115

Valentina.

She barely asked me any questions—if, according to barely, she meant five in a row within ten minutes. Why was I on the run? What was I doing on that road? Who was I running from and why? Most of the questions she didn’t even wait for me to answer before she filled in the blanks herself. Some of them eerily accurate, as if she had been inside my head, while others were so far off that I might have laughed if my body didn’t feel like a bruised, frozen carcass. I didn’t give her anything to ponder on. I just sat there, pressing myself against the seat, gripping my own hands to stop them from shaking, my head splitting open from the aftershock of everything I had just done.

The music had gone considerably lower now, the screaming vocals fading into a dull thrum, almost as if she realized how much they were rattling inside my skull. My ears were still ringing, but at least I could hear myself breathe again. We had long left the highways, the streetlights fading behind us as the darkness thinned. I caught flashes of signs as she drove—welcome boards to different neighborhoods, the occasional deserted gas station. Trees lined the road like eerie silhouettes, the branches shaking under the cold wind that cut through everything, even the car. I was still freezing, still trembling, my body locking up from the cold, but Valentina didn’t seem to notice or didn’t care.

She was too busy talking. About me. About how she had seen the news everywhere. How there was a whole goddamn debate online, people breaking into two sides—one half calling for my immediate execution, the other treating me like some modern-day Bonnie without Clyde. She said she had thousands of followers, thousands of haters. Some people were obsessed with me, the way they obsessed over every criminal on the run. Said some of them, mostly guys, were making thirst posts about me. I almost choked on my own breath when she read out some of the comments, completely unfiltered, completely uncensored.

“‘I’d let her ruin my life,’” she quoted, her Italian accent making it sound like a joke. “‘I’d commit crimes just to be on the run with her. Shit, I’d let her stab me if it meant she’d look at me for longer than two seconds.’”

I blinked at her, my stomach curling in something twisted. Horror, maybe. Disgust. I wasn’t sure.

She kept going. “‘Bro, she killed a cop and still looks hot. I’m so confused right now. Is this what love feels like?’” She laughed, then, shaking her head as she tapped her fingers against the wheel. “Some people are fucking insane, no? But, eh, it is what it is. The world is like this.”

I stared at her, unsure if I was supposed to respond. I couldn’t believe it. People thought this was a game. Like I wasn’t out here, my body sore and aching, my lungs tight, my entire life crumbling into something I couldn’t even recognize anymore. People were sitting behind their fucking screens, making memes about me, arguing over whether I deserved to be free or deserved to rot in a prison cell. Some of them were waiting for me to get caught just so they could say they saw it happen in real time.

I swallowed, pressing my tongue against the roof of my mouth, my fingers digging into my lap.

Valentina sighed, leaning back into her seat, her platinum blonde fringe falling just a little into her sleepy eyes. She looked like she hadn’t cared about anything in years.

“All the elderlies just want you dead already,” she added. “They say you are a disgrace. A walking disaster. That this is what happens when you let ‘the youth run wild.’” She rolled her eyes, smirking. “Guess they’ve never met me.”

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t have to. My mind was still spinning, my entire body still locked in that state of cold, hard panic that hadn’t left since I fled. The bruises felt heavier now, my ribs aching. I dropped my gaze, staring down at my own hands, at the cigarette pack between my fingers. I didn’t even remember grabbing it, but there it was. I had smoked when I was younger, when I was a teenager, but it had been so long. Years. I didn’t know why I was looking at it like I needed it now. Like maybe it could fix something. Or maybe I just needed to feel something that wasn’t the pounding in my skull or the weight in my chest.

Before I could even ask, Valentina shifted, one hand still on the wheel, the other already stretching out toward me, holding a lighter between her fingers.

“Go on,” she said, that same knowing smirk pulling at her lips. “You look like you need it.”

I hesitated for only a second before I took it. My fingers shook as I flicked the lighter, the small flame coming to life, casting an orange glow against my face. I lifted the cigarette to my lips, inhaled, felt the burn slide down my throat, thick and familiar. The first drag made me wince. The second made me shudder. The third settled inside my lungs like I had never quit.

I exhaled, my lips still quivering. The taste coated my tongue.

Valentina just hummed, tilting her head as she glanced at me from the corner of her eye. “You still haven’t asked me why I picked you up,” she pointed out, her accent curling around the words.

I swallowed, lowering the cigarette just a little, my voice rough as I murmured, “Why?”

She shrugged, that smirk never leaving. “I just did.”

