A Mafia Romance

Alan

ALAN

I have to give Melissa credit: she’s a trooper. She’s not used to dodging; her grunts of exertion make that clear. But I’m really glad she got over it with a little encouragement.

Another rope ladder is set up a hundred yards past the culvert. She climbs first; she’s better going up though she whimpers her way.

I end up tying the suitcase to the bottom of the ladder and pulling it up after me. We emerge from behind some evergreen bushes into a small park. “This way,” I take her hand again, leading her through an empty playground.

At last we reach the curb, where my escape vehicle is waiting. It’s a big, completely nondescript panel truck, the sort you see making deliveries day and night all over the country. Inside, it’s full of surprises, but right now, it’s the heated cab and powerful engine that will serve us the most.

She stares when I roll up the rear door to toss her suitcase into the back. There’s plenty of room in there, almost like a camper van—except heavily insulated and armored. I set the purple case inside and close it up. “Let’s get out of here.”

The engine rumbles to life on the first try, and the heaters start blowing warm air. Melissa sighs with relief shivering beside me, but she doesn’t open her eyes until we’ve been underway for over a minute.

“You okay?” I ask her, and she nods mutely.

“I’m getting there,” she manages several seconds later and surreptitiously wipes her eyes. “Just really glad you know what you’re doing.”

“Yeah, well, I’m just glad you didn’t choke on me. Not really anyway. But I’m still trying to figure out how the hell they found us.”

“I have no idea. Did they see your face? My father has some decent computer and tech guys. Benny is one of them—when he’s not k********g people.” She sounds so miserable.

“Maybe. But I don’t think so. This place isn’t even under my name, and the landlord doesn’t have my photo on file.”

It’s a real concern. Somehow they managed to find us. And if it wasn’t for some stranger shining their flashlight on my blinds, I wouldn’t have seen that procession of black cars about to make the turn across the culvert onto my street.

“But somehow they found us—and someone gave us a warning as well. And I have no idea who it was.” I think back to the person on top of the parking structure, mulling the possibilities as I drive us down the almost-deserted street.

Right now, as we talk, the f*****g mobsters are probably tearing apart my rental house looking for anything personal—anything that can tell them who I am or who my associates are. Joke’s on them; anything that’s remotely personal is in safe deposit boxes and secure storage units outside of Lloyd. It still feels like a violation, and deep down, it’s still pissing me off.

Should Melissa’s be the one to be angry with? If she made a mistake, it was probably unintentional. So with a gentle voice, I say, “No to be accusing, but I have to ask you a few questions.”

She tenses beside me, but it’s not a surprise. Women who have been brutalized by men expect more of the same from other men, especially when things get tense. Fortunately, I’m not some brute who turns on women like that, even if they screw up.

“Did you tell anyone where you were, even by accident?” My voice is calm and my eyes are on the road. “It’s okay if you did, but I need to know.”

“I told my friends in Montreal there is a delay, but with no specifics.” She double checks her phone. “I didn’t share my location to anyone, by accident or otherwise.”

“Do you have your GPS or Wi-Fi on?” I don’t know huge amounts about electronics outside of automotive computer and electrical systems. But basic phone security is pretty straightforward—and yet not widely known enough.

“No, I’ve been keeping it in airplane mode when I’m not using it because my father keeps calling. I just check for messages from authentic friends occasionally.” She gives me a nervous look. “Could they have tracked it?”

“Not likely,” That means we still have no damn idea how he tracked her. Electronics, maybe? “Does your dad always seem to know where you are?”

“It’s never came up. He never let me go out without an escort.” Her voice shakes.

“Oh.” Damn. “We found a LoJack on the car I stole. If your dad likes to put tracking devices on his possessions, and he thinks you’re one of them...we may need to check your stuff.”

A soft sound of dismay. At once, a deep ache stabs through my chest and I want a chance to hide her in my arms again.

Holding her felt so f*****g right that if she wasn’t a traumatized virgin recovering from being drugged, I would have seduced her right there. I still want to.

