Page 1 of Single Mom's Navy Seals
AVALINA
I’ve done a lot of questionable things in my twenty-two years of life, but sneaking out of my own house, four months pregnant with a duffel bag and a flash drive that could get me killed, has to top the list.
I check the clock on my phone, 2:17 a.m., and steady my shaky breath as I edge open the patio door inch by inch. My fingers grip the handle, hoping to God Randy’s guards are as careless as usual after midnight. They’re usually too busy playing cards and chain-smoking on the far side of the garden, and if luck is finally swinging my way for once, that’s exactly where they’ll be tonight.
“Please let them be idiots,” I whisper to myself as I step barefoot onto the cool marble patio, the polished stone making my skin prickle. Immediately, the smoky scent of their cigarettes drifts my way, and my heart bangs louder inside my chest.
I freeze, listening to their low voices drift from somewhere near the edge of the pool. They’re joking about something gross, which is typical, but their attention is elsewhere. I’ve only got one shot at this. I slip around the side of the house, hugging the shadowed walls as if my life depends on it. Because, well, it does.
This was not the glamorous mafia princess life I had been promised, nor did I ever believe it would be. Marrying Randy Montague at nineteen was never about love or romance. It was about my father securing his place on the ladder by handing his daughter to the biggest monster available. Randy is twenty-three years older than I am. He’s vicious, and—lucky me—he’s never been shy about demonstrating exactly how ruthless he can be.
I swallow the bitter lump in my throat, touching my belly. This little bump is the reason I finally found my backbone. My baby deserves more than a mother who lies awake every night wondering if her husband’s enemies will storm the gates and slit her throat. This kid deserves playgrounds, peanut butter sandwiches, and bedtime stories. Not bulletproof cars, silent dinners, and a mother who can’t look herself in the mirror anymore.
Slipping my fingers into my pocket, I feel the comforting presence of the flash drive tucked safely inside. I spent weeks spying on Randy’s meetings, logging into his laptop while he showered, and screenshotting every incriminating document I could find. I even recorded a few heated conversations where he bragged openly about his ties to the cartel and corrupt cops. Stupid asshole. For someone so cautious, he sure loved to talk himself up.
A flash of headlights around the corner jolts me back to the present. Crap. One of Randy’s patrol cars? They’re supposed to be gone, not circling the neighborhood. My heart nearly stops. I duck behind the hedge and crouch low, clutching my stomach protectively. The nausea rising up my throat isn’t morning sickness, though. It’s pure, unfiltered terror.
“Breathe, Lina,” I whisper, forcing myself to count down from ten. If I panic, Randy wins. I’ll be damned if I let him have thatpower anymore. This baby has already given me more strength than I’ve ever had, and I refuse to fail now.
The headlights pass by without slowing, and I wait another heartbeat or two before slipping on my shoes and bolting toward the iron gate. Thankfully, it’s unlocked, and I slip through silently. My feet hit the pavement, and for the first time tonight, I let myself smile. Half a mile to go and I’m out of this nightmare forever.
But nothing is ever that simple, is it? My feet throb against the rough sidewalk as I hurry toward the meeting spot, half a mile down the quiet suburban street. The only sound besides my breathing is the distant hum of the freeway and the faint buzzing of streetlights overhead. Each step grows heavier, like my body is catching up to the weight of my choice.
My stomach knots tighter, and I rest my hand over the tiny swell beneath my loose sweatshirt. It's funny how four months ago, my only worry was surviving another day with Randy and the mafia circus surrounding him. Now, my every thought is wrapped around this tiny person growing inside me. This baby changed everything. Suddenly, enduring another day of Randy’s cold smiles and violent temper wasn't just unbearable, it was no longer an option.
I glance down at my leather flats, now scraped from gravel and covered in dirt, and try not to let the anxiety distract me. It is nothing compared to the fear of staying trapped in that luxurious prison Randy called our home. To think that my father once called marrying Randy an “honor” makes me physically sick.
My father. The thought of him sends a surge of bitterness through my chest, sour and choking. He may have given me life,but he stole it away when he forced me into Randy’s arms at nineteen. Before that, my childhood was simple but happy. My mother and I had barely scraped by, living in tiny apartments and wearing secondhand clothes, but we had laughter. We had love. And I felt safe, a feeling I have long since forgotten.
Then, one rainy night when I was thirteen, a slick road and a careless driver ripped everything away. My mother died, leaving me utterly alone. With no other relatives to take me in, I was shoved straight to him.
Moving across state lines to be with my wealthy, powerful father was supposed to save me. Instead, it handed me over to a world darker and more twisted than any foster home ever could have been. He never loved me, never even pretended to care. I was merely a bargaining chip, useful only for advancing in the mafia ranks.
Now, years later, I am returning the favor. I grip the flash drive tightly, feeling its sharp edge biting into my palm. It isn’t just Randy’s sins on this tiny device. My father’s name is written all over it, too. It should hurt to know that tonight I am condemning my own father to a lifetime behind bars, but the truth is, I feel nothing but relief. He betrayed my trust before I even understood what trust really was. Sending him away is justice. For me, for my mother, and especially for my baby.
I see the bus stop ahead, illuminated dimly by a flickering streetlamp. My heart starts racing again, anxiety creeping up my spine. In a matter of minutes, my old life will vanish. The agreement I have with Agent Ben Morales means that I will be entering Witness Protection tonight. When I find him at this bus stop, I know he will be there with a duffel bag and a box of documents that will reinvent who I am. I will become a stranger to myself, hidden in some sleepy town in Vermont, living undera name I haven’t even learned yet. It is terrifying, but still better than staying.
My mind fills with questions I haven’t let myself ask before. Will my baby ever know the truth? Will we live forever looking over our shoulders? But I know one thing for sure, this child won’t grow up surrounded by crime, violence, or men like Randy. If my mother could do her best for me despite having so little, I can certainly find a way to do even better.
The soles of my feet sting with each step as I near the dark sedan parked beneath the broken streetlamp, my supposed savior’s car. Agent Morales isn’t exactly friendly. He’s practically a human buzzkill, but I need him more than I need a sympathetic ear.
He’s leaning against the hood, dressed head-to-toe in black. Even his expression is grim, matching his standard no-nonsense attitude.
“Did anyone follow you?” he asks, pushing off the car as I approach.
I shake my head, breathless. “I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think?” he repeats, raising one skeptical eyebrow. “You realize ‘think’ doesn’t cut it here, right?”
“Look, it’s the best I’ve got,” I snap back, surprising myself with how strong my voice sounds. Maybe it’s hormones or adrenaline, but either way, I’m done playing the scared little wife. “If you want what’s on this drive, you’ll have to take my word for it.”
He stares me down for a tense moment before nodding curtly. “Fine. The flash drive?”
I pull it from my pocket, holding it out to him like it’s a ticking bomb. He takes it, slipping it into an inside pocket of his jacket, before reaching into the car and pulling out a battered duffel bag and a small metal lockbox.
“Clothes, paperwork, prepaid card,” he rattles off, handing them to me one by one. “That card’s loaded for six months. Don’t blow it.”
I snort. “Trust me, I’m not exactly planning a shopping spree.”
