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The hum of the engine fills the quiet of the car as I drive along the familiar winding roads leading back to my farmhouse. The sun is dipping lower in the sky, casting a warm orange glow over the Montana countryside. It’s peaceful here, and most days, I let myself believe that peace will last.

The kids were particularly energetic this morning, and as much as I adore them, it’s exhausting. Two nearly four-year-olds are no easy feat, especially when they both decide to team up against me with their relentless curiosity and endless questions.

Leo’s determined little frown when he tries to build with his blocks, and Alyssa’s giggles as she chases butterflies in the backyard—they’re the highlights of my day. Still, there are moments when I wish for just a little more time to myself, to breathe and remember who I am outside of being their mother.

Groceries sit in the back seat, a hodgepodge of fresh produce, snacks for the kids, and a bottle of wine I’ll likely never get to drink. My errands stretched longer than expected, as usual. Living in a small town means nothing is close by. It also means safety—or so I thought.

My phone buzzes on the passenger seat. I glance at it briefly before reaching over to answer, the name “Dante” flashing on the screen. A knot of unease forms in my stomach. Dante never calls unless it’s important.

“Dante?” I say, pressing the phone to my ear. My tone is casual, but I grip the wheel tighter, already bracing myself for bad news.

His voice is steady but urgent. “Chiara, listen carefully. I’ve been watching things closely, and it seems Lorenzo has been keeping tabs on me. I think he knows.”

The air in the car feels heavier. “Knows what?” I ask, my voice sharper than I intended.

“About you,” he replies without hesitation. “I can’t be certain, but there’s a strong chance he’s discovered where you are.”

The blood drains from my face. My grip on the wheel tightens until my knuckles turn white. “Why would Lorenzo care about my whereabouts? He’s been content ruling his empire in Italy and ignoring me for years.”

Dante sighs, and the sound only adds to the growing weight in my chest. “I’m not sure, but I overheard something concerning. He had a meeting with Serge today.”

My heart stops for a beat, then thunders back to life. “Serge?” I echo, barely able to get the word out.

“Yes.” Dante’s tone is grim. “Whatever Lorenzo is planning, it can’t be good. If he’s aligned himself with Serge, it’s a problem.”

“Why would Lorenzo meet with Serge?” I demand, my voice trembling. “He has no reason to….”

My words trail off as realization dawns. Lorenzo doesn’t care about me—not in the way a brother should. But he does care about power. And if Serge offers him leverage, there’s no doubt he’d sell me out in a heartbeat.

“He’s scared of you,” Dante continues, cutting through my thoughts. “Even from thousands of miles away, your presence is a threat to him. People in the Vinci empire still see you as a legitimate heir, Chiara. If you ever returned, you could challenge him. That’s enough for him to want you gone.”

The bitterness in my laugh surprises even me. “Challenge him? I have two kids to raise, Dante. I’m not interested in his games or his empire.”

“It doesn’t matter what you want,” Dante says firmly. “It matters what he thinks you want. If he’s working with Serge—”

I don’t let him finish the thought. I know where it’s going, and I don’t want to hear it. “Serge has no reason to care about me anymore,” I say, though the words feel hollow. “It’s been four years. He probably moved on the moment I left.”

Dante’s silence says otherwise.

“Dante,” I press, needing him to say something, anything, that doesn’t feed into my worst fears.

“Serge isn’t the kind of man to let things go,” Dante finally says, his voice low. “You know that better than anyone.”

A chill runs down my spine. Memories of Serge flash through my mind—his intense eyes, the way he could command a room with a single glance, the rare moments of tenderness that always left me conflicted. I’ve spent the last four years trying to erase him from my life, but no matter how hard I try, he’s always there, lurking in the shadows of my mind.

“If Lorenzo’s meeting with Serge was about me…” My voice breaks, and I take a shaky breath. “What do I do, Dante?”

“You need to be prepared,” he says, his tone softening. “If they come for you, you can’t let them catch you off guard. I’ll do everything I can to keep you safe, but you need to be ready to act if it comes to that.”

