Page 24 of The Mafia King's Lost Son
I jerk the wheel hard to the right and our car jumps the curb, bouncing over someone’s lawn and nearly hitting a mailbox. Luca screams in the backseat and I’m screaming too as I fight to keep control.
The SUV swerves at the last second and misses us by inches. It keeps going down the street and disappears around the corner like nothing happened.
My car stalls out on the lawn and I sit there shaking so hard I can barely unbuckle my seatbelt.
“Mama?” Luca’s crying now. “Mama, what happened? Did that car try to hit us?”
I twist around to check on him and he’s fine. Scared but fine. No blood, no injuries, just tears streaming down his face.
“It’s okay, baby.” I climb into the backseat and pull him against me. “You’re okay. We’re both okay. That driver just wasn’t paying attention.”
That car didn’t accidentally swerve at us. It was a message. A warning.
We know where you are. We can get to you anytime we want.
The homeowner comes running out demanding to know what the hell I’m doing on his lawn, and I apologize and move the car and drive home with hands that won’t stop shaking.
That night after I’ve checked Luca over for the tenth time and read him three bedtime stories and promised him we’re safe and nobody’s going to hurt us, I tuck him into bed and watch him fall asleep.
His room is the same as always. Toys scattered on the floor. Drawings taped to the walls. His nightlight glowing softly in the corner shaped like a rocket ship.
Normal and safe—everything I’ve worked so hard to give him.
I kiss his forehead and whisper that I love him, then I close his door and triple-check every lock in the apartment. Windows, front door, back door. The deadbolt I installed myself last year. None of it is going to be enough.
In my bedroom, I retrieve the piece of paper Tom gave me from my jacket pocket and sit on the edge of my bed staring at those ten digits.
The gun I keep under my pillow is right there. Loaded and ready. But what good is a gun against people who can make deaths look like accidents? Who can find you no matter where you run?
I pick up my phone and my hands are shaking so badly I almost drop it.
This is insane. Calling him is insane. Walking back into that world after six years of running is the worst idea I’ve ever had.
But staying here means dying. Means my son dying. And I’ve fought too hard to let that happen now.
I dial the number before I can talk myself out of it and press the phone to my ear. My heart is pounding so hard I can barely hear the ringing over the blood rushing in my ears.
It rings once. Twice. Three times.
Maybe he won’t answer. Maybe he changed his number years ago and this whole thing is pointless.
Then a voice answers. Rough and gravelly and exactly the same as it was six years ago when he told me to disappear.
“Dante Moretti.”
For a second I can’t speak. I can’t even breathe. I can’t do anything but stand there with my phone pressed to my ear and remember everything I’ve spent six years trying to forget.
That voice. Those grey eyes. The way he looked at me before I ran.
“I need help.” The words come out steadier than I feel. “Please. Someone’s trying to kill me and I don’t know who else to call.”
Silence on the other end. Long enough that I think maybe he hung up or doesn’t remember or doesn’t care.
Then his voice comes through, different now. Sharper. Alert.
“Scarlett.”
My breath catches. He recognized me. Just from my voice. After six years, he knew exactly who I was the second I spoke.
