ONE SEVENTY SEVEN
It wasn’t even mid-afternoon yet, but the hours felt like days. I couldn’t remember how many times I had looked at the clock, watching the minutes drag, all of them stretched and elongated, each one filled with a sense of dread that wrapped tighter and tighter around my chest. I paced, back, forth, sat, stood, I kept my eyes fixed on the screen, listening to the sharp, clipped tone of the anchor as she read the news of the latest developments. The police were turning every corner of the city upside down, arresting anyone who looked even remotely suspicious. They were reporting sightings of fugitives, sketching our faces for anyone to recognize, and offering millions of dollars in cash rewards for information leading to our capture. My heart pounded every time the words “wanted” flashed across the screen, as though I could feel the eyes of every officer, every surveillance camera, on me, waiting for me to slip. It felt like the walls were closing in, tighter and tighter with each passing minute.
Occasionally, I spared Dominic another glance.
I could see the thoughts racing in his head — the constant mental calculations he made about how to escape, how to get Tina to safety, how to survive this mess. His jaw tightened with each step, and I could feel the pressure building in his chest. The uncertainty was gnawing at him, I knew. His entire life was built on control, on being ahead of the curve. But now, we were trapped. The only option left was to go forward, and every step forward felt like a dangerous gamble.
I didn’t move much. I couldn’t, really. I was locked into this space, this time, with Tina, who needed care more than anything right now.
I found myself walking over to check on Tina again, just for something to do, just to feel like I was doing something productive instead of standing around waiting for the hammer to fall.
And then, within the chaos and the relentless pounds of my heart against my chest. I would check on Tina from time to time, trying to give her some comfort. Every time I went into the room, the sharp sting of the wound on her side hit me like a punch to the gut. The makeshift bandage wasn’t enough to keep the blood from seeping through, and I could see the dark bruising already starting to form around her wound. The edges of the injury were inflamed, angry red, and I felt my stomach churn as I saw her struggle to move. She was in pain, and I couldn’t help her in the way I wanted to. All I could do was make her as comfortable as possible.
"How are you doing?" I asked quietly, leaning over her, trying not to disturb her too much.
Tina’s eyes flickered open for a brief moment, her gaze glassy, unfocused. The pain was written all over her face, her brow furrowed in agony, but she still managed to give me a weak smile, her lips trembling as she tried to sit up.
"I’m fine," she whispered, though we both knew she was anything but.
I offered her a small nod and brushed a strand of hair away from her face. She didn’t need me to say anything else. She knew. She could barely breathe without flinching, let alone sit up properly. It broke my heart to see her like this.
Isabella had been kind enough to whip up some food earlier in the day, and I carried it over to Tina. The smell of it was filling the room, cutting through the oppressive tension. It was a simple meal, but the comfort it brought was undeniable.
Isabella had made us a thick, hearty stew. A mix of tender beef, potatoes, carrots, and onions all simmered together in a rich, savory broth. The steam still rose from the bowl as I set it down on the small table beside Tina’s bed. It was the kind of meal that made you feel like you were home, like you weren’t in the middle of a city on lockdown, hunted by both the police and our enemies.
I held a spoon to Tina’s lips, coaxing her to take a bite. She winced, but she opened her mouth anyway, swallowing the warm stew with difficulty. It wasn’t easy. The wound in her side made it hard for her to move without wincing, but she managed. Slowly, I fed her spoonful after spoonful, trying to keep her hydrated and nourished, even though she barely had the strength to finish more than a few bites.
I wiped the back of my hand across my forehead, feeling the exhaustion setting in. How much longer could we last like this? The thought echoed through my mind again and again. How much longer before the cops came pounding at our door, before we had to make a run for it again?
As I fed Tina, my mind kept drifting back to Dominic, who was probably still pacing in the living room, the image burned into my brain: his gun never leaving his hands, his eyes constantly scanning the room like a hawk. He was doing what he could, but there was only so much planning we could do with the walls closing in.
And the whole city on a lockdown just for us.
By four in the evening, the light outside had shifted into that bruised, dusky haze, the kind of slow, creeping darkness that seemed to swallow the world a little at a time. The house had gotten even quieter, the only sounds the low hum of the television in the living room and the occasional creak of the old wood as the house settled under the weight of the coming night.
I was sitting beside Tina again, dabbing a cool cloth against her forehead, my mind drifting in and out of awareness, the fatigue starting to set into my bones like rot. Her fever had stayed low, manageable, and though the pain occasionally made her whimper in her sleep, she hadn't woken in the past hour. I stroked her hair absentmindedly, whispering promises I wasn’t even sure I could keep. You’re going to be okay, you’re strong, just hang on.
The door slammed open downstairs with a brutal, deafening crash that made me jump to my feet, my heart clawing its way up my throat. The heavy, angry thud of footsteps echoed through the house, dragging me back into the brutal reality I was living.
Dominic was up to something.
I rushed into the hallway just in time to see him coming down toward me, one large hand fisted into the back of Gael’s blood-stained shirt, dragging him forward like a misbehaving dog. Dominic’s face was thunderous, his body tense with barely leashed violence, and for a second, I thought he might slam Gael’s head right into the nearest wall without even slowing down.
Gael stumbled as he was shoved roughly through the door, crashing into the side wall with a dull, painful thud. He didn’t even try to resist; he just sagged against it like a broken puppet, his arms hanging uselessly at his sides, his legs barely keeping him upright.
He looked awful—even worse than I had expected for someone who’d spent the entire goddamn day tied up like an animal without food, without water, trapped in a room probably just as haunted by fear and anger as we were.
His face was slick with sweat, his hair plastered wetly against his forehead and temples, tendrils sticking to his clammy skin. His clothes were rumpled and stained, not just from the blood from helping treat Tina earlier, but from hours of sheer neglect. Deep dark patches under his armpits, the sleeves of his shirt sticking to him like a second skin, the collar hanging loosely around his throat like it was choking him. His jeans were wrinkled and dirty, dust caking the knees from where he must’ve slid down to the floor at some point during the endless stretch of confinement.
But it was his face that made my stomach tighten.
Gael’s features were slack with exhaustion, his lips cracked and dry, and his skin had gone an unhealthy shade of grey underneath the streaks of old blood and grime. His eyes were dull and heavy-lidded, rimmed red from dehydration and strain. A dark purple bruise blossomed ugly across the bridge of his nose, swelling enough to make one of his eyes squint slightly. I knew immediately—without even having to ask—that Dominic had given it to him when he untied him. Maybe as punishment. Maybe just because he needed an outlet, and Gael was the only target he could afford to hit right now.
I stepped back into the room before them, and behind me, Dominic shoved Gael forward again with a rough nudge between the shoulder blades, and he stumbled a few more feet into the room before collapsing onto his knees with a ragged grunt. He didn’t even try to stand. He just stayed there, hunched over, one hand braced against the wooden floor, his chest heaving with short, desperate gasps.
"You should be fucking grateful you're still breathing," Dominic growled, his voice low and vibrating with lethal fury. He shoved the door shut behind him with the flat of his palm, the sound slamming through the house like a gunshot. I flinched, even though I knew it was coming.
Gael didn’t respond. He stayed slumped over, sweat dripping from his brow, his entire body radiating defeat. There was no cocky smile, no smart-ass comment ready on his lips. Just a broken, battered man who looked like he had finally realized just how deep into the fire he had stepped.
I almost felt pity for him. Almost.
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