon. “Don’t bother screaming,” she purrs, lips curling. She’s enjoying this too much. “This place is as sealed off as a grave. Pleasant dreams.”
The door slams with a theatrical finality. I hear the bolt being slid into place with a heavy click that echoes straight through my bones. Regardless, I lunge at it anyway, pounding my fists against the steel like I could break it by sheer will alone.
Breathing hard, I step back and look around. The sad excuse for a bulb overhead casts just enough light to show me that this hellhole is as charming as it smelled on the way down.
My cheek still stings from Linda’s little tantrum, but pain is good. It reminds me I’m still alive.
And pissed.
She thinks she’s won, thinks Dante will just shrug this off and move on. She has no idea the hell that’s about to be brought down on her.
I plop onto the cot and rub my belly. “Don’t worry, baby. Your mama’s not going out like this.” I mean every damn word.
On the other side of the door, Linda and Gianni are no doubt whispering about how they’re going to take out Dante and Isabella, then dance on what’s left of the Bellacino name. I can picture it in my mind—the two of them scheming over espresso, believing they’re criminal masterminds.
But they’ve underestimated the wrong woman.
I’m my father’s daughter. I’ve outmaneuvered hackers, mobsters, and manipulative snakes with better poker faces than Linda’s Botox-stretched smugness. They think I walked in here blind. They think I don’t know how to fight.
They’re wrong.
I lean against the wall and take a slow breath, letting it all sink in—rage, fear, fiery determination. I am not about to let some bitter ex and her overcompensating boyfriend erase me.
I close my eyes and whisper, “You fucked with the wrong woman.”
