Caroline POV
The extraction team needed twenty-four hours to clear the offshore accounts and prep the plane.
That meant I had exactly one day left in this purgatory.
"Get dressed," Blake said the next morning.
He didn't ask about my leg. He didn't ask why I was home from the hospital so early.
He looked worse than hungover. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with exhaustion, and his temper was a frayed wire.
"Where are we going?" I asked, adjusting the strap of my sundress over my bandaged shoulder.
"The cemetery," he said, checking his watch impatiently. "It's the anniversary of your mother's death. You always go."
He remembered the date.
He didn't remember my coffee order, but he remembered the date my mother died.
It was theater. Everything with him was a performance for the Family-the dutiful husband escorting his grieving wife.
We took the black sedan. He drove.
The sky was a bruising purple, heavy with unshed rain.
When we arrived at the cemetery, the wind was already whipping the trees into a frenzy.
I got out. The grass was uneven, and my crutches sank into the soft earth.
I made my way to the headstone.
Elena Rossi.
"I'm going to burn it down, Mama," I whispered to the cold granite. "I'm finally leaving."
Blake waited in the car. The engine was still running.
He was on his phone.
I stood there for ten minutes, letting the wind bite exposed skin.
Then, a horn blared.
Once. Sharp. Impatient.
I turned.
He had rolled down the window.
"Get in," he shouted over the rising wind. "Now."
I hobbled back as fast as my injury allowed.
"What is it?" I asked, yanking open the door.
"Ariana," he said. The name was both a curse and a prayer in his mouth.
"What about her?"
"She has a flat tire," he said, putting the car in gear before I even closed the door. "She's stuck in the South Side. Near the Kings' territory."
I stared at him.
"You're joking."
"She's alone, Caroline. She's panicked."
"Call a soldier," I said. "Call Mark. Call AAA."
"She called me," he snapped. "She only trusts me."
"We are at my mother's grave," I said, my voice rising. "A storm is starting. I have a broken leg."
"I'll call you an Uber," he said.
He reached across me and unlatched my door.
"Get out."
The first drops of rain hit the windshield. Heavy. Fat.
"You are leaving me here?" I asked. "In a cemetery? In a storm? For a flat tire?"
"The dead can't hurt you, Caroline," he said, his eyes hard as cold gray flint. "The Kings will hurt her. Get out."
He shoved me.
Not hard. But enough.
I stumbled out of the car. My crutch slipped on the wet pavement.
I caught myself on the door frame.
"Blake," I said. "If you drive away, don't come back."
"Stop with the ultimatums," he growled. "I'll be back in an hour."
He slammed the door shut.
He peeled out.
The tires spun on the wet asphalt, spraying mud all over my dress.
I watched the taillights disappear around the bend.
The sky opened up.
Rain came down in sheets, icy and relentless.
I pulled my phone out.
No signal.
The cemetery was in a dead zone.
I started walking toward the main road.
My cast was soaked. It felt like a concrete block dragging me down.
The wind howled.
I reached the edge of the highway.
Headlights cut through the gloom.
A truck.
It was moving too fast for the slick road.
I saw it skid.
I tried to step back.
My crutch hit a patch of oil.
I slipped.
I couldn't jump. My leg was an anchor.
The grill of the truck filled my vision.
I didn't scream.
As the metal rushed toward me, I just thought, At least the score is finally zero.
