I only let Kendall rest for a few moments after my breakdown, grabbing the two bug-out bags that I've stashed in the pantry in the kitchen. The sound of the zipper tearing through the silence feels deafening, my movements sharp, driven by urgency. The cool metallic pull of the bag in my hands contrasts with the warmth of the dimly lit room, which suddenly feels stifling.
There's so much we'll have to leave behind, but I don't care. The air tastes bitter, like regret, and I shove it aside, focusing on the task.
I walk into the bedroom, my footsteps muffled by the worn carpet. Kendall has her eyes closed, her lashes casting shadows against her pale cheeks. The dark bruises beneath them look like smudged ink, sharp against her too-fair skin.
"We have to go, *principessa*," I say softly, my voice catching on the last syllable. She stirs, slowly sitting up and swinging her legs off the bed. The mattress creaks faintly, a reminder of the fragile moment we're in. She rises cautiously, favoring her left arm. The way she cradles it sends a pang straight through me.
"Try not to move it," I warn her, my voice steadier this time. I sling the bags over my shoulder and take them to the car. The night air bites at my skin, the sharp tang of it waking me up as I toss the bags into the trunk.
Planning to come back and carry her, I turn toward the house, but she follows me instead, each step deliberate and painful. Her breaths come shallow, visible in the cold. When I open the door for her, she lowers herself into the passenger seat with a wince that cuts through me like glass.
I close the door gently and glance toward the horizon. The distant hum of the city feels like it's chasing us as I slide into the driver's seat. The engine growls to life, the vibrations rattling through my grip on the steering wheel.
The drive into the city is tense, the air in the car thick with unspoken fears. Kendall leans her head back against the seat, her face illuminated by passing streetlights. She looks like she's on the edge of unconsciousness, her breaths faint. My jaw tightens, and I bite the insides of my cheeks until the coppery taste of blood reminds me I'm still human.
I should have been there. Should have never left. Or should have taken her with me. I let myself get sloppy, complacent. The guilt claws at me, hot and unforgiving.
And then Marco's man showed up.
The memory flashes through my head-his sneer, the way he went for Kendall. I don't even know who he was, but after I killed him, I kicked him twice, hearing the satisfying crack of ribs breaking under my boot. I wanted to do more, to make him suffer, but Kendall needed me.
I glance over at her again. The bandage on her cheekbone feels like a personal failure. At the time, I was sure she needed stitches, a sling for her dislocated shoulder-maybe more. Now, I'm almost certain I was right. The sharp scent of blood, faint but undeniable, still lingers in the car. I curse myself silently, my hands gripping the wheel so tightly my knuckles ache.
"I'm okay," Kendall says, her voice soft but steady. It breaks through the silence, almost startling me.
"It's okay, Camden."
"It's not," I growl, my voice low and rough. "It's not okay because we were supposed to be safe."
"It's no one's fault. They just... they found us," Kendall says, her voice carrying a calmness that makes my stomach churn. She leans her head back, her exhaustion palpable.
I curse myself again, the anger bubbling beneath my skin, threatening to escape. But I can't afford to lose control. Not now. I focus on the road, the city lights blurring past us like ghosts.
I call Dante on the way to the next safehouse, my fingers trembling slightly as I punch in the number.
"Camden," he answers, his tone clipped.
"I'm heading to the safehouse on Willow, upstate," I bark. My voice bounces off the closed space of the car, startling even me. "Marco found us."
"Shit," Dante curses, the weight of his words hanging heavy between us. "What happened?"
"It was one of his men. The guy dislocated her shoulder. Fucking grazed her with a bullet. He won't be hurting anyone else ever again. I fucking made sure of that." My words come out like a snarl, raw and jagged.
"I'll send a cleaner," Dante says, his tone impassive.
"Forget that. Send a doctor to Willow," I snap, my desperation sharpening the words. I don't usually talk to the *capo* like this, but Dante doesn't react. He knows me too well.
"Got it," he says after a beat. "Are you sure you don't want to bring her here?"
I glance at Kendall, her face slack with exhaustion. The shadows in the car make her look even smaller, more fragile.
"We'll talk about it tomorrow. Just send the doctor." I pause, swallowing the lump in my throat. "Please."
"He's on the way. He'll meet you there."
I hang up, the sound of the call ending ringing in my ears. Kendall doesn't react. Her eyes are closed now, her injured arm resting limply in her lap.
The rest of the drive is a blur. My mind won't stop replaying the image of her pale face, the thought of how close I came to losing her. She could have died.
That thought hits like a fist to the gut. She could have died while I was out getting supplies. The idea makes my hands shake on the wheel, my jaw clenching so hard it aches.
By the time we arrive at the safehouse, the night feels heavier, the quiet oppressive. The small, nondescript house looms in front of us, surrounded by thick woods that seem to swallow the world whole. I carry the bags inside first, the smell of old wood and faint cleaning chemicals hitting me as I step in.
When I come back for Kendall, she's half-asleep, her head resting against the window. This time, I don't give her a choice. I scoop her up, her body warm and limp in my arms. Her hair brushes against my neck as I carry her inside, placing her gently on the worn couch in the living room.
The sound of the knock on the door sends a jolt through me. My gun is in my hand before I even think about it, the weight of it familiar and reassuring.
I glance through the peephole. Jimmy Sawbones stands there, his face a mix of calm indifference and mild impatience.
I let him in, still gripping the gun tightly in my left hand.