Rain hits the windshield in silver streaks as the wipers fight to clear your view. Your hands are tight on the steering wheel, knuckles white, the hum of the car engine drowned out by the pounding of your heart. In the backseat, your 3-year-old son clutches his stuffed animal, eyes wide and wet.

“Hold on, baby,” you whisper, voice trembling but firm. “Mommy’s got you.”

Two dark SUVs loom in the rearview mirror, their headlights like cold eyes cutting through the storm. They’re closing in. Sent by him. Your husband.

Your son’s small voice breaks the tension. “Mama?”

You reach back blindly, brushing his tiny fingers with yours. “It’s okay, baby. Just stay down.”

A sharp turn ahead. You yank the wheel. The tires scream against the wet asphalt. For a heartbeat, you’re almost free—but then the car jolts hard. Metal crunches. You’ve clipped a barricade. The car skids, stalls, and shudders to a stop, hissing steam.

The SUVs are getting closer.

You spin around, unfasten your son’s seatbelt with shaking hands. “Listen to me,” you say, crouching down to his level. He can barely understand the gravity in your voice. “You’re going to play a game now. Hide-and-seek, okay?”

He nods slowly, trusting you.

You scoop him up, run through the rain-slicked alley beside the road. Your breath burns your throat. You spot a large stack of shipping crates under a canopy. Perfect. You crouch, slipping your boy into the hollow between them.

“Stay quiet. No matter what. Don’t move. I’ll come back.” You press a trembling kiss to his forehead, forcing a smile as his eyes fill with tears.

Then you run.

The sound of boots hitting pavement follows you. Shadows of men spill into the alley. You dart left, then right, into another street, heart hammering so loudly it drowns everything else.

And then—you slam into someone. hard.

You stagger back, your palms hitting slick leather jackets. A group of men. Different suits, different insignia. The opposite mafia. Their eyes are cold, but not your husband’s.

The leader—a man with a jagged scar over his cheekbone—narrows his eyes at you. His voice is quiet but lethal. “Who the hell are you?”

You hold your palms up instinctively