I glance in the rearview mirror, as if expecting to see Serge’s car behind me. The countryside stretches out around me, vast and empty, but it suddenly feels suffocating.

“I can’t let them find me,” I whisper, more to myself than to Dante.

“You won’t,” he assures me. “We’ve stayed ahead of them this long. We’ll figure it out.”

I nod, even though he can’t see me. “Thanks, Dante.”

“Stay safe, Chiara,” he says before hanging up.

The phone slips from my fingers and lands on the passenger seat with a dull thud. Dante’s warning plays over and over in my head like a sinister mantra. My heart pounds, my throat tight, as I glance into the rearview mirror. The sight of a black SUV catches my eye. It’s been trailing me for too long. Coincidence doesn’t stretch this far.

The logical part of me wants to dismiss the worry. Maybe they’re just heading in the same direction. People drive all the time. It’s Montana—long roads, few stops, sparse towns. But something about the way the SUV moves keeps my pulse racing. Every turn I make, they’re there. Every adjustment in my speed, they match. The knot of unease in my chest hardens. I press my foot down on the accelerator, testing my theory. My small car surges forward. The SUV does too.

There’s no denying it anymore. They’ve found me.

I grip the steering wheel tighter, panic settling like ice in my veins. My twins—what will happen to my babies if they catch me? The thought fuels a wave of desperation. I make a sharp turn down a narrow side road lined with dense trees. Gravel sprays up behind my tires as I speed along the uneven path. The SUV follows relentlessly, its dark presence looming closer and closer.

My mind races for options. If I can lose them in the trees, maybe I’ll have a chance. The road curves sharply, and I yank the wheel to follow, my tires skidding dangerously close to the edge of a ditch. I can’t slow down—not now. The trees blur past, my vision focused on the road ahead, on escaping.

I glance at the mirror again. They’re still there, their black vehicle cutting through the dust cloud my car leaves behind. My breath comes in ragged gasps as I hit the highway. I merge into traffic, swerving into the far-left lane. Cars honk and flash their lights as I cut them off, but I don’t care. All that matters is putting as much distance as I can between me and the SUV.

The highway stretches endlessly ahead of me. My speedometer climbs past eighty, then ninety, the car shaking under the strain. My chest tightens as I weave between vehicles, narrowly avoiding a collision with a massive truck. A quick glance in the mirror shows the SUV gaining on me again. How are they so fast?

The wind howls through a cracked window, the sound amplifying the chaos in my mind. My heart races, my hands trembling on the wheel. Up ahead, two more black SUVs idle near an exit ramp. My breath catches in my throat. Serge’s men. There’s no mistaking it now. This is a coordinated trap, and I’ve driven straight into it.

Panic surges, cold and overwhelming. I dart toward the right lane, searching for an opening. If I can just make it past them, I might have a chance. One of the SUVs accelerates, cutting me off. My pulse thunders in my ears as I yank the wheel to avoid a collision, my tires screeching in protest. The car fishtails wildly, and I lose control.

Time slows to a crawl. The world tilts, and the car veers off the road. Gravel turns to grass as the vehicle skids across the shoulder and slams into a shallow ditch. My hands grip the wheel desperately, but there’s no stopping the momentum. The car flips.

The sound is deafening—metal crunching, glass shattering, the shriek of tearing rubber. My body is tossed violently within the confines of the car, the seat belt digging painfully into my chest and abdomen. The airbag deploys with a loud pop, the impact knocking the air from my lungs.

The car finally comes to a halt, upside down. Everything is eerily quiet except for the faint creak of metal settling into place. Smoke curls from the hood, mingling with the acrid stench of burned rubber and gasoline. My head throbs, my vision blurred as I hang suspended by the seat belt. Pain radiates through my ribs and shoulders, sharp and relentless.

I try to move, but every shift sends fresh waves of agony through my body. Blinking against the haze, I look around. The world outside is a blur of muted greens and browns. Footsteps crunch on gravel, slow and deliberate.

My heart lurches. They’re coming. I’m out of options, out of time.

