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"Find her. Before they do. No one touches her but me. No one."
"You know this changes everything," Tomasso says quietly. "A baby. Your heir. The Fioris won't just kill her now. They'll use the child against you."
He's right. This isn't just about Ava anymore. This is about my blood. My legacy. My child who deserves better than being born into a war.
"Put everyone on it," I order, already moving toward my weapons safe. "I want eyes at every bus station, train depot, and highway heading west. Track her brother's phone, his gaming accounts, anything that might give us a direction. And Tomasso?"
"Sir?"
"Call our friends in the Montana territory. Tell them I'm calling in every favor they owe me. I want to know the second anyone matching their descriptions crosses the state line."
I end the call, staring out at my city as dawn paints it in shades of blood and gold. Somewhere out there, Ava's running, thinking she's protecting everyone by leaving, thinking she can outrun the Monster of Chicago.
Thinking she has a choice in any of this anymore.
"Run all you want,tesoro," I whisper. "But you're carrying my heir now. And I'll burn down heaven and earth before I let anyone take what's mine."
CHAPTERFIFTEEN
Ava
The heater died somewherebetween Illinois and Iowa, turning my ancient car into a mobile ice box.
Tony hasn't stopped complaining for the last hundred miles, but I barely hear him over the endless calculations running through my head. Distance covered. Gas remaining. Hours until someone realizes we've crossed state lines.
"I'm starving," Tony whines, cutting through my thoughts. "And I can't feel my toes. Can we please stop? Just for a few minutes?"
I glance at him, really look at him for the first time in hours. His face is pale, lips slightly blue from the cold. Guilt twists in my stomach. I'm supposed to be protecting him, not freezing him to death in a getaway car.
"Fine," I concede, spotting a sign for an upcoming truck stop. "Quick dinner. Then we keep moving."
The diner appears through the twilight haze. It’s one of those timeless roadside places that could exist anywhere in America. Lucy's is the name of the place, according to the neon sign that flickers weakly.
My instincts start humming the moment we pull into the parking lot. There’s nothing obvious to make me worry, but there are little things that make the hair on the back of my neck stand up. The way that black SUV is parked at an angle that is perfect for watching the entrance. How the trucker by the door seems too well-dressed for a long-haul driver.
But Tony's already out of the car, drawn by the promise of warmth and food. And maybe I'm just being paranoid. Running makes you see threats everywhere.
The bell chimes as we enter, and every eye in the place seems to land on us for too long before turning away. The waitress' smile is plastic-perfect as she leads us to a booth by the window.
"Just passing through?" she asks, setting down menus that have seen better days.
"Long drive," I say vaguely, positioning myself to see both exits. "Need to warm up."
Tony orders half the menu, but my stomach churns at the thought of food. Morning sickness or instinct, I'm not sure anymore. Everything feels wrong, the angles of the room, the way that man at the counter keeps adjusting his jacket, how the trucker from outside has positioned himself between us and the door.
"I need to pee," Tony announces, sliding out of the booth. "Order me those cheese fries too if she comes back."
I grab his wrist. "Wait?—"
But he's already heading for the bathroom, shoulders set in that teenage swagger that screams I'm-not-listening.
And the tall, skinny man at the counter stands up to follow him.
Every alarm in my head starts screaming. The tall man's movements are too deliberate, too practiced. Not a random trucker or road-weary traveler. A hunter.
And we're the prey.
My phone is in my hand before I consciously decide to move.