As we merged onto the highway, the black SUV held a steady speed. One car in front, one behind. A classic escort. I sat in the back seat, Marco to my left, the window to my right. Up front was the driver, and beside him a bald, thick-necked man with a shoulder-holstered pistol resting in his lap. The radio chirped once from the center console, muttering a few words in Italian: "Status check, all good, five minutes to the stop."
I watched the mirrors, the spacing of the cars, the rhythm of the convoy. I measured distance and speed, tracked lanes and blind spots. I opened my palm to calm the tremor in my fingers.
"Take your hand off your knee," Marco said quietly, and he shifted his jacket a fraction so our bodies wouldn't touch. "Don't provoke them."
"Breathing is provocation now?" I asked.
"Today it is."
The driver didn't look back, but the bald man did. He appraised me, then turned forward again.
"My name's Enzo," he muttered, half under his breath. "You talk to me if you need something. No phone. No opening windows. No yelling."
"You stink," I said. "Your cigar."
Enzo flashed a one-sided smile.
"You'll get used to it."
When the convoy exited toward a gas station, I felt it. The only realistic chance. In the lot there would be civilian cars, trucks, movement, people. Witnesses. Across from the shop: the restrooms. Near the hallway: a sign for an emergency exit. The terrain was clean and readable.
"I'm nauseous," I said flatly, staring forward. "I need to get out."
"You'll live," Enzo replied.
"If I don't get out, your floor is going to suffer," I shot back. "Your choice."
Marco cut in.
"Let's stop for two minutes. The press briefing is tonight. We don't want a circus."
The driver glanced at Enzo. Enzo shrugged.
"Two minutes."
All three vehicles pulled in together. Enzo got out, opened my door, and pinched my upper arm with two fingers.
"Hands where I can see them," he said. "One wrong move and we drag you right back."
"Understood," I answered, while I assessed the scene with a side glance: the shop's glass front, two employees behind the counter, a family outside, the kid eating ice cream. Near the restroom corridor, an emergency release ring. Close enough.
Marco stepped beside me, a little behind, positioning it so Enzo was closer to me than he was. The gas station door beeped as we entered. Cold air from the AC hit my face.
"Bathroom," I said, heading down the hall.
"We go together," Enzo snapped. "Door stays open."
I nodded and stepped into the women's restroom. Two stalls, one sink, a paper towel dispenser. I leaned over the sink and coughed on purpose, tracking Enzo's boot through the crack at the door. The lower metal edge of the dispenser casing sat loose. I hooked my fingers under it and tore off a narrow, sharp strip in one motion. I closed it in my palm and pressed it along my wrist, hiding it.
I walked out.
"Better?" Enzo asked.
"No," I said. "I'm getting water."
We moved toward the counter. The family chose that moment to peel away from the line. The kid spilled his ice cream. The father dropped to his knees. The little boy started crying. For one second, the doorway jammed.
I didn't look at Marco. I didn't signal. I didn't need to.
I pulled in a breath and moved.
With the jagged strip, I slashed at Enzo's hand from my wrist, aiming for the tendons. I felt him jerk. His grip loosened. I pivoted, drove my left elbow into his ribs, then my knee into his thigh, right into the nerve. Enzo choked and stumbled back.
I ran.
Straight for the exit, past the crying kid, out into the parking lot. I weaved between civilian cars, heard shouting behind me. "Stop!" "Cut her off!" "Right!" At the edge of the lot I shot through the pedestrian gap, ducked through the hedge, and sprinted toward the property line. My heart hammered, but my mind stayed clean: there was a bus stop on the far side. If I reached it, I could vanish into bodies and noise.
The first D'Amato man reached the hedge behind me. Rocco. Broad shoulders, black T-shirt, tattoos on his arm. I heard his steps, braked hard, dropped my center of gravity, and when he grabbed for me I caught his wrist, pulled his shoulder through, and used his momentum to throw him over. Rocco hit the grass with the air driven out of him.
I almost ran again when someone slammed into me from the side. The impact took me down. The metal strip flew from my hand. The man crashed on top of me, pressing his forearm into my throat.
"That's enough, Costa!" he panted.
I kicked at his knee and shoved, trying to wriggle free, but two more hands clamped down on my shoulders. Then Enzo arrived.
His face was red with anger. His eyes had that hollow look that always kept me on edge.
"Didn't I say no running?" he asked, and before anyone could stop him, he struck.
The bony back of his hand cracked across my mouth. Not a heavy hit, but precise. My lip split. My tongue tasted iron. The world didn't spin. It narrowed.
"Hey!" Marco roared, throwing himself in, shoving one of the men off. "Stop, Enzo! She's the bride. Is this really how you want to start?"
