CHAPTER 203 Hit and Run

*Pete*

A jackhammer of a headache pounded my skull, each throb a vicious spike driving deeper into my brain. The paralytic the EMTs had jabbed into me left my mind a foggy swamp.

Memories from last night—and this morning—slipped through my fingers like water, leaving only fragments, but two names echoed in the haze: Joy Taylor and Virtue.

*Virtue*. The name burned brighter than the rest, an obsession that consumed me. *She was mine*. *All mine*. The thought throbbed with an ache, like a mantra I couldn’t shake.

A police siren wailed past, its shriek slicing through the air like a banshee’s cry, vibrating through my bones. I winced, shaking my head, but the pain flared—white-hot, blinding, a lightning strike to my psyche.

“Like I did to Joy Taylor, Mother? Then live with the guilt like I have all this time?” Lisa’s voice lashed out, dripping with venom, her anger a live wire sparking between her and Mrs. Brent.

There it was again—Joy Taylor. A name like a splinter in my mind. Could she have killed my mother? Cris? Theodore? My thoughts spun, a carousel of chaos. Joy could barely hobble when she staggered out of that hospital, like a broken doll. When she and her family fled New Salem, they’d vanished like ghosts, leaving nothing but whispers and empty drawers.

Each pulse of pain unleashed a flood: fractured images of La Casa del Flores; Noah’s shadowed eyes; Lorenzo’s sly, calculating grin; the Colonel, a looming specter of authority. Suddenly, Lorenzo’s voice slithered through my memory, smooth as oil, sharp as a blade.

“*Let’s not be too hasty*. *Stealing from the organization is a grave offense*. *If you received your share of the profits*, *it’s safe to assume Liam had nothing to do with the mishap*.” *He pursed his lips*, *shrugging*. “*So*, *Joy Taylor finally figured out it was you and your mother who conspired against her and her father*. *I understand why she’d want revenge*, *but I don’t get why you’re angry*. *You and your friends did reprehensible things to that girl*, *hijo*. *The proof’s all over the dark web*.”

I slumped forward, pressing my palms to my eyes, pain slashing through my skull like a machete. It was coming back—my breakfast with Lorenzo at the mansion, words flung like grenades before the world exploded in fire and screams.

“Pedro, what’s wrong?” Mrs. Brent’s voice trembled, a thread of concern woven through the storm, her eyes wide and searching.

I groaned, forcing my eyes open against the sting. “I remember what Lorenzo said. Joy Taylor paid two million dollars to Doña Ortiz. She knows, Tía. She figured out it was me and my mom who set her up. This abduction—it’s got to be her.”

“What about Cris?” Lisa cut in, her tone sharp, skeptical, arms crossed like a shield. “You think Joy Taylor took him down too?”

“I don’t give a damn about Cris, Nicole, or even Theodore—who, by the way, got his from Nurse Lindsay, not Ford,” I snapped, my voice a jagged edge, slicing through the air. “All I care about is me.”

Lisa scoffed, her eyes flashing with disgust. “How very selfish of you, Pete. And yeah, I heard about Nurse Lindsay’s scrawled confession. But I’d bet my life Ford’s guilty. Him, his parents, and that junkie crew of his slaughtered those women’s rights activists at Highland Oaks— in cold blood. Maybe he silenced Theodore to bury the truth.” She leaned closer, her gaze cutting. “And how do you know Joy Taylor nabbed you? You look like a relic, Pete."

I squeezed my eyes shut, fragments clicking into place like a shattered mirror reforming. My transformation—face deformed, hair grayed—was a secret known only to Lorenzo, the hospital director, and Nestor. Nestor was a ghost, invisible to all. The director? Cris’s hired muscle had roughed him up, but his lips stayed sealed, or so I’ve heard. That left Lorenzo. Joy Taylor might’ve tailed him from Texas, her eyes lurking in every shadow, watching his every step.

“Tía,” I rasped, my voice a low, urgent growl, “we need a new plan. Head to the safehouse. We’ll finalize the details there.” I turned to Lisa, her face a mask of resentment. “You got your laptop?”

“Yes,” she bit out, her tone acid. “What do you need now, your highness?”

“Age Joy Taylor for me—map her face through time and print a photo,” I ordered, my mind racing, a hunter’s instinct flaring. “Can you do that?”

“Of course,” Lisa spat, bitterness lacing the word. “How many copies do you want, oh great one?”

Ignoring her, I felt my pulse race, a drumbeat of dread and determination. If Joy Taylor was stalking Lorenzo, a phantom on his trail, I'd turn the tables on her. I’d find her before she found me, before her vengeance swallowed me whole.

"Lisa! Mind your manners," Mrs. Brent snapped, her voice sharp as frost, cutting through the tension in the car like a blade through silk.

I tilted my head, summoning a sly, honey-sweet smile. "No worries, Tía," I said, my tone dripping with mock warmth. "Lisa doesn’t see it yet, but we’re both tangled in the same sinking ship."

Mrs. Brent’s brow furrowed, her dark eyes narrowing. "What’s that supposed to mean, Pedro?"

