Page 62 of Bloody Vows
I slip out of my room, leaving the lights on and the door closed to avoid suspicion for as long as possible. The hallway is empty, but I know there's a guard posted at the top of the main staircase, another at the front entrance, and at least two more patrolling the house. There will be more out on the grounds.
But I’d be willing to bet that there’s no one posted at the servant's staircase at the back of the house, the one that leads directly to the kitchen. It's narrow and steep, built in the days when the help was expected to be invisible. No one uses it now, but it will take me to the kitchen and out to the back, where if I’m careful, I can creep past the guards watching the grounds and get to freedom. It’s early enough that the nighttime alarms shouldn’t have been engaged yet—I have a sliver of time before the house is officially in sleep mode, with the alarms on and the guards on alert for any movement.
The stairs creak under my weight, and I freeze at every sound, my heart hammering so hard I'm sure the entire house can hear it. But no one comes. No voices call out my name. No one tells me to stop.
I make my way down the old staircase, a little at a time, wincing at the dark and hoping there are no spiders or anything else creepy-crawly down here. When I reach the door to the kitchen, I hesitate, listening for movement from Nora or any other staff that might still be down here this time of night. But there’s silence; Nora must have already gone to bed, and most of the staff is gone or in their rooms for the night by now.
Slowly, I push the door open, easing out into the empty kitchen. I can’t count on the same predictable guard patterns that I know from years of living here—Tristan might have them on different routines, Vitto might have mapped out new paths for them. But outside, as long as I can stay out of sight of the motion-activated lights, I should be able to sneak past.
I’ll have to get to the garage. I need a car if I’m going to put any reasonable distance between myself and Tristan, and if I’m going to get to an ATM quickly enough to get cash before he freezes my card.
I slip outside into the warm Miami night, staying low and keeping to the shadows as I make my way toward the garage.
A half-dozen times at least, I see a guard moving toward my path, and my heart nearly stops. With every ticking minute, Tristan might be emerging from wherever he is, he might be coming home, he might be going to my room. I wait to hear someone yelling from the house, the sound of a door slamming, but there’s only the quiet chirp of nighttime creatures and the soft sound of the breeze. The guards aren’t on edge, even though Tristan has only recently taken over, and they should be more alert. I can see that they move calmly, assuredly. No one is expecting an attack, much less for Tristan’s wife to try to escape.
I slip past the hedges, crouching low near the iron fence around the gardens, moving toward the garage that’s some distance from the house, on the other side of the pool deck. The side door is locked, but I know where the spare key is, and I let myself in, wincing as I close the door behind me and flick on the lights. The guardswillnotice this, quickly, and I have to move fast.
Picking out a car I’m likely to be able to drive is the last thing I’m equipped to do. I open the steel box on the wall that’s full of keys, grabbing for the first one that has the Mercedes symbol on it and praying it’s an automatic and not a stick shift. When I press the button, a black sedan’s lights flash, and I make a beeline for it, throwing open the door and tossing my bag inside as I look around frantically.
Not a stick shift.Okay. I can do this.I swallow hard, knowing that I have minutes to spare, and press the button for the ignition. I hold my breath as the engine purrs to life.
I've never driven a car before. My father always insisted I have a driver, just like any other woman in my position. But I've watched enough times to understand the basics—gas, brake, steering wheel. How hard can it be?
The answer, as it turns out, is very hard.
The car lurches as I try to back out of the garage, and I have to grip the steering wheel with white knuckles to keep from hitting the wall. The pedals are more sensitive than I expected, the steering more responsive. By the time I manage to get the car pointed toward the street, I'm sweating despite the air conditioning.
But I'm out. I'm actually out.
Now I just have to figure out where to go.
The only way I can stay in Miami is if Enzo is willing to help me. It’s a long shot—a gamble, and I don’t know what the odds are that I’ll win. He might turn me away, say that if I’m so unpredictable, if I can’t be trusted to stick to the plan, then this would never have worked.
My resources will be thin. I have my passport, my ID—I could leave the country, but money will be a problem. On my own, I have no defense against whoever Tristan might send to get me back or Konstantin might send to finish me off.
This was stupid. I’m painfully aware of it as I try to navigate the Miami roads, searching for somewhere that might have an ATM. The car jerks and shudders, my pressure on the gas and brakes is either too light or too hard, and I nearly get into an accident twice. My heart is pounding in my ears, my entire body wound tight and flooded with adrenaline. I’ve made a mistake, but I couldn’t stay there any longer. And I can’t go back. I can only imagine what Tristan will do to me after this, if he catches me.
I'm so lost in thought that I almost miss the headlights in my rearview mirror.
At first, I don't think anything of it. It's late, but not so late that other cars wouldn't be on the road. But as I turn onto the highway, the headlights follow. When I change lanes, they change lanes. When I slow down, they slow down.
My mouth goes dry with fear. Someone is following me.
It could be Vitto, or Tristan, or the two of them together. It could be that Tristan alerted Konstantin, and he’s sent someone after me.
Or it could be someone else altogether.
I press down on the gas pedal, and the sedan responds with a surge of acceleration that makes my stomach drop, the car lurching forward. The headlights behind me do the same, staying close, matching my speed.
I need to get off the highway, need to find somewhere public, somewhere safe. I take the next exit, tires squealing as I navigate the off-ramp too fast, my hands shaking on the steering wheel.
But the headlights follow.
The surface streets are darker, more dangerous. I make a series of random turns, the car’s speed choppy as I try to navigate the turns, taking down two garbage cans at the end of a side street when I turn too wide. I’m hoping to lose my pursuer, but they stay with me, sometimes falling back but never disappearing entirely. My heart is racing, my palms slick with sweat. I can’t do this. I have no idea how to do this, and I don’t know how I ever thought I could manage to escape for long.
Panicking, I swerve down a narrow side street, hoping it will take me back to the main road. Instead, it dead-ends in an alley behind a row of closed shops, brick walls rising on either side like prison bars.
I slam on the brakes, the car skidding to a stop just feet from the wall. Behind me, I hear the screech of tires as my pursuer blocks the entrance to the alley, trapping me.
