The engine roared to life just as Elias appeared at the edge of the woods.

Elias fired two shots at the windshield.

The safety glass webbed with cracks but didn’t shatter.

Roman threw the SUV into reverse, spraying gravel as we backed down the driveway.

He spun the wheel, shifted into drive, and slammed on the gas.

We tore down the narrow country road, the headlights cutting through the heavy rain.

I looked over at Roman.

His knuckles were white on the steering wheel.

A dark stain was spreading rapidly across the right side of his gray wool coat.

“Roman, you’re bleeding,” I said, reaching out to touch his arm.

“It’s a graze,” he muttered, though his jaw was clenched tight.

“That wasn’t a graze,” I said, seeing the dark blood dripping onto the leather seat.

He didn’t answer.

He kept his eyes glued to the dark road, driving fast and erratic.

“We need to go to a hospital,” I said.

“No,” Roman said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Moretti has people in the city hospitals. We go back to the estate.”