16. Ivan

16

IVAN

T his woman is slowly killing me.

As the afternoon turns into evening, we find another motel, stop, and sleep. We're close to Montana, the longest of the stretches before Idaho, and then Vegas. And I find myself dreading when we finally get close to the city.

After we get those fake papers, there's nothing keeping her with me any longer. For all I know, she's going to give me the middle finger and walk off into the sunset, and she'd be well within her rights to do so. I'm pretty sure that's what she intends to do. But the thought makes my stomach twist, an ache like nothing I've ever felt filling me.

Running from the Bratva and the FBI is anything but normal, but these last few days have filled me with a desire to be just that. Normal. It's not a possibility that ever existed for me, but with each passing day, it's harder and harder to push away the fantasies of what it would be like to be with Charlotte as the kind of man she would want.

Down the long stretches of road, as she sits in silence or naps, the radio a hum of white noise—I imagine different trips with her. Trips we take on purpose . Nicer hotels, locations we've chosen. Adventures with a woman who I'm finding out is tougher than either she or I knew she was capable of being. A home to go back to, one that she and I chose together.

I think of what she said when I took her out to the lake, that for years she'd told herself she'd take off on a trip, get out of the city, and never did. I can only imagine how many other adventures she might have thought of taking, and pushed them to another month, another year, until they would eventually become another lifetime.

I have plenty of money. I could take her all over the world twice, and still have enough for us to live for the rest of our days. I could show her everything she could ever dream of, fulfill her every desire, and spoil her beyond her wildest dreams. And God knows I want to.

But that's not what Charlotte needs. And that's what I'm realizing, with an ache that sinks down to my bones, what I began to understand from our very first date, when I took her out to a Michelin-starred restaurant in an Aston Martin in an effort to impress her.

Charlotte doesn't need to be spoiled, or impressed, or wined and dined. She needs a man who is honest. Trustworthy. Genuine. Someone who will lean into the simple, small moments with her, who will build a life with her that feels like a home.

I want to be that for her. I wish I'd done it all differently. I wish I'd told her from the start, taken her to my little house in the Chicago suburbs, and told her yes, I'm a criminal, and yes, I'm part of an organization that might hunt me until I die, but this is all I really want. Something simple—and you.

I wonder if that would have really changed anything, or if she would have just run before she'd ever gotten a chance to know me.

That train of thought could drive a man mad. It feels like it is driving me mad, throughout the long day of driving, to the hotel that night, to my hard bed on the floor as Charlotte sleeps on the other side of the room.

I want to be in that bed with her. Not even for sex—just to hold her in my arms. Just to feel her, warm and soft, against me. I can't remember the last time I spent the night next to a woman. And now, the only woman I want to do that with is Charlotte.

The one who is going to leave me, in just a few short days.

"Let's get something different for breakfast," I suggest as we pack up the car to leave. "Stop somewhere and eat."

Charlotte raises an eyebrow. "I thought you said it was too dangerous to go out. I thought you said if someone saw us?—"

"I know what I said." It comes out sharper than I mean for it to, and I instantly soften my voice when I see the way her eyes narrow at me. "I just?—"

It sounds foolish to say it out loud, when we're in so much danger. That I want to sit and eat a meal with her, in a public place, like everything is okay. It's not okay, as she's reminded me so many times, and it is a risk. It's a stupid risk to take for something so small.

But it doesn't feel so small to me. And the ticking clock of how much time I have left with her is so loud that I feel almost desperate to claw out what small moments I can get. Even if the rational part of me knows it's the wrong call.

I'm supposed to protect her. This isn't safe.

It's just breakfast.

Charlotte sighs, running a hand through her hair. In the daylight, I can see the tint of orange to the blonde, but I don't hate it. It's obviously a bathroom dye job, but with the backdrop of the vibrant leaves on the trees to the far side of the motel parking lot, there's something charming about it. Something free.

She looks at me narrowly for a moment, as if she's trying to figure out what it is that I'm doing this for. I can't tell if she figures it out, or what exactly she sees in my face, but she finally nods, sighing again heavily. "Fine," she says, stalking towards the car. "I'd like a hot breakfast that wasn't dipped in grease first."

The car is another problem , I think, as I get in and start it up. We'll have to swap it out soon, not least of which because it could snow as far north as we're getting, and the Corolla might not hack it the whole way. I can already feel some tremors and hear some odd noises from how far we've driven it—this car definitely was heading towards the end of its life before I stole it. But I'm not looking forward to Charlotte's reaction when she hears that we're going to commit grand theft auto for a second time.

"Where are we going to go?" she asks as we drive away from the motel. "For breakfast, I mean," she adds, and I shrug.

"There's bound to be a diner on the way out of town. Those kinds of places are always the best. The few times I've taken off on a road trip, they've never disappointed."