I turned to look at her fully, frowning just a little. She didn’t look nervous. Not even slightly unsettled. She was talking to a fugitive—someone whose face was probably plastered all over the news—and she wasn’t even blinking.

She seemed amused, if anything. Excited.

“What?” she said, noticing my expression, her blue eyes gleaming in the dim light. “You think I should be scared of you?”

I didn’t answer, but something in my face must have given away my thoughts because she laughed again, shaking her head, one hand tapping against the wheel like she was keeping beat with a song that wasn’t playing anymore.

“I like thrill,” she told me, her accent thickening just a little. “Besides, who wouldn’t want to side with a fugitive?”

She flicked the volume back up, and the car was instantly filled with the deep, heavy tones of Deftones, the bass vibrating through the seats. She moved her head to the rhythm, her fingers drumming against the steering wheel with effortless familiarity, like the music had always been in her bones. Her voice, husky and effortless, spilled into the song, singing along, mouthing lyrics between drags of a cigarette she hadn’t bothered to light yet. It dangled from her fingers, twisting lazily as she gestured mid-song, lost in whatever world she’d built around herself. The sound of her voice wrapped around the music, blending into it like she was meant to be on some dimly lit stage with a mic in her hand instead of behind the wheel of a car with a fugitive in the passenger seat.

She was rich. It wasn’t the clothes; I had noticed that already—the leather jacket was thick but worn like it had been loved for years, the tank top beneath it cut just right to hint at wealth but not shout it, the jeans hugging her legs the kind that cost a paycheck but looked casual. It was in the details, the way her nails were painted a deep wine-red with no chips, the way her fingers bore rings that weren’t gaudy but heavy, the metal real, the designs intricate. It was in her skin, impossibly smooth, expensive, like she had bathed in creams made from crushed pearls. Her hair, dark and thick, fell in lazy waves around her shoulders, the kind of messy that was deliberate, styled to look effortless but took time. Even in the dim lighting of the car, I could tell she smelled expensive, something warm and musky and layered in a way that wasn’t just perfume but wealth itself. It was in the way she moved, the way she sat in her seat like she owned not just the car, but the road, like she could buy the world and still find it lacking.

She caught me looking and smirked, tilting her head slightly. "Che? You like what you see?" she teased, her accent curling around the words, her voice a lazy purr. "I get it, you’re thinking, 'who is this crazy bitch picking up a fugitive like it’s just another Tuesday?'”

I didn’t say anything. She grinned like she had read my mind anyway and turned back to the road, shifting gears like she had been born in a driver’s seat. The next song rolled in, something darker, heavier—GAAHL’s WYRD, deep and grinding through the speakers. She hummed along, tapping her rings against the dashboard, glancing at me between drags of her cigarette. "So, cara, you gonna tell me where we’re going, or we just gonna drive until the wheels fall off?"

I exhaled smoke, my third cigarette already burning down between my fingers, the warmth finally sinking into my bones as the sun started creeping higher into the sky. The cold was easing, or maybe I was just too exhausted to feel it anymore. I shrugged, tilting my head back against the seat. "Where were you heading before you picked me up?"

She let out a low laugh, one hand slipping off the wheel to adjust her rings, turning them slowly, deliberately. "Ah, nice try, but I asked first. Where are you headed, trouble?"

I turned to her then, narrowing my eyes. "Why do you care?"

Her lips curled at the edges, slow, amused. "I told you. I like thrill. And who wouldn’t want to side with a fugitive?" She threw my words back at me, letting them settle between us before she shrugged, flicking ashes out the window. "Besides, maybe I wanna be part of whatever mess you’re in. Sounds like fun."

I let out a short, humorless laugh. "Fun? The last few people who got involved with me ended up dead."

She didn’t flinch. "Va bene, sounds like a challenge. You think I scare easy, cara? You think I don’t know what I’m doing?" She tsked, shaking her head. "You wound me."

I stared at her, half in disbelief. "You’re insane."

"Si, maybe. But I’m not dead yet." She smirked, shifting lanes smoothly, the city stretching out in front of us. "So, you gonna tell me where we’re going, or we just driving till the world ends?"

I exhaled, watching the road blur past, the sun now fully risen, the light creeping in through the windshield. "Manhattan."

She nodded, eyes flicking to the GPS like she had already known. "Few minutes from here." Then, without looking at me, she asked, "Why Manhattan?"

