Page 16 of Sins of the Father
An hour before dawn, Mia waited in the convent’s shadowed gate. She’d packed only what she could carry: clean clothes, cheap brown contact lenses she’d ordered secretly last year, a little cash saved from tutoring, and she wore a windbreaker with a hood, plain jeans, and sneakers. When the gates opened for the milk delivery, she slipped out unseen, breath tight at every sound. She stuck to back streets, hood up, head down. The bank opened at eight, hopefully enough time to reach it and disappear before Valachi’s men noticed.
At the bank, her hands trembled as she signed the ledger and presented the key. The clerk led her down a quiet corridor, the air cooler and heavier away from the bustle of the main hall. They stopped before a steel door, and with a practiced turn of his wrist, he unlocked it. A few minutes later, the representative set the small safety deposit box on the table in the private room. Mia murmured a faint thank-you, and forced a smile as she reached for it.
The box was small, but what lay inside was enough to choke her: a gold necklace that had once belonged to her mother. Its locket clicked open beneath her trembling fingers. On one side was a delicate portrait of her mother, radiant and beautiful; on the other, a baby picture of Mia herself. Her throat tightened at the sight of it, grief and longing twisting through her as though her mother’s presence still lingered in the gold.
Thankfully, she now had two pieces of jewelry to remember her parents by. Reaching deep into her bag, she retrieved thewatch, still in shock that it contained a chip with information on powerful men and the secrets her father had about them.
Mia’s chest squeezed tightly. If discovered, it could destroy her. If used wisely, it might save her. Beneath the velvet lining, banded stacks of cash—enough to get far away and plan her next move. Her father hadn’t left her defenseless, after all. Too little, too late, but she’d take it. Mia stashed the money and watch deep in her bag, left the bank without looking back, and didn’t breathe until she was blocks away. In a quiet corner of the bus station, she bought a one-way ticket with cash for a local route.
She switched buses twice, each time in a small town, using cash. At a small shop in one of the bus stations, she bought another bag and discarded the old one after emptying it. At one point, she had chuckled at her actions, grateful for all those Robert Ludlum books she had read. She had no phone, no credit cards, no ties to anyone, and she hoped that with this, Valachi would not find her.
Waiting for another bus, Mia forced herself to sit still, look bored, and appear ordinary. Her heart thundered, but beneath the fear was something steadier: resolve. She’d been sheltered, but never stupid.
You want a puppet bride, Luc Valachi? You’ll have to catch me first.
And if he did… she’d make damn sure he regretted it.
Three months later…
Routine and simplicityhad always anchored Mia. St. Joseph, a quiet lakeside town in the Midwest, felt like the right place to vanish. She hadn’t planned it, but after days on the road and five bus transfers, exhaustion made the decision. When the final bus pulled in after a twelve-hour ride, she told herself: no morerunning. Not yet. The town was small enough to blend in, busy enough that no one questioned strangers.
She had stepped off with her duffel and took a steadying breath. She’d found an apartment through the local paper after carefully searching in the library classifieds and the market’s notice board. The place was basic but well-furnished, and the rent was affordable. The landlady, Mrs. Porter, an elderly widow, didn’t care much for paperwork.
“Cash is fine, dear,” she’d said, waving off questions.
It wasn’t perfect, but good enough for Mia.
It was too risky to register a car, so Mia walked or used the town’s single bus line. She stuck to the same daily routine: groceries, library, and small talk only when necessary. The quiet rhythm made breathing easier but never relaxed her. Her father’s death haunted her most at night. She’d always believed he was untouchable. Over the years, Mia had thought he was living a life without her. She never dared to think he was dead. Mia would never be able to ask why he’d promised her hand in marriage to a man like that. She had cried for him, for the lost years they would never reclaim, and for the future he would never see. The ache wasn’t just for his death, but for all the moments between that might have been, had life and choices been kinder. Mia hadn’t called Bianca since fleeing—too risky. One careless call could put them both in danger. Mia told herself it was better this way, though loneliness gnawed at her. Money was also running out. She had enough to cover perhaps four more months of rent, utilities, and food. Half of it she’d hidden away in case she ever had to run again. No matter how desperate things became, she was determined not to touch it.
A proper job meant paperwork and ID she didn’t dare use. So she looked for cash work—diners, under-the-table cleaning, and errands. She wanted to reach a point where she had enoughsaved to cover at least a year’s expenses in case things ever went wrong again.
Tonight was the same as the nights she lay awake, replaying what-ifs. Mia stared up at the ceiling of her bedroom, barely able to make out its pale whiteness in the darkened room. She needed a solid escape plan if Valachi’s men found her. But without more money or help, every plan felt half-done. Her nerves were frayed, for she kept looking over her shoulder for him. Every slow car, every lingering stare felt like the beginning of the end.
If he found her…
“I’ve got to stop being so paranoid,” she murmured, grabbing a pillow to stuff behind her head. Mia missed the certainty of the convent. No men, no threats, no secrets—just sisters, and the safe, predictable walls of St. Mary’s. There, she was lonely but protected.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
It was barely eight in the night, and Mia did not have to leave her bed to know who was at her door. She scoffed and did not move. Attachments were dangerous, which made her neighbor, Simon, a problem. His friendliness grated on her nerves. He hadn’t noticed her polite distance. One evening, days after she moved in, he knocked while she was fresh from the shower, hair wet, wearing a tank top she had bemusedly realized was too fitted. Through the peephole: a man with a lopsided grin and a basket. Instinct told her to stay silent. But ignoring a neighbor seemed suspicious. She’d forced a polite smile and cracked the door.
“Hey, I’m Simon. Figured I’d welcome the new neighbor.”
Mia had kept answers short, took the basket, and ended it quickly. But Simon kept knocking—asking questions: would she like to have a bite to eat, did she want company to walk in the market or the park. He even made offers to fix faucets she hadn’t mentioned. Not aggressive, just annoyingly persistent.
He kept knocking. Mia rose from her bed and padded silently into the small living room, stopping at the door. Peering through the peephole, she saw Simon standing there, a bottle of wine in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in the other, his expression nervous. An ache opened inside her, and for a fleeting moment, she weakened, imagining how pleasant it would be to have company.
But then Mia remembered earlier. A chill of warning traced her spine. She had spent the day at the library, and on her way home a few hours ago, she’d spotted a dark sedan parked up the street. A man sat inside, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses, a phone pressed to his ear. He hadn’t looked her way, but instinct had screamed. She’d turned the corner without glancing back, her heart pounding.
Maybe it was nothing. Maybe paranoia. Or maybe Luc Valachi had already found her.
Mia pressed her forehead to the door, shoving down the ache of loneliness. Finally, Simon sighed, turned, and walked away. She slid down until she was seated on the floor, her head resting against the wood. Tears burned her eyes and spilled over, and she furiously wiped them away.
What was the use of crying?She tried to berate herself, but the sob rose anyway. Curling in on herself, she rested her forehead on her knees and wept.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Yes, sir. Eyes on target.”
