Page 2 of The Bratva King

“I understand.”

“Am I still allowed to go into witness protection?” I ask. “What about a baby?”

He offers me a comforting smile. “It doesn't change anything about the program, Gabby. New identity, new social, new birth certificate for a baby when it arrives, same as you. You'd have the kid like anybody else does. Hospital, pediatrician, the whole thing. We've done it before."

I’m not going to cry. "You promise?"

"I promise." He almost smiles. "Kids change the math, but they don't break it."

Relief washes over me. I don’t need a test. I know I’m pregnant. If Matteo finds out, I’ll never get away. It’s been the reason he forces me into his bed every week. I avoided getting pregnant until now, but it finally happened. There were nights I wished it had happened sooner. It would have kept him off me. Maybe.

"Go home." Greg slides the folder into his bag. "I'll be in touch through the usual channel. A week, maybe two."

I pick up the bag from the luxury boutique I often shop at that has a back door. I’ve been shopping there once a week for the past three months. It’s the easiest cover. I grab a couple of items and head to the changing rooms that are in the same hall as the back door that does not have an alarm.

I sneak out, meet with Greg for five minutes, and sneak back in without Matteo knowing. But last week, Matteo questioned me. I’d been gone seven minutes. He noticed. I glance at the Cartier watch on my wrist. Three minutes.

“Don’t forget me, Greg,” I say.

“I would never.”

I leave first, the way I always do. The store is two blocks away. I jog back and sneak in the back door that I’ve left propped open. I smile at one of the customers and carry my bag through the store without making eye contact with the saleswoman.

Then, I push through the front door and onto the sidewalk. My guard looks up from his phone, eyes roaming over me in a way that Matteo would kill him for.

“Your husband is on his way.”

My stomach drops. I tell myself it’s fine. It’s normal. He sometimes insists on picking me up to take me out to eat. He doesn’t know what I’ve been doing.

I stand on the sidewalk and watch the street. I’m calm on the outside. I pretend to be bored, looking at my nails and tapping my foot.

The guard stands a little straighter, and my eyes follow his gaze. The black Mercedes has turned onto the street. I brace myself to deal with Matteo. My husband is cruel. He’ll insult me. Maybe he’ll hit me. I never know what kind of mood he’s in.

I step forward, ready to hop into the passenger seat so he doesn’t have to park for more than thirty seconds. The guard moves to the curb, putting up his hand in case Matteo doesn’t notice us.

I feel the percussion before my brain registers what’s happening.

The Mercedes launches into the air. A fireball. Scorching heat. I’m knocked to the ground. I drop my bag. Someone screams. I realize it’s me. The sound doesn't feel like it's coming from somewhere outside my body.

I feel the heat on my skin and the pain in my hip and along my arm. Little pricks of pain rain down on me. I put my arm over my face when I realize it’s glass. Glass is raining on me. Glass from the storefronts and the car.

I stare at a ball of flame twenty feet away. My ears are ringing. And then, I see my guard. His body is partially in the street. Blood pools beneath him, and his legs are contorted at unnatural angles.

“Miss! Are you okay?”

I stare up at the man standing over me with his phone to his ear. Car alarms fill the air when the ringing in my ear finally quiets. More screams and shouts. I look around and see other bodies littering the sidewalk. A bloody shoe is abandoned in the street. The smell of rubber and gasoline hits me hard, and I nearly vomit.

And then I look at what’s left of the car Matteo had been driving. It’s nothing more than a burning shell. I search for him in the wreckage, but all I see is fire.

I scramble to my feet, ignoring the glass that dug into my palm. I try to run. My legs don’t feel like they’re attached to my body, but I manage to make them move. I don’t know where I’m going, but I have to get away.

The restaurant is ahead. Maybe Greg is still there. My head spins, and I stagger through my dizziness. I bump into a man with his phone out, recording the carnage behind me.

He pushes me off him, but I keep moving, one foot in front of the other. My purse with my phone is gone. Greg’s number. My only hope for salvation is back there.

“Gabriella!”

Arms grab me from behind. I scream and fight, my nails raking down a forearm.