Page 30 of Crowned

I kick the shelving by the restroom door with all my strength. It’s so old and rusted through that it immediately collapses, right across the doorway, barring Kirill and Elyah’s way.

Elyah swears and immediately grasps the twisted metal, trying to push it away, but there’s so much wreckage and it’s jammed. “Lilia.”

Kirill meets my gaze through the jumble of broken shelving and cans. His black eyes flash with fury.

And then he smiles. It’s the twisted smile of a villain who realizes the chase isn’t over yet and there are many more miles to run. He jabs two fingers into his throat either side of his windpipe and then points at me.

You’re dead.

Then he blows me a kiss, and I swear I can feel the ghost of his lips against mine. I don’t linger over the sensation. My heart beating wildly, I turn and run.

A line of trees and thick hedges behind the gas station are the only obstacles between me and the three narrow roads tucked behind the greenery. A truck towing a tractor is trying to pass a car on one of the lanes. I race across a strip of grass, toward the tractor, and reach up and open the door, praying both of the drivers are too deep in their argument to notice me. I pull myself up and into the cab and close the door behind me, all while the two drivers are shouting at each other in French. The floor of the tractor is covered in mud and bits of straw and grass, and I lay down on it with my head pillowed on my handbag.

The truck driver guns the engine, and we move off. With my heart thundering in my ears, I strain for the sound of deep Russian voices shouting for the driver to stop.

* * *

Coffee,pastry, and scrambled eggs. Everything tastes more delicious when you’re free. It’s morning and I’m sitting in a tiny motel restaurant after an anxious night, trying to figure out what happens next.

Operation Hide from the Russian Mafia, version 3.0.

Back in Trieste, I pawned three of the plain diamonds from Konstantin's tiara. So after hiding inside the tractor yesterday, I disappeared into a small town and used some of the leftover cash at a nearby thrift store. I bought jeans, a thick sweater, a baseball cap, and a backpack.

This morning I went out and purchased a burner phone and a second-hand laptop. I boot the laptop up and check my email address, typing the login details with shaking fingers. Did my plan with the jeweler and the Mafia Veneta work?

I nearly punch the air as I see a bunch of email notifications telling me that six million dollars’ worth of cryptocurrency has been deposited in an escrow account. Someone from the Mafia Veneta has contacted me to ask the location of the remaining fifteen diamonds.

Grinning from ear to ear, I type out a reply, telling them that the diamonds are located in the safe of a particular room in a Trieste hotel. They should ask for Tomas Szabo at the desk, and he will give them the room key.

For the next forty-five minutes, I drink coffee and chew my fingernail, checking my email every so often. If they disappear with my diamonds without releasing the funds, I’m screwed.

Finally, an email pops up. Six million dollars of cryptocurrency has been released into my account.

Six million dollars.

I’ve never had more than a few hundred under my personal control at any one time. This money is more than I ever dreamed of.

It’s not just my money, though. The women who suffered with me in the cellar, they earned this money too. I do the math in my head. Split sixteen ways, six million dollars is nearly four hundred thousand dollars each, and that’s enough for me if I can get a job as well. The money can in no way undo the terror of the days we were held as captives, but it’s something to help the women get back on their feet. But how do I track all the women down when I only know their first names? Only a handful of them have come forward to the press, and how would I get the money to them?

But that’s a problem for later.

Hugging my cup of coffee in one hand, I navigate to a map of Europe. Where to next? I don’t want to return to the United States, and I don’t want my passport scrutinized too closely at international borders. If I stay within the European Union where there are no hard borders and travel by road and train, I might be able to pass from country to country without anyone so much as glancing at my passport, let alone recording my movements.

My eyes rove over the mountain ranges and unfamiliar cities as I take a sip of coffee, wondering where might be safe for me and the baby. My other hand is cupping my stomach.

“What do you think, little bean?” I murmur, staring at the screen. “You don’t know? Me neither. So how about we let fate decide?”

I close my eyes, circle my pointer finger over the map, and jab it at the screen.

When I move my hand and read the name of the city, it says Prague, in Czechia.

I stare at the name for several minutes, trying to remember if I know anything about Prague, but I come up with nothing. I don’t even know anyone who’s been there.

An internet search shows me pictures of a beautiful old city overlooked by a castle. Cobblestone bridges cross a wide blue river. A gothic clock overlooks a place called Wenceslas Square.

As I scroll through the images of the ancient city, a sense of peace washes over me. Prague is a place of beauty far from everything I’ve ever known. When I look up the cost of living, I’m thrilled to find it’s cheaper than home.

I stop scrolling and navigate back to the map, searching for a route to Prague via train. I’m currently in the countryside outside Reims, and I’ll have to make my way to Dijon before crossing through southern Germany and then into Czechia. A grueling fifteen-hour journey to travel six hundred miles, but no rental company will let me drive a car out of France, and they’ll require ID and a credit card. Better that I buy train tickets with cash and keep my baseball cap pulled low.

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