Page 30 of You Can Run

Dante’s foot pressed harder on the accelerator without him fully registering it. The engine answered, the car surging forward, the road rushing up to meet them.

“Pull over,” Jessica said, her voice tight.

“No.”

“Dante.”

“We’re not stopping.”

“I said pull the damn car over, Dante! Or I swear to God, I’ll jump out at eighty miles an hour.”

The speedometer was a blur of white on black, the needle hovering near ninety.

“I said pull over!”

Dante didn’t look at her. His profile was carved from stone, his jaw set so hard the muscle in his cheek pulsed. He just gripped the steering wheel like he was trying to choke the life out of it.

“You think I’m joking?” Jessica’s hand flew to the door handle. The metallic snick of the lock disengaging was the loudest sound in the car. “I will open this door, Dante. I swear to God, I’ll do it.”

Air screamed against the frame as the door cracked open an inch, the rush of it immediate and violent.

The car jerked. Dante’s right hand flew off the gearshift, his fingers digging into her shoulder, anchoring her. At the same time, his left hand wrenched the wheel. The ’Cuda’s nose dived as he slammed on the brakes. Tires screamed in a high-pitched, mechanical agony, and the smell of burning rubber instantly filled the cabin.

The car fishtailed, a wild shimmy that sent them skidding onto the gravel shoulder. Dust erupted around them, a tan cloud that swallowed the Texas sun and turned the windows into opaque walls.

Then, silence.

The engine ticked as it cooled. The dust settled slowly.

Jessica shoved the door open and stumbled out. The heat hit her like a physical blow—100 degrees of dry, relentless SouthTexas noon. She scrambled away from the car, her sneakers sinking into the loose dirt, her chest heaving as she tried to pull air into lungs that felt like they’d been crushed.

“Jessica!”

Dante’s door slammed. It sounded like a gunshot in the empty scrubland.

“Get back in the car,” he commanded. He was rounding the back of the ’Cuda, moving with that fluid, predatory grace that made her skin prickle.

“No!” She spun around to face him, her pink hair matted to her forehead with sweat. “I am done being moved like a piece on a chessboard, Dante. I spent eleven years being handled by the feds, and then a year handled by Trent, and I am not spending one more second being handled by you.”

He stopped ten feet away. Under the harsh sun, he looked every bit the man who had burned down half of Chicago to keep her safe.

“Handled?” He let out a sharp laugh. “I just pulled you out of a closet while the cartel was trying to turn you into a trophy. I’m not handling you, Julia. I’m saving you.”

“Don’t call me that,” she spat. “Julia is dead. She died in a dingy safe house while you were making deals with the U.S. Attorney.”

Dante flinched as if she’d struck him. He took two long strides, closing the distance between them before she could retreat. He grabbed her upper arms. He was so close she could see the gold flecks in his hazel eyes, eyes that were currently burning with a mix of fury and something so much more dangerous.

“I didn't make a deal for me,” he hissed, his face inches from hers. “I made a deal so you wouldn't spend the rest of your life on the run.”

“Well that's really working out, isn't it!” She shoved against his chest, her palms meeting hard, unyielding muscle. “You left me with nothing but a ring and a memory that I had to pretend never happened. Do you have any idea what it’s like to have the only man you ever loved vanish into thin air without even a goodbye?”

Dante didn't pull away. He pinned her back against the hot metal of the ’Cuda. The car was burning through her thin dress, but she barely felt it. All she felt was him. The heat of his body, the scent of motor oil, the sheer, overwhelming weight of thirteen years of unfinished business between them.

He looked down at her mouth, his breath hitching. The anger between them was vibrating at a frequency that was rapidly shifting into something else.

Jessica’s hands, which had been pushed against his chest to keep him away, suddenly gripped the fabric of his shirt. She didn't know if she wanted to tear it or pull him closer.

“I hate you,” she breathed.