CHAPTER 4: The Chase

My hands gripped the steering wheel so tight my knuckles went white.

“Mommy, you’re driving really fast,” Charlotte said from the backseat, voice small and scared.

“I know, baby. It’s okay. We’re just… in a hurry.” My eyes darted to the rearview mirror. The house behind us was lit up now — multiple windows blazing. Bruce knew.

How did he know so fast?

Then I remembered: the security system. Bruce had installed it two years ago, cameras everywhere. Motion sensors on the doors. He’d said it was for protection.

It was for control.

“Mommy, I’m scared.”

“Don’t be scared, sweetheart. Everything’s fine.” My voice cracked on the lie.

My phone rang. Bruce’s name lit up the screen.

I rejected the call.

It rang again immediately.

Again.

Again.

I turned the phone off with shaking hands and threw it on the passenger seat.

The dark streets of our upscale neighborhood blurred past. Three in the morning. No traffic. Just me, Charlotte, and the crushing weight of what I’d just done.

I’d left. Actually left. After five years of thinking about it, dreaming about it, talking myself out of it — I’d finally done it.

Terror and exhilaration warred in my chest.

We hit the main road. I turned randomly, no destination in mind, just away, away, away. I’d figure out where we were going once we had distance. Maybe a women’s shelter? Did those exist in real life or just in movies?

I should have planned better. Should have researched. Should have —

Headlights appeared behind me.

My heart stopped.

No. No, no, no. It was just a car. A random car on the road at 3 AM. It didn’t mean anything.

The car accelerated, closing the distance between us.

I pressed the gas harder. The Civic wasn’t built for speed, but it tried.

The car behind us matched pace.

“Mommy?” Charlotte’s voice pitched higher. “Why are we going so fast?”

“It’s okay, baby. Just close your eyes. Try to sleep.”

“I can’t sleep!”

The car behind us turned on its high beams, flooding my rearview mirror with blinding light. I squinted, trying to see, trying to think.

It had to be Vincent. Bruce’s driver, bodyguard, attack dog. The man who’d always given me looks that made my skin crawl. Who’d once told me, “Mr. Smith takes care of his property,” in a tone that suggested I was property too.

I took a sharp right turn onto a side street. The car followed.

They were definitely following.

My mind raced. I couldn’t go to the police — Bruce would spin some story about his mentally ill wife kidnapping their daughter. He had lawyers. Money. Connections. I had nothing.

I couldn’t go to my parents — they’d side with Bruce, with the money, with their saved company.

I had nowhere to go and a four-year-old in the backseat who was crying now, scared by the car chase she was too young to understand.

“It’s okay, Charlotte. Mommy’s got you. I’ve got you.” My voice broke.

The roads got narrower as I drove, leaving the well-lit neighborhoods for darker, industrial areas. I had no idea where I was. Just kept turning, kept driving, kept praying.

The car behind us didn’t give up.

My phone — powered off on the passenger seat — suddenly lit up. A text notification somehow pushed through.

Bruce: Bring Charlotte home NOW. This doesn’t have to get ugly.

Another: You have nowhere to go, Emma. No money. No friends. I’ll find you. I always find you.

Another: Think about Charlotte. Think about what this will do to her.

My vision blurred with tears. I blinked them away furiously. I couldn’t break down. Not now.

I took another turn — sharper this time. Too sharp. The Civic’s tires squealed. Charlotte screamed.

We fishtailed but I managed to control it, heart in my throat.

The car behind us wasn’t as lucky. I heard the screech of brakes, saw the headlights swerve in my rearview mirror.

It bought me maybe thirty seconds.

I floored it, the Civic rattling with the effort. We flew down a dark road lined with warehouses and chain-link fences. No streetlights. Just the cone of my headlights and the darkness pressing in.

Where was I? I didn’t recognize this area at all.

Ahead, something in the road.

My headlights caught it: a motorcycle. Stopped in the middle of the road. A figure standing beside it.

I slammed on the brakes, the Civic skidding.

The man jumped back.

The motorcycle went down.

My car stopped inches from both.

For a moment, nobody moved. I sat there, breathing hard, hands still locked on the steering wheel. Charlotte sobbed in the backseat.

The man — tall, broad, wearing a leather jacket — straightened slowly. He stared at me through the windshield.

I’d almost killed him.

Behind us, the headlights of Vincent’s car appeared at the end of the road.

