Chapter 3 - The Shadow Over Evanston
I didn't run until we turned the corner past the elementary school gym. Then, I scooped Leo up into my arms, heedless of the heavy medical bag bouncing painfully against my hip, and practically sprinted toward my beaten-up, ten-year-old silver Honda Civic parked in the teacher’s lot.
""Mommy, you're squeezing me too tight,"" Leo murmured, his little hands patting my shoulder consolingly.
""I'm sorry, baby. I'm sorry,"" I gasped, throwing open the backdoor and strapping him into his booster seat with frantic, fumbling fingers. ""We just have to hurry. We have to go home right now.""
As I slammed the door and jumped into the driver's seat, my eyes darted to the rearview mirror. Emerging from around the brick corner of the school was Vincent. He wasn't running anymore; he was stalking forward with lethal, deliberate strides, flanked by his men. His eyes were locked onto my car like targeting lasers.
I shoved the key into the ignition, twisted it, and slammed my foot on the gas. The tires screeched against the gravel, kicking up dust as I tore out of the parking lot just as two black Escalades attempted to block the exit. I swung the wheel violently, jumping the curb, the undercarriage grinding against concrete, and shot into the midday traffic on Central Street.
In my rearview mirror, Vincent stood on the curb, his coat whipping in the wind, a cell phone already pressed to his ear.
He knew. There was no doubt in my mind. A man like Vincent Moretti didn't need a DNA swab to recognize his own blood. He had looked into Leo’s eyes and seen his own soul staring back at him.
The forty-minute drive north to our modest, rented cottage in Evanston felt like navigating a minefield. Every black SUV that pulled up behind me sent my heart hammering into my throat. When we finally pulled into our gravel driveway, shielded by overgrown willow trees, my hands were frozen in a white-knuckled death grip on the steering wheel.
""Is that man bad, Mommy?"" Leo asked quietly from the backseat as I turned off the engine.
I turned around, looking at my sweet, brilliant boy. He was too smart for his own good. While other kids played with plastic blocks, Leo read medical encyclopedias and asked questions about cardiovascular anatomy.
""He isn't bad to everyone, Leo,"" I replied honestly, my voice shaking slightly as I unbuckled him. ""He was just... very bad to us. And he doesn't belong in our life.""
Inside our small house, the silence was suffocating. I immediately moved into survival mode. I pulled two large duffel bags from the top of the closet and began throwing clothes inside. Passports, cash stashed under the floorboards, Leo’s immunization records, my nursing certificates. I had prepared for this nightmare every single day for six years. I knew the moment Vincent found me, I would have less than twenty-four hours to vanish off the continent.
""Mommy, look,"" Leo called out from the front living room.
I froze, a stack of sweaters clutched against my chest.
""Leo, step away from the window,"" I commanded sharply, dropping the clothes and rushing into the living room.
It was too late.
The quiet suburban street was no longer quiet. Three unmarked black sedans and a familiar armored Escalade had completely boxed in my driveway. Men in dark suits stepped out, sealing off the perimeter of my small front yard.
Then, the heavy front door opened without a knock.
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Vincent Moretti stepped over the threshold, closing the door softly behind him. He took off his leather gloves, his gaze sweeping over our worn sofa, the colorful children's drawings taped to the refrigerator, and finally, the half-packed duffel bags resting on the dining table.
""Unpack the bags, Claire,"" Vincent said quietly. His voice carried no anger—only a terrifying, bottomless gravity. ""You aren't running from me ever again.""
