He sounded more like a wounded animal than the man who had controlled my life for three years.

We reached the alley behind the building, where the rain was falling in thin, icy needles.

A black sedan was already idling in the shadows, its exhaust pluming in the cold air.

Damiano threw the door open, shoved me inside, and climbed in after me.

“Drive,” Damiano told his man at the wheel, his voice remarkably calm.

The driver slammed his foot on the accelerator, and the tires screeched against the wet asphalt.

The car surged forward into the rainy metropolitan night, the tires splashing through deep puddles that sprayed the sidewalks.

I looked at my shoulder in the dim light of the passing streetlamps.

A dark bruise was already forming where Damiano’s fingers had dug into my skin.

I rubbed the sore muscle, my hands trembling against the velvet of my skirt.

Damiano was staring out the window, his jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek.

The city lights smeared across the wet glass like melted wax.