“It’s okay,” I encourage almost reflexively, my voice going deeper with a hint of desire. “Everything besides your phone is tucked inside a giant metal box right now that serves as a Faraday cage. No tracking signal can get through.”

She relaxes. “That makes me feel better. But wouldn’t I have found a tracker while I sewed the stash pockets?”

“That makes the most sense. He knew you would use it if you ever ran away. They have all sorts of designs. It could be in the damn luggage tags.”

We’ve made it to the highway. “Guess we’re on our way to Montreal sooner than expected,” I sigh. “Anyway, we’ll go back and look once I have gotten us a good lead out of town. How much money are you carrying?”

“Twelve forty-thousand-dollar straps of hundreds, plus my Mom’s jewelry and all of his.” She sounds a little proud, and I laugh.

She’s got the makings of a great thief.

“You cleaned him out! Good. Keep your mother’s ornaments, though. I can fence his in Montreal if you want.”

“Yeah. I don’t want anything of his.” Her voice is unyielding. She’s recovering.

“We have about four and a half hours on I-87. Alas, we’ll need to have a layover so a friend can furnish us with the right IDs. He’s in Champlain, near the border.” The wind picks up, and I fight it for a moment before going on.

“They also ran up on us in the middle of the night, so I’m bushed. I suggest we stop and search your suitcase down the road, and then get some rest.”

“Is that safe?” Her voice rises with worry.

“It’s safer than driving up to Champlain this late when we’re both worn out. And if you pull your bag out of the back before we check it, your dad will know where you are if it’s tagged. It’s best he doesn’t know what city we’re hiding out in.”

It’s more complicated. I can’t stand the idea of a live tracker in the vehicle I call home. Especially since the last of Lucca’s trackers most likely had a f*****g bomb attached to it.

“That makes sense. And I should probably rest. I still feel kind of sick.” She rubs her eyes.

“I have more sports drinks in the back,” I reassure her. “Up past Saugerties, there are many back roads in the woods. We can stash the truck there and rest.”

“Okay,” she murmurs, exhaustion plain in her voice.

It starts to snow thinly as we make our way north. I turn the heater up a notch and put the Stones on low to keep us awake. Beside me, Melissa dozes, only to look up sometimes with a huff, as if she’s forgotten where she is.

“So these friends in Montreal, do you know them well?” I’m mostly asking to pass the time, but it would also be nice to know if she’s going somewhere safe.

“We’ve been talking for six months online,” she murmurs, staring out the window. “They think I’m running from an ex.”

“Close enough. You’re not worried they will have second thoughts if they find out who precisely you’re running from?” It’s a justifiable apprehension.

“I will not be in their hair long enough,” she protests...and then goes quiet, probably remembering what happened. “Why?”

“I don’t want to hand you off to them and then find out you’re stranded.” She’s been through enough crap.

“Thank you for being so thoughtful. But I trust them. I wouldn’t have gotten up the courage to leave without them.” And yet...she still sounds troubled.

That’s good. I hate being the one to burst her bubble. Internet friends aren’t always the people we think they are—not in the catfish sense, but in the day-to-day dependability sense.

“I glad they helped you. Sorry if I seem suspicious, but that’s how you stay alive in my line of work.” I stifle a yawn as we keep driving.

By the time we pass Saugerties and drive into the mix of forests, ranches, and tiny towns beyond, my head is throbbing, and Melissa is out like a light. She breathes softly as she leans her head against the window. I get off the highway and into one of the winding roads leading through the countryside.

I find us a hollow by a rushing creek, and park under a pine tree that’s lightly dusted with snow. I set the brake and parking brake and turn the engine off.

“Hey, wake up, Sleeping Beauty, we’re parked. I have an actual bed you can sleep in. Come on.”

She stirs, her eyes open, and she gives me a distressed look again—like she’s still not used to waking up liberated.

“Oh,” she murmurs after taking a moment to sort out what I said. “Good.”

I get out to help her into the back. There’s just one bed back there, but all I can expect out of our fatigue is a cuddle. That thought alone makes me smile with anticipation.