"If she runs, we stop her," Enzo hissed. "Doesn't matter who the fuck she is."
"You don't hit a bride in the face before the wedding," Marco snapped, stepping closer, using his body to shield me. "If Rafael finds out, you won't be happy."
Enzo froze. Chest heaving. Sweat at the edge of his nose. He looked at me, then at Marco, calculating. Then he spat into the grass.
"Put her in the car. And gag her if she can't control herself."
"It won't be necessary," Marco said. "Let's go."
He crouched toward me.
"Can you stand?"
I pushed myself up.
"I've taken worse than that," I forced out through clenched teeth. My voice stayed clear. My eyes stayed cold.
They boxed me in and marched me back across the lot. The family, the kid, the ice cream were gone. One employee stared from the shop doorway, then looked away like he'd seen nothing. The escort moved fast and clean, no scene, no drama. The door of the middle SUV opened. I climbed in. Marco followed. Enzo slammed it shut from the outside.
Inside, it went quiet.
The engine purred. The driver shifted into reverse, rolled us out, back onto the highway. No one spoke. Marco pulled out a handkerchief and offered it.
"Your mouth is bleeding," he said.
"I see it," I answered, taking it. I dabbed my lip carefully. A faint red stain bloomed on the cloth. I didn't flinch. Enzo didn't turn around. His shoulders stayed tight, but he kept his mouth shut. The radio crackled softly: "Area clear. Back to main road." The driver nodded and slid one lane over. The convoy re-formed: lead car, us, rear car.
"Have you thought about what happens if you try again?" Marco asked quietly.
"Yes," I said. "Next time I won't start at the restroom."
Marco exhaled, short and tired.
"Not now. This isn't the terrain."
"I know I'm not on terrain," I said. "I'm not making the decision here."
"I get it," he nodded. "But if there's one more like that, Enzo won't stop you. He'll break you. And then there won't be anyone to lift you back up."
I turned my head toward the window. Behind the tinted glass, the lights blurred. In the mirror I caught my own face: bruising beginning at the corner of my mouth, a red bloom along my cheekbone. That's the cost, I thought. No dramatics. Just fact. I logged the pain's location, the angle of the blow, the speed of Enzo's hand. Stored it as data.
Ten minutes passed without a word. The motor's hum and the tires' steady hiss filled the cabin. I touched the split with my tongue once, then stopped. I didn't want it bleeding harder. My hand rested on my thigh. I didn't think about my scars. There was no point. The fire wasn't here anymore. It was ahead: at the D'Amato estate, at the man they were forcing onto me.
Marco turned his head slightly.
"If he asks, I'll tell him you got hit," he said.
"You don't have to," I replied. "I don't care."
"Rafael might," Marco said. "If nothing else, protocol."
"I don't give a damn what Rafael cares about," I snapped. "I don't owe him anything."
"Not him," Marco said. "Yourself. Don't let the first impression be that you run and get beaten for it."
I didn't answer. My gaze stayed still. My throat dried again. I replayed the run, the seconds where air tasted like freedom. It had been useful. I'd seen how fast they reacted, how many moved, who could be removed from the equation with one throw. Next time there would be no hesitant movement. No witnesses. No kid with ice cream.
The convoy exited the highway and climbed into rolling hills. The road narrowed, trees pressing in closer. The driver slowed as LED-lit gate pillars emerged from the dark. In the distance, in a shallow valley, outlines sharpened: wall, guardhouse, cameras. Someone spoke into the radio: "Gate opening. ID confirmed." Another voice: "Receiving room ready. The head of the house is en route."
Marco straightened. I didn't ask who "the head of the house" was. I knew.
I released the handkerchief. My fingers found the seam of my pants like I was hooking into place. On the outside I was calm. Inside I was counting.
The car rolled toward the gate. The barrier lifted. A heartbeat later the tires crunched softly over gravel.
No one spoke. The silence was thick, but not empty. It carried the failed escape, the backhand across my mouth, Marco's clipped warnings, and what was coming next.
The convoy turned into the inner courtyard. The engine cut. Enzo finally looked back, his stare locking onto me. He said nothing. He opened the door.
"We're here," Marco murmured. "Chin up. Feet steady. And don't flash blood."
I nodded. I reached forward, pressed the handle down, and stepped onto the gravel. Cameras rotated above the courtyard. A shadow moved in the main doorway. The air was cool; the taste of blood in my mouth was already fading.
The escort arranged itself into a half-circle around me. No one said a word. The silence walked me to the door.
The next step wouldn't be about the road anymore, but the house, and the man who owned it.
But from here to the threshold, it stayed completely silent.