Page 1 of Blaze

BLAZE

1

KENNEDY

The engine light started flashing fifty miles ago.

Ten miles ago, the Toyota Mirai started vibrating. Weirdly.

A hundred miles ago, I’d filled up the gas tank while everyone watched, as if they knew… knew I’d killed my mafia don husband and fled.

“Come on,” I murmur, glancing in the rearview mirror, my stomach twisting.

Behind me is nothing, just a heat shimmering two-lane road, stretching to brown hills in the horizon. The last vehicle to pass me was almost thirty minutes ago, a long-haul trucker headed in the opposite direction.

If my car broke down, all I had was me–me and the money bag and three changes of clothes I’d fled with.

A month has passed. I’ve escaped the Santi Pastori for now, but I know they’ll catch up with me. It’s only a matter of time. Riccardo, my late husband’s second-in-command and brother, made it clear on the voicemails he’d left. I’ve gotten rid of my phone now but he’d made himself clear. I’d been moved up to the top spot of the Pastori’s wanted list when I bashed Enzo over the head with the marble figurine of the holy mother, Mary.

Never mind the fact that Enzo, my husband of five years, put his hands on me weekly. When business was rough, he’d rough me around. The first time he’d split my lip, I’d learned that the men of the familia didn’t care about their wives and that their wives had been too busy trying to survive to be of any help to me. And with Enzo being the boss, even if they’d wanted to help, they couldn’t have. They were too afraid of him.

I told myself I should be glad he never used his fists, or even worse—forced me to fuck him. Just like he ignored his vows to protect and cherish me, he’d ignored his vows of fidelity. Like everything else, it upset me at first, then I grew relieved that it was one less thing I had to deal with.

Then one day he went too far. I’d grabbed the marble Aphrodite figurine off his desk and swung it like I was back in my high school days on the softball team. I didn’t even think about what I’d done next. I grabbed the bag of dirty money off his desk, ran to our bedroom, grabbed a couple outfits, my toothbrush, then booked it out of the city with Hell on my heels.

Clunk.

“No, no, no.”

Gray smoke starts to billow from under my Mirai’s blue hood. My daddy taught me enough about cars before he swallowed the end of a gun to know I can’t push it any further. Out of habit, I turn the emergency lights on and pull over on the side of the road before killing the engine. The windows are already down, ever since I’d turned off the air conditioning after the engine light started blinking. Now that I’m not moving, the dry, high desert heat invades the interior of the car, and my lank hair starts to stick to my skin. Last I checked, the dash had said it was 94 degrees.

Looking around, there is no one and nothing. The lack of people had been a comfort for the last hundred miles or so. Now, the arid, low rolling hills are intimidating.

Sparse vegetation dots the roadside and the only signs of anything manmade are the weathered, old wire fences. From the way the posts twist and lean, I imagine no one has been out to check them in years, if not decades.

Ahead, the dark asphalt road stretches towards the horizon, seventy miles back, a sign had promised the existence of a small town ahead, but I can’t see any sign of it through the heat waves marring my view. I’m crap at guessing distances, but I know there’s at least another ten miles to go. At least it’s still early morning.

Grimacing, I reach under the dash to pop the hood then slide out of the car. When I lift the hood, a large plume of dark smoke rushes me. Coughing and waving my hand, I step back until my eyes stop smarting and the smoke clears enough for me to get a look at the issue. It’s not like I have any tools to fix it, but my daddy would be rolling in his grave if I didn’t at least take a look.

I see one issue right off the bat. There’s a massive gouge in the water tank, which accounts for the overheating. That’s not enough for the Mirai to shake and blow gray smoke, though. Bracing my hands on the bumper, I try to get a better look. My best guess is something with the transmission. I took this car since I knew Enzo had just taken it that morning from someone who owed the familia, so they wouldn’t have had time to put a tracker on it. Looks like the previous owner sucked at regular maintenance.

A rumble of thunder breaks the still silence and I scan the skies. They’re clear, but I’ve heard about the freak storms that happen in this area. The rumble grows louder, and it’s not coming from any storm, I realize. It’s coming from down the road, the way I came.

I hurry to close the car’s hood, letting it slam without care before getting back into the driver’s seat. Sweat, not just from the stifling heat, ripples down the back of my neck.

So stupid to come this way. It’s the perfect place to get caught by the Santi Pastori. No roads to turn off on. Nowhere to hide. Riccardo or someone will put a bullet between my eyes and dump me on the side of the road. No one will ever find my body.

But I refuse to go without a fight.

Stretching across the center, I open the glovebox. I’d found the small pistol the first night I’d left but hadn’t been willing to touch it. What I know about guns comes solely from the media. Better than nothing, though. I don’t think it has a safety so I’m careful as I try to conceal it by holding it between the seat and door.

The rumble gets louder, echoing off the undulating hills. Looking in the mirror, I frown as a group of motorcycle riders come into view.

I know motorcycle clubs can be just as dangerous as mafia families, but I don’t know if what I’m seeing is a club or not. More importantly, I don’t know if Santi Pastori has told anybody they’re looking for me.

“Just ride on past, boys,” I breathe out, pressing my back firmly against the hot leather seats. I do my best not to bounce my knee, but the closer the bikers get, the more I want to puke. I eye the black designer tote in the backseat, trying to calculate how much cash I have left and if it’d be enough to bribe them to forget they ever saw me.

Given my fuck-ups and having to pay for everything in cash, I’ve got maybe a grand left. I don’t need to be a mafia don to know that amount of a bribe doesn’t get much traction in these circles.

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