I leaned back, my voice low and conspiratorial, savoring the moment. "When Joy Taylor tracks me down—and oh, she will—I’ll spill everything. Especially how Lisa tripped over herself to join Liam’s little clique, thinking it’d save her skin." I turned to Lisa, my grin sharp enough to cut glass. "I’m not the only one going down for this, Lisa."

Lisa’s face twisted, her lips parting for a venomous retort. "How dare you, you little—"

"How dare *I*?" I interrupted, my eyes glinting with wicked delight. "You’re just as guilty, Lisa. Don’t kid yourself." I straightened in my seat, brushing a lock of gray hair from my face with theatrical flair, then pointed to the road ahead. "Tía, let’s roll. Lisa’s got a wedding to crash, and I’ve got a town to reclaim. By dawn, New Salem will kneel to me again."

Mrs. Brent gave a curt nod, her hands steady on the wheel as she eased the sleek black Mercedes-Benz into the flow of traffic, the engine purring like a contented beast.

We were just about to round the corner when a figure stumbled into the street, forcing Mrs. Brent to slam on the brakes. The car screeched to a halt, tires squealing, and we lurched forward, my heart pounding against my ribs like a caged animal.

"What the *hell* is wrong with you?!" the man roared, his fists hammering the hood with a dull *thud*. His words slurred, thick with liquor, and though a grimy face mask obscured his features, something about his stocky frame and pale skin sparked a flicker of recognition in my foggy mind. He wore faded blue coveralls, stained with grease and secrets. The drugs coursing through my veins blurred my thoughts, making it impossible to place him.

"Move it!" Mrs. Brent barked, leaning on the horn, its blare slicing through the noise around us. The man staggered back, his eyes wild behind the mask, but it wasn’t enough. Mrs. Brent floored the gas, and the car jolted forward, clipping him with a sickening *thump* before roaring away.

Lisa groaned, slumping back in her seat. "Great job, Mother. Now we’re fugitives in a hit-and-run."

Mrs. Brent’s lips curled into a chilling smile, her eyes fixed on the road. "Don’t fret, darling. It will be taken care of."

___________

*Xavier*

The alley reeked of damp asphalt and desperation, the kind of place where deals went sour and dreams went to die.

We sprinted toward the last known location of De Luca, our boots pounding the cracked pavement. Ahead, the black Mercedes-Benz crept through traffic, its tinted windows gleaming like the eyes of a predator. Suddenly, it swerved to the curb and stopped, as if it sensed us closing in.

I shot a glance at Sebastian, his jaw tight, his hand hovering near the holster at his hip. "Be ready," I signed, my fingers quick and precise. "They might come out swinging."

To my relief, the car stayed silent, its occupants hidden behind those dark windows. No gunfire, no chaos—just the hum of the city and the thrum of my pulse.

Suddenly, Lou’s voice crackled through my earpiece, sharp and urgent. "Team’s got eyes on De Luca. He’s holed up in the gas station restroom, next to the convenience store."

"Lou, I need a tracker on this car," I said, my voice low as I scanned the Mercedes. "Get to the alley while Dom handles De Luca."

"Copy," Lou replied. "Leaving the van with Max."

I turned to Sebastian, his eyes burning with a fury I knew all too well. "I’ll see you in Mandan," I said.

He shook his head, his voice a low growl. "No. I’ve got this. You head back to New Salem. I’ll meet you there." And with a nod, he quickly turned and disappeared through the alley.

He didn’t need to say it—I knew he would avenge De Luca. Sebastian didn’t deal in theories; he dealt in blood.

Minutes later, Lou jogged up, panting, his face flushed beneath the sunlight. "About time," I teased, clapping him on the shoulder. "You need to hit the gym, man. Good thing that car hasn’t budged."

Lou straightened, catching his breath. "What’s the play?"

I held up the tracker, a sleek device no bigger than a coin. "You cross in front of the car, draw their eyes. I’ll slip the tracker onto the rear bumper. So, if anyone steps out to check the front, they won’t see me."

Lou frowned, rubbing his jaw. "What if they recognize me? I did *buy* that house in Hillcrest."

I tossed him a face mask, its fabric worn but effective. "Wear this. Play the part of an angry pedestrian. They’ll be too busy avoiding you to notice me."

Lou grinned, slipping on the mask. "I’ll do you one better—I’ll play a drunk pedestrian. No one messes with a guy who looks like he finished a whisky bottle."

We moved like shadows, timing our steps to the rhythm of the traffic. Lou staggered across the street, his gait convincingly unsteady, while I darted to the rear of the Mercedes, my fingers swift as I attached the tracker to the bumper. Everything was perfect—until the car lurched forward, its engine roaring like a beast unleashed. Lou yelped as it grazed him, knocking him to the ground.

I rushed to his side, hauling him off the street as he groaned, clutching his ribs. "Tell me you got the tracker on," he wheezed, his mask askew.

"Got it," I said, a smirk tugging at my lips. "Dina’s tracking that car as we speak. Now, let’s get moving. I’ve got a wedding to get to, and I don’t plan to be late."