I looked at the man I’d almost hit. Looked at the car bearing down on us. Looked at Charlotte crying in the backseat.

I had maybe ten seconds to decide.

I threw the car into park, killed the engine, and stumbled out on shaking legs.

The man — I could see him better now, tattooed arms, dark hair, a face that was handsome in a hard, dangerous way — stared at me.

“I’m sorry,” I gasped. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to —”

Then he saw it: the split lip from three days ago that I’d covered with makeup. The bruise on my wrist from earlier tonight. The way I positioned myself between him and the car, protecting Charlotte even from a stranger.

His expression changed.

Behind us, Vincent’s car was getting closer.

He looked at me. Looked at Charlotte crying in the backseat. Looked at the approaching headlights.

He made a decision.

“You running from someone?” His voice was rough, deep, commanding.

I couldn’t speak. Just nodded.

“Get your daughter. Now.”

I didn’t question it. I ran to the backseat, unbuckled Charlotte who clung to me, sobbing.

The man righted his motorcycle with practiced ease. “This thing got a sidecar?”

“Yes,” I whispered, seeing it now — a small attached seat.

“Put her in there. You get on behind me.”

“I don’t —”

“That car’s thirty seconds away. You want to have this conversation now?”

I strapped Charlotte into the sidecar, her sobs turning to hiccups. “Mommy, who is he?”

“A friend, baby. Hold on tight to Mr. Hoppy, okay?”

The man swung onto the bike and looked back at me. “You ever ride before?”

“No.”

“Arms around my waist. Hold on tight. Don’t let go no matter what. Got it?”

I climbed on behind him, my arms wrapping around a complete stranger. He was solid, warm, real.

The engine roared to life.

Vincent’s car was ten seconds away.

“Hold on,” the man growled.

The bike shot forward.

We flew down the dark road, the wind whipping my hair, my arms locked around the stranger’s waist. Charlotte squealed in the sidecar — scared or excited, I couldn’t tell.

Behind us, Vincent’s car tried to follow, but the bike was faster, more maneuverable. He took turns I didn’t even see coming, navigating the industrial maze like he’d been born in it.

Five minutes later, we’d lost them.

He slowed the bike, eventually pulling into what looked like a warehouse parking lot. He killed the engine.

Silence.

My whole body shook. I couldn’t let go of him. My arms were locked, frozen.

“Hey,” he said, voice gentler now. “You’re safe. Let go.”

My arms finally released. I slid off the bike on numb legs, immediately moving to Charlotte.

She looked up at me with huge eyes. “That was scary, Mommy.”

“I know, baby. I know.” I pulled her from the sidecar and held her close.

The man watched us, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“Thank you,” I whispered. “I don’t know why you helped us, but —”

“Who was chasing you?”

I hesitated.

“Lady, I just put myself between you and whatever shit you’re running from. Least you can do is tell me what I signed up for.”

He had a point.

“My husband,” I said quietly. “His bodyguard, actually. But same thing.”

The man’s jaw tightened. His eyes swept over me again — the bruises, the split lip, the way I held Charlotte like someone might rip her away at any moment.

“He hurt you.”

It wasn’t a question.

I nodded anyway.

He looked at me for a long moment. Then he sighed, ran a hand through his dark hair, and muttered something that sounded like “I’m going to regret this.”

“Come on,” he said. “I’ve got a place you can crash for the night. Somewhere safe.”

“I don’t even know your name.”

He looked at me then, really looked at me, and I saw something in his dark eyes that made my breath catch. Not pity. Something harder. Something protective.

“Enzo,” he said. “Enzo Romano. President of the Giants MC.”

My eyes dropped to his leather jacket. I’d been too panicked to notice before, but now I saw them: patches. Insignia. The club’s symbol — a roaring giant.

I’d just thrown myself and my daughter at the mercy of a motorcycle club president.

I should have been terrified.

Instead, for the first time in five years, I felt something that might have been hope.

“I’m Emma,” I whispered. “Emma Winters.”

Enzo nodded, already moving back to his bike. “Let’s get you off the street, Emma Winters. We can figure out the rest later.”

He started the engine.

I climbed on behind him again, Charlotte secured in the sidecar.

As we rode into the darkness, away from Bruce, away from everything I’d ever known, I allowed myself one thought:

Maybe I can actually do this.