I hesitated. For the first time since she picked me up, something in my chest tightened. My fingers curled around the cigarette pack, nails pressing into the cardboard. The weight of the truth pressed against my ribs, a sharp, insistent thing I had been carrying for too long. The words felt foreign, heavy, like dragging up something from the depths of a frozen lake.

"Some bad people," I finally said, my voice quieter, rougher. "They're going to get my son."

Valentina's reaction was immediate. Her head turned slightly, eyes narrowing just enough to show the flicker of surprise that crossed her face before she masked it again, rolling her shoulders, letting out a slow breath as if absorbing the weight of what I had just said. The silence stretched between us, thick like smoke, before she finally spoke.

"Figlio? You got a kid?" Her voice was lighter than I expected, like she was treading carefully, not out of fear but curiosity.

I nodded, my throat dry. "He’s in Manhattan. With his foster parents."

She hummed, processing the information. The car hummed along the nearly empty stretch of highway, early morning traffic sparse, just the occasional truck rumbling past. Sunlight had started bleeding into the sky, dull gold creeping over the horizon, casting long, stretched-out shadows over the cracked asphalt. The air outside was thick with the remnants of night, dew clinging to the edges of road signs, the faint haze of mist hovering just above the fields that flanked the highway. The world felt eerily quiet, as if waiting.

"And you think they can’t protect him?" Valentina asked after a beat, her fingers tightening on the wheel just a little, her nails tapping rhythmically against the leather.

I let out a slow, unsteady breath, shaking my head. "Against the men I’m running from? Even the police wouldn’t stand a chance."

She let that sink in, her expression unreadable, but I could see the way her lips pursed slightly, the way her brows furrowed just a fraction. The woman who had been all teasing smirks and reckless grins was quiet now, thoughtful in a way that felt almost dangerous.

The car pulled into a gas station, the fluorescent lights flickering above the pumps, casting a sickly glow over the pavement. A few other vehicles sat parked by the convenience store, their owners either fueling up or stretching their legs after a long night on the road. The air smelled of gasoline, of fresh coffee wafting from inside the store, of damp earth from the night’s lingering chill. Valentina parked near one of the pumps and killed the engine, drumming her fingers against the wheel as she turned to face me fully.

"You need anything, cara? Another pack? More smokes? Or just an escape plan?"

Tina steps outside, the car windows whined up, and before she shuts the door, she tells me to try avoiding eye contact with anybody at the filling station if they look into the car and that I shouldn’t even look up. Outside, there’s already a couple of people staring at the car, which I understood—we were in a fucking Ferrari. A fucking Ferrari.

I watch Tina stride toward the gas station, her figure cutting sharply through the dull morning light. The air outside hums with distant highway noise, the occasional honk, the sound of a truck pulling into another pump. The station itself isn’t crowded, but the presence of the car alone has drawn attention. A Ferrari in a place like this? It was like tossing blood into a pool of sharks. People noticed. People always noticed.

A man in a grease-stained jumpsuit leans against a pickup truck, arms crossed over his chest, eyes narrowed in suspicion or maybe just curiosity. A woman in yoga pants is stretching her legs beside a battered SUV, her gaze flickering toward the car between lunges, like she’s trying to act uninterested. A teenage boy, maybe seventeen, tugs at his father’s sleeve near the entrance of the convenience store, whispering something while barely containing his excitement. Another guy, heavyset, in a faded baseball cap and an oil-slicked T-shirt, stands by a gas pump, mouth slightly open, eyes pinned to the Ferrari like he can’t believe it’s real.

I grip the edge of my seat, nails digging into the leather. Every second here is wasted time. Every second is another breath my son is taking without me there to protect him. My pulse pounds in my ears. I shouldn’t be here. I should be moving. I should be getting to Manhattan, getting to him, not sitting in a car while strangers gawk.

My fingers twitch toward the door handle. The thought slams into me—just leave. Just go. I could slip out, find another way, disappear before Valentina got tangled up in something she didn’t deserve. The woman had already done enough, already taken a risk picking me up. It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair. If I left now, I could protect us both. Valentina wouldn’t have to be another casualty in my war.

But then—

A face.

A man, early twenties, with scruffy blond hair and a hoodie that looks too big for him, stands near the air pump. He was doing something a moment ago, something normal, something routine. But now he’s still. Frozen. Staring.

His gaze locks onto mine through the tinted window, and for a second, I wonder if he can really see me. Wonder if it’s just paranoia whispering in my head. But no—his face says everything. He isn’t just looking. He’s seeing. Recognizing.

His mouth parts slightly, eyes wide, like he’s just seen a ghost.