I try to unbuckle my seat belt, my fingers fumbling against the latch. Pain lances through my side as I drop free, sharp enough to draw a strangled gasp from my throat. Blood trickles down my temple, warm and sticky, stinging as sweat enter an abrasion. My vision wavers, and for a moment, the world tilts dangerously.

I grit my teeth, reaching down to push open the crumpled door. It resists, groaning under the weight of bent metal. With a surge of desperation, I slam my shoulder against it. A scream escapes as pain erupts in my leg, sharp and blinding. Something’s wrong. My left leg feels stiff, heavy—almost unresponsive. Is it broken?

Voices echo in the distance, muffled by the ringing in my ears. I crane my neck, my movements sluggish. Through the shattered glass of the window, I spot a figure approaching. My chest tightens. Roman. His broad frame is unmistakable as he strides toward the wreckage with grim determination. Behind him, Serge appears, his sharp, chiseled features shadowed by the fading light.

My pulse races as Serge kneels by the shattered window, his ice-cold gaze locking with mine. There’s no sympathy there, no concern—only a chilling sense of triumph that twists my stomach. His voice is low, almost soft, but the words hit like a blade.

“You really thought you could run from me forever?”

The venom in his tone freezes me. I want to spit back, to tell him I wasn’t running, but the ache in my leg and the haze of pain sap my strength. I can’t move. I can’t fight. All I can do is watch as Serge surveys me with an expression that borders on cruelty.

Sirens wail in the distance, their haunting sound slicing through the thick tension. For a fleeting moment, hope flickers to life. Maybe it’s an ambulance. Maybe they’ll take me somewhere safe, somewhere Serge can’t reach me.

As if reading my thoughts, Serge’s lips curl into a dark smile. “Don’t get your hopes up. You’re not going to any hospital.”

Panic bubbles in my chest, threatening to spill over. My breathing quickens, each shallow gasp sending searing pain through my ribs. Roman appears beside Serge, his expression unreadable as he peers inside the wreckage.

“She’s hurt,” Roman mutters, glancing at Serge.

“Get her out,” Serge orders, his voice devoid of any warmth.

Roman moves to the other side of the car, prying open the door with practiced efficiency. He reaches for me, and I flinch, the movement jarring my injured leg. The world spins as strong arms lift me from the wreckage, and I bite back a cry as pain flares in every limb.

The last thing I hear before darkness claims me is Serge’s voice, low and unyielding. “You’re mine now, Chiara. Don’t forget it.”

***

When I wake, the first thing I notice is the softness of the bed beneath me. The second is the blinding pain in my leg. A groan escapes as I try to shift, but my body protests with every movement. My head feels heavy, my vision blurred as I take in the unfamiliar surroundings.

The room is lavish, with sleek, modern furnishings and large windows that let in streams of muted light. The scent of antiseptic lingers in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of expensive cologne. My leg is elevated, wrapped tightly in a pristine white cast. My arms are bandaged, the cuts from the crash meticulously cleaned and dressed. Whoever patched me up knew what they were doing.

A soft knock at the door startles me. For a moment, I consider pretending to be asleep, but curiosity wins. “Come in,” I croak, my voice weak.

No one enters. Instead, I hear the faint sound of footsteps retreating. The knot of anxiety in my chest tightens. Whoever it was, they didn’t need to come inside to remind me of where I am—or who brought me here.

Pushing aside the covers, I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, grimacing as pain shoots through my injured one. With slow, deliberate movements, I rise to my feet, steadying myself against the bedpost. The windows draw my attention, and I limp toward them, each step an agonizing reminder of the crash.

The view outside is breathtaking. A sprawling estate stretches as far as the eye can see, with manicured gardens, a glittering pool, and guards stationed at various posts. There’s no mistaking it now. I’m in Serge’s world—a world I fought so hard to escape, now wrapped around me like a vise.

I press my forehead against the cool glass, my fingers trembling against the frame. My reflection stares back, pale and weary, but defiant. Serge may have brought me here, but this isn’t over. Not yet.