Chapter 45- Running

Chapter 45- Running
ARIA’S POV

I bolted from the bed like it was on fire, the sheets tangling around my ankles. My skin still burned where Alessandro had been—inside me, on me, everywhere. His shirt was the closest thing my hand hit. I yanked it over my head, the cotton sticking to the sweat on my back, the hem barely covering my ass. I didn’t care. I didn’t have time to care.

“Aria!” His voice cracked behind me, raw and ragged, but I was already moving. Bare feet slapping marble, lungs screaming for air. The hallway blurred. The staircase spiraled down like a trap. I hit the foyer at a sprint, the front door looming like freedom.

I didn’t slow. I didn’t think. I just ran.

The air slapped me hard—cold, sharp, real. The Lamborghini sat under the portico, keys still in the igniton. I threw myself behind the wheel, slammed the door, and the engine roared to life with a growl that matched the one in my chest.

Gravel spat under the tires as I floored it. The gates were already opening—motion sensors, thank God—and I shot through them like a bullet. The rearview mirror showed the mansion shrinking. He was coming. I knew it. I could feel him behind me like a shadow I couldn’t outrun.

I was naked under his shirt. Still wet between my legs. Still smelling like sex and him. My thighs trembled. My heart hammered so hard I thought it might crack a rib.

I didn’t look back.

The city swallowed me—horns blaring as I blew through red lights. I didn’t know where I was going until the penthouse tower loomed ahead, all glass and steel and mine. I screeched into the valet lane, tossed the keys at the kid’s chest without a word, and ran.

Barefoot. Disheveled. Lipstick smeared. His bite marks glowing on my neck like brands.

The valet’s mouth opened. Closed. I didn’t wait for questions. I bolted through the lobby, past the doorman who knew better than to speak, into the elevator. The mirrored walls threw my reflection back at me—wild eyes, tangled hair, shirt riding up to flash the curve of my ass. I looked like I’d been fucked and left for dead.

I had.

The penthouse door beeped open. I slammed it shut behind me, locked it, chained it, then ran for the bathroom. The shower scalded me clean in thirty seconds—soap, water, scrub until my skin was raw. I didn’t have time to feel. Didn’t have time to think about how he’d looked at me when he came inside me, like I was the only thing in the world.

I couldn’t think about that.

I dressed like a soldier gearing for war. Black cargo pants. Black hoodie. Black combat boots. Hair twisted into a knot under the hood. I opened the safe behind the mirror—two Glocks, suppressors, extra mags, a knife with a serrated edge. I stuffed it all into a black crossbody bag. Then I grabbed the red dress—blood-red silk, slit to the thigh, backless—and shoved it in too.

Nikolai was going clubbing tonight. VIP at Obsidian. Midnight. Last night in the country before the Volkovs flew home.

Tonight, he died.

I was out the door in under five minutes. The elevator ride down felt like falling. My phone buzzed in my pocket—unknown number. I ignored it. Again. Again. Then a text:

Alessandro: You can’t run far enough.

I deleted it. Stepped into the lobby. The doorman’s eyes flicked to my boots, my bag, the way I moved like I was hunted. I didn’t take the Lambo. Too obvious. I flagged a taxi two blocks down, slid into the back, and gave the driver the name of a dive motel in the warehouse district.

“Cash,” I said. “No questions.”

He didn’t argue.

The motel was a concrete box with flickering neon and a clerk who took my money without looking up. Room 12. Second floor. I locked the door, wedged a chair under the knob, and finally—finally—let myself breathe.

The room smelled like mildew and regret. The bed sagged in the middle. The curtains were thin enough to see shadows move outside. I sat on the edge of the mattress, elbows on knees, and stared at the bag.

“Tonight, I kill Nikolai Volkov.” I said it out loud, just to hear it. To make it real.

My voice didn’t shake. Good.

I opened the bag. Laid everything out like a ritual. Guns. Ammo. Knife. The red dress, folded like a flag. I checked the time—6:47 p.m. Obsidian didn’t heat up until after eleven. I had time. Not much, but enough.

I showered again—cold this time, to wake me up. Dressed in the black, hood up, face shadowed. I looked like a ghost. I felt like one.

My phone buzzed again. I shouldn’t have looked. But I did.

Alessandro: I know where you are.

My blood turned to ice.

Another text, seconds later:

Alessandro: Don’t make me come in there.