Chapter 43 - The Flight Path
The reality of Vincent’s words settled over me like a suffocating shroud.
A wife. On paper, under Italian law and the ancient codices of the five families, a legal wife held veto power over family asset distribution until the heir reached the age of majority. Vincent hadn't just forged a travel document; he had bound my legal existence to his empire to insulate Maya from the Commission.
"You did this without asking me," I said, my voice dangerously low.
"There was no time to ask for permission to save her life," he replied coldly, keeping both eyes on the dark highway. "Antonio’s decree of extermination applies to bastards and collateral bloodlines. It does not allow him to execute the Dowager or the legal spouse without a unanimous vote of the Seven Capos. It buys us time."
"I never asked to be part of your mafia war, Vincent! I took a job five years ago to raise a motherless girl. I loved her when you didn't even know she existed!"
"And you think I don't know that?" Vincent’s voice cracked, the first true display of raw, unvarnished agony he had ever shown me. He glared into the rearview mirror, his knuckles white against the wheel. "You think I don't see how she looks at you? You gave her five years of peace while I was swimming in sewage and blood to make a world where she could breathe. Don't talk to me about love, Elena. Everything I have destroyed—including my own soul—was for her."
Maya stirred between us, her little hand reaching out to touch Vincent’s shoulder from behind the driver’s seat.
"Daddy..." she whispered weakly. "Don't yell at Mommy."
Vincent’s shoulders dropped instantly. The terrifying monster who had cold-bloodedly pinned Dante to a doorframe evaporated, replaced by a broken man terrified of his own shadow.
"I’m not yelling, little bird," Vincent said softly, his voice trembling as he reached back to gently squeeze her tiny fingers. "Daddy is just... trying to find a safe place to sleep."
"I want to go home," she whimpered.
"Soon, Maya. I promise."
Vincent glanced at the GPS dashboard. We were twenty kilometers from the border of the Alpes-Maritimes when the console screen abruptly glitched, flickering with green static before shifting to a single incoming satellite frequency.
A text notification appeared: *COMMISSION TRACKER ACTIVE: CHASSIS 09.*
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Vincent swore in Sicilian, jerking the wheel to the right. "They aren't tracking our phones. They placed a transponder on the van’s fuel tank."
Before I could ask who, two pairs of high-beam headlights flared to life on the dark ridge behind us, accelerating at breakneck speed down the mountain pass.
