Chapter 6

Cecilia's POV

I hunched forward, knuckles bleaching white where they clamped the handlebars.

The frigid winter wind sliced straight through my parka and the flimsy slip dress beneath it, stinging my skin like shards of ice, but I didn't dare slow down.Not for a second.

The grim industrial sprawl of the Meatpacking District faded rapidly behind me.

I'd chosen my escape route deliberately, weaving toward the dense residential blocks with narrow, car-choking alleys, banking on the terrain to shield me from pursuit.

Seven minutes in, the brutal industrial streets softened.

Buildings shrank shorter, warm pinpricks of light glowed from apartment windows, and the endless stretch of empty pavement finally broke up.

I counted the time in my head.

It had probably been fifteen minutes already, and I was still unharmed.

A fragile, stupid flicker of hope bloomed in my chest.

I did it. I outran them.

I'd escaped the Meatpacking District's trap. I'd survived their little manhunt.

The second I let myself believe that, I heard it.

A low, throaty motorcycle engine, cutting clean through the wind and my scooter's roar. Fast. Closing in.

My blood turned to ice.

I snarled a litany of curse words under my breath.

I'd memorized every narrow alley, every pedestrian cut-through, every tight bend that would box in a vehicle.

I thought the opening chase they mentioned was limited to four-wheeled vehicles. I didn't expect them to actually have motorcycles.

The sharp crack of a gunshot split the frozen night air before I could process the thought.

It wasn't a warning shot. It was a kill shot.

The bullet slammed into the corrugated metal fence inches from my right shoulder, the displaced wind whipping my hair across my face.

Sparks sprayed into the darkness, bright and fleeting, and I jolted hard, swerving the scooter to avoid slamming into the barrier.

"Are you insane?" I yelled into the empty night, terror sharpening my voice into a hysterical snap.

No one answered with words. Another bullet clipped the street sign directly above my head, metal screeching, and then came the sound I'd dreaded most—lazy, unhurried laughter.

They were enjoying this. Chasing me, scaring me, shooting at me like I was nothing more than a stray cat to toy with before they killed me.

Rage burned hot enough to override my terror, clear and sharp.

I wasn't dying tonight. Not for their sick entertainment.

I jerked the scooter left without a single glance, no time for turn signals.

I darted into a cramped service alley wedged between two abandoned warehouses, ice coating the pavement.

The scooter's rear wheel fishtailed violently, skidding across the frost, and I fought to correct my balance, my knee nearly scraping the concrete before I hauled the bike upright.

My heart hammered so hard it throbbed in my throat, every breath coming in ragged gasps.

My only advantage.

I knew every dead end, every hidden passage.

I knew exactly where the pavement broke, where dumpsters blocked wide paths.

I didn't slow down for a single heartbeat.

I wove through two more cramped alleys behind the old fish market, where staggered dumpsters narrowed the path to barely enough space for a small scooter.

Their heavier, high-powered pursuit bikes faltered, forced to slow and weave clumsily around the stacked obstacles.

I heard their engines sputter and throttle back halfway through the tunnel—bulky and unfit for such tight, cluttered terrain.

They were stuck. I was free.

I kept riding for six more blocks, only finally cutting the engine in a dim, deserted parking structure.

My hands shook so violently I could barely kick down the scooter's stand.

I slumped forward over the handlebars, gasping for air, my entire body trembling with leftover adrenaline and crippling fear.

My knee stung sharply; a raw, bleeding scrape had torn through my dress's thin fabric.

One of my false lashes hung lopsided off my lid, and I ripped it off roughly, tossing it onto the concrete floor.

I was alive. Barely.

But I knew better than to think the danger was over.

Worse, there was a far deadlier loose end hanging over my head—the birthmark on my shoulder blade.

He'd seen it. I'd caught his gaze, slow and deliberate, fixed on that unique mark.

He'd memorized it. Catalogued it. It was only a matter of time before he used it to hunt me down.

I needed it covered. Now.

I knew one place—an all-night tattoo parlor on the district's south side, a grungy little hole-in-the-wall that asked no questions and took only cash.

I'd passed it a hundred times, never daring to step foot inside, but that night I had no choice.

The overnight artist, Terrence, barely glanced up when I stumbled in. He took in my bloodied knee, my wind-chapped face, my shaken state, and deadpanned one word: "Cash."

"Obviously," I croaked out.

I'd already settled on a design: a dense, black mandragora flower, intricate and dark, large enough to completely swallow my birthmark.

The needle bit into my raw, adrenaline-exhausted skin, sharp and unrelenting.

I stared at the water-stained ceiling, breathing through every flinch, pushing away the thought of green eyes still searching for me across the city.

By the time Terrence wrapped my fresh tattoo, the night had faded into pale, gray dawn.

I sank onto the shop's outdoor bench, phone trembling in my hands.

I had to call Danny.

I needed three days—three days to hide, to regroup.

He answered on the second ring, his tone tight and uncharacteristically tense.

"Jinx."

I forced my voice to sound steady, casual. "Hey, Danny. I'm not feeling well. I need three days off, okay?"

A heavy, loaded pause stretched between us. My stomach dropped instantly.

"Jinx," he repeated, lower, quieter, laced with dread. "Listen to me carefully. I can't approve your leave."

Fear coiled tight in my chest. "Why not?"

His voice dropped to a reverent, terrified murmur, every word sending a fresh wave of cold through my bones.

"Sir Moretti is coming back next week."