Page 94 of Accidental Alliance

Branches whip at my arms and face. Thorns snag my sweater and tear at the already ruined fabric. Roots rise out of the dark like hands trying to trip us. Matteo sobs once, only once, then clamps down on the sound so fiercely, I feel sick with pride.

Another bullet slams into a tree somewhere behind us. The impact sends birds exploding upward from the branches, their wings beating frantically through the fog. The sound adds to the chaos, a dizzying cacophony of gunfire, shouting, snapping branches, and the ragged, animalistic sounds of our breathing.

I do not know where Elio is.

That thought flashes through me with unwanted force.

Is he behind us?

Is he the one shouting orders?

Is he trying to stop them from shooting, or is he standing at the helm because I dared to run with his son?

Matteo is stumbling more than running now, his whole body shaking, his face drained of color. Then the trees break and we spill out onto the shoulder of a busy road. Cars rush past in both directions, headlights cutting through the fog in bright, blinding bands. The sound of them hits with a different kind of distortion—engines roaring, tires hissing over damp pavement, the normal world moving at full speed while my son and I flee from gunfire.

I let go of Matteo’s hand only long enough to lift both of my arms in the air and wave them around frantically.

“Stop!” I scream. “Please! Stop!”

My voice tears out of me raw and desperate. I move into the edge of the road, ignoring Matteo’s panicked cry behind me and the danger of stepping too close to the traffic. Headlights flare in my eyes, temporarily blinding me.

A set of tires screech against the road as one of the cars jerks to a stop several yards ahead, angled halfway onto the shoulder. Hazard lights begin blinking, red and gold against the fog. I squint through the glare and turn to grab Matteo, lifting him off his feet with a strength I do not have but find anyway. He clutches onto me with a death grip, his little legs wrapping around my waist, arms locked around my neck so tightly, I can barely breathe.

“It’s okay,” I breathe into his hair. “We’re going to be okay.”

I run toward the driver’s side of the vehicle just as an older man pushes the door open and steps out. He is maybe in his sixties, gray hair, glasses, a windbreaker zipped halfway up. His face is creased with confusion and alarm, the expression of a normal man who has stopped for what he thinks is an emergency and has no understanding of what.

“Miss? Are you okay?” he calls to me.

For a fraction of a second, the question hits me so strangely, I almost laugh.

Am I okay?

I am running for my life with my seven-year-old son in my arms as men who were once tied to my family are hunting us for sport. My uncle may be dead and the father of my child may be the one giving the orders to shoot on sight or drag us back to our prison cell, and I do not know which version of him will reach me first.

Adrenaline crashes through me as I reach out and grab the older man by the front of his shirt.

His eyes widen. “What are you⁠—”

“I need your car.”

I shoulder-check him out of the way, shoving him back hard enough that he stumbles and has to catch himself on the side of the vehicle.

Guilt flashes through me, though it is gone before it can slow my hands.

“I need your car,” I say again, harsher this time, already leaning inside.

“What?” he shouts.

“I’m sorry.” It’s all the apology I give him before dumping Matteo into the passenger seat. He lands awkwardly with a small cry, twisting toward me immediately, one hand reaching for my sleeve.

“Seat belt,” I snap.

His hands shake too badly to force his hands to work. I reach across him and yank the belt down, clicking it into place with fumbling fingers.

The man outside recovers enough to grab at my arm. “Lady, stop! That’s my car!”

I twist away from him and climb behind the wheel, slamming the door shut and locking it before he can pull it open again. He slams his fists against the window next to me, shouting, his words muffled by the glass.