Chapter 24

**G R A C E**

The memory of Alex’s voice and touch starts to fade as I walk further into the stone paved road. This side of the town is a stark contrast to what I saw there on the other side of that alley. The roads here look old, like not bad old, but built and preserved over ages old. The street sides are still lined by shops, but they are nothing like the glossy, high-end boutiques I just ran from. These are more traditional, with wooden signs that creak in the wind, displays that aren’t curated by some pretentious designer, but rather filled with practical things people actually need. The windows aren’t spotless or polished to a blinding shine; they’re a little dusty, a little scratched, but somehow that feels...better.

It feels more real. I belong here. I can breathe here.

I slow down, letting my shoulders relax as I walk past a shop selling handwoven baskets, then another with shelves full of vibrant fabrics in patterns that I know must be traditional, not trendy. The people here are different too. They aren’t the kind of people who give you that once-over glance to judge if you’re worth their time. They don’t care what you’re wearing, if you’re bleeding from your foot, or if you look like you just escaped some overpriced hellhole.

I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a shop window, and for the first time since I stepped out of that dressing room, I don’t cringe at what I see. Sure, my hair’s a mess, and my dress—ugh, this dress—it’s stained now with both blood and sweat. But I look...okay. Not polished, not perfect, just okay. And that’s okay with me.

The dress—it was stupid to put it on. I should’ve known better. I should’ve never let him get to me. But here I am, in this ridiculous red dress that’s probably worth more than everything I’ve ever owned, hobbling on one good foot and one very bad one. I don’t know what I was thinking. I wasn’t thinking, that’s the problem. The moment I looked into those stupid, clear green eyes of his, my brain just shut off. It’s like he has this...this power over me that I can’t explain. And I hate it. I hate that I let him touch me. I hate that I didn’t stop him. But more than anything, I hate that I liked it, even for a second.

I’m walking slower now, and the pain in my foot is starting to become unbearable. I need to sit down, but there’s no way I’m stopping here. Not yet. Not when I’ve come this far. I keep moving, telling myself it’s just a little further, just a few more steps. I can rest when I know I’m safe, when I know he isn’t right behind me, ready to...what? What would he even do if he caught me?

I don’t know, and I don’t want to find out.

I’m slowing down even more now, every step sending a sharp pulse of pain through my foot. But it’s not just the pain that’s making me sluggish—there’s this gnawing emptiness in my stomach, a reminder that I haven’t eaten in what feels like forever. I don’t know how long I’ve been running, or how far I’ve gone, but the adrenaline that kept me going is wearing off fast, and all that’s left is exhaustion and hunger.

The smell hits me first. Something sweet, like fresh pastries just out of the oven. My mouth waters immediately, and I stop, turning my head in the direction of the scent. I catch sight of a small, cozy-looking cafe tucked between two old brick buildings. It’s not flashy or modern, but there’s a warmth to it that draws me in, like a promise of comfort in the midst of all this chaos.

I limp towards it, driven by the scent of sugar and warmth, and as I get closer, I see the display in the window—pastries, cakes, and breads, all of them golden and inviting. My stomach growls loudly, and I press a hand to it, as if I can somehow quiet the noise.

I push the door open, a little bell jingling above me as I step inside. The interior is small and charming, with wooden tables and chairs, and shelves lined with jars of preserves and bottles of olive oil. It’s exactly the kind of place I would have loved to visit if I were here under different circumstances, if I weren’t bleeding, starving, and terrified out of my mind.

I’m at the counter before I realize it, pointing to the crostata, barely able to keep the desperation out of my move. The woman behind the counter nods, smiling as she places it on a small plate, sliding it toward me. I almost reach out to grab it before I remember—how the hell am I going to pay for this?
I glance down at my hand, where Alex’s card is still clutched between my fingers. It feels like it’s burning my skin. This card...it’s my only option, but using it feels like admitting defeat. A joke on myself. I run from him, but I cannot keep running without his help. Almost like I’m saying I can’t survive without him. But what else can I do? I’m starving, and I don’t have any other choice. Maybe I can just pay for this one thing, just this once, and then I’ll figure out what to do next.

I nod to myself, trying to convince the knot in my stomach that it’s okay. Just one time. I hand over the card, my heart pounding as the woman takes it and swipes it through the machine, ready to escape me so it doesn’t have to deal with the consequences of my actions when he finds me. Because we both know it is a question of when, not if.

She swipes the card, and I wait, holding my breath. But then she frowns, glancing down at the machine. She tries again, and this time, the machine beeps loudly, the sound harsh and final.
“Non funziona,” she says, shaking her head.
The card’s blocked. Of course it is. Because nothing can ever be easy, right? I stare at the crostata, my mouth dry, and I feel like I might cry. It’s so stupid, but I’m so damn hungry, and I just want one thing to go right for once.

Maybe I should just give up. Go back to Alex, swallow my pride, and beg him for help. Or maybe I should just leave, find some corner to sit in until the hunger goes away. I can’t decide, and the longer I stand here, the more the crostata seems to taunt me from the plate.

I take a deep breath, forcing myself to let go of the pastry in my mind. “Non fa niente,” I mumble in the worst possible accent, reaching out to take the card back, my fingers trembling.

But before I can touch it, a hand—a strong, masculine hand—appears out of nowhere, holding another card. The voice that follows is deep, smooth, and unmistakably authoritative. “Prova questo,” he says to the woman behind the counter.

The words are Italian, and they’re spoken with an eerie calmness that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I look up to see the unfamiliar scarred face that goes with the voice, and my breath catches in my throat.