Charlotte lets out a small hum of amusement a few minutes later when I pull up in front of exactly that, a homestyle diner with big windows that look in on vinyl booths and a long counter towards the back of the space. "I promise it'll be good," I tell her, and a hint of a smile quirks the corners of her mouth.

"You're not what I would envision a man in the mafia to be," she says, her mouth flattening as if she's trying to hold back a smile. I want to tease it out of her, to see it spread across her face. Her smile feels like it lights me up from the inside out.

"What do you mean?" I think I already know, but I want to hear her say it. I want her explanation.

Charlotte shrugs, still fighting a smile. "I don't know. Our first date, I would have absolutely believed you if you'd told me. The expensive car, the fancy dinner out, all of that fits what I would imagine. But this?" She gestures at the diner. "You'd rather drive your Mustang than the Aston Martin. You'd rather go here than eat that chef-curated dinner. You'd rather wear what you're wearing right now than that suit you had on. It's not what I'd expect."

"I think you're picturing the Italian mafia." I grin at her. "Although my father likes his elegance. But that's never been me, Charlotte."

She breathes in, studying me, and I can see her thinking. I wish I could hear her thoughts at this moment. I wish I knew if she was thinking that she'd like to know me better. To understand who I really am.

"Let's go eat, Charlotte," I tell her gently, and she nods, seeming to break out of her reverie. "I'm hungry, and I'm sure you are, too."

She reaches for the door, opening it, and slips out into the chilly air. I suck in a deep breath as we step out, filling my lungs with the freshness of it. It feels clean and crisp, and I want to linger instead of continuing on to Vegas.

There's a different appeal to Vegas, one that I've very much enjoyed in the past. It's a city of lights and excess and sin, a whirlwind of debauchery and overindulgence, and there's any number of pleasures to be had there. It feels like a place out of time, in its own liminal space, and I would be excited to take Charlotte there if it wasn't also the place where I'm going to lose her.

Here, she's still with me. Here, it still feels like there's a chance that we might still be together somehow, even if I know that's just a fantasy. Here, it feels like there's a possibility we could hide away forever.

Every state line brings me closer to the fact that none of that is going to be our reality.

The warm scent of fresh-cooked food, wood, vinyl and coffee hits my nose as we walk into the diner, the small bell above the door chiming as I hold it open for Charlotte. There's a handwritten sign by the hostess desk telling us to seat ourselves , and I notice with some relief that the diner is mostly empty. I'm well aware that this wasn't the wisest choice, and the fewer people here to see us, the better. I've yet to see my face or Charlotte's on the news when I've turned on the TV at night in our motel rooms, which means Bradley is still keeping this particular chase quiet for now—probably for reasons of his own. But I don't want too many people to be able to describe us to anyone.

Especially my brothers.

I feel fairly certain at this point, however, that they're waiting for us in Vegas. The fact that we haven't seen a hint of them since they tracked us to that first motel makes me think that Lev found out about my contact, and opted to lay in wait. It doesn't follow what I know of my brother—he likes the hunt, the chase, likes to taunt and torment and play with his food. But it's possible those directions came from my father, who Lev won't disobey, even if he disagrees.

Charlotte is looking around, tense, as we walk to one of the booths. But I see her relax a fraction a moment later when we sit down, and a woman comes over to bring us menus, a pot of coffee already in her hand.

"Coffee for you both?" she asks, and I nod at the same time that Charlotte does. "Creamer?"

"Please," we both say in unison, and I see Charlotte's teeth sink into her lower lip in an effort to not laugh.

That smile is still quivering at the edges of her lips as the waitress walks away, and Charlotte looks down at the menu. She's trying to be upset that we're doing this, because she knows as well as I do that it's a bad idea, but she's faltering.

I take a chance, and reach out to touch her hand. "We needed this," I say softly. " I needed this."

Charlotte looks up abruptly, but she doesn't move her hand away. "Why?" she asks simply. "Why the trip out to the lake? Why this? Why do you need anything other than to get to Vegas and get what you need to scrape our identities clean so you can start over? This is what you've always wanted, right? Or at least, what you've wanted for a long time."

I hear the trace of bitterness in her voice. She's still upset with me, and I can't blame her. But fuck , what I wouldn't give to hear her speak to me the way she did before all of this, when she still didn't know who I was.

"This isn't how I wanted to do it. It's not what I planned." I tap the fingers of my other hand against the laminated menu, my stomach growling as I look down at the list of food on offer. As much as I haven't minded the quick meals on the road, something hot that we have to sit down to eat sounds incredible.

Charlotte pauses for a moment, pulling her lower lip between her teeth as she looks out of the window, as if she's making up her mind about something. "Okay," she finally says slowly. "Tell me how you planned it, then."