Exiled Don’s Wife Becomes the New Godmother

"Keep your foot on the gas," I told the driver, gripping the edge of the vinyl partition.

"Lady, they cut their lights!" the cab driver yelled, his eyes darting to the rearview mirror. "They are right on my bumper!"

"Do not brake," I ordered. "Take the next exit. The I-294 toll plaza."

"That is two miles away!"

"Then you better drive fast."

A violent crash shattered the back window. The yellow cab lurched forward, tires screaming against the asphalt as the lead sedan rammed our rear bumper. My shoulder slammed into the door frame. I tasted copper.

"Jesus Christ!" the driver panicked, swerving across two lanes. "They are trying to spin us out!"

"Straighten the wheel!" I shouted over the grinding metal. "They want us in the ditch. If we hit the plaza, they back off."

The sedan hit us again, harder this time. The cab's rear end fishtailed. I braced my boots against the floorboard, keeping my eyes fixed on the dark shape filling the back windshield. They were pushing us toward the unlit industrial exit, right back into Rizzo territory.

"Merge left!" I yelled.

"I cannot hold it!"

"Merge left, right now!"

The driver yanked the steering wheel. The cab hopped the rumble strip, sparking against the concrete barrier before shooting into the illuminated stretch of the toll approach.

Rows of bright halogen lights flooded the highway. A half-dozen cars sat queued at the payment booths. Fifty yards ahead, a State Police cruiser idled on the shoulder, its reflective decals gleaming under the overhead lamps.

Tires squealed behind us.

The two unmarked sedans slammed on their brakes, refusing to cross into the camera zone. They swerved onto the gravel shoulder, kicking up a massive cloud of dust as they aborted the pursuit.

"Pull over before the toll booth," I instructed, rolling down my window.

"I am calling the cops," the driver stammered, reaching for his radio.

"You will do no such thing." I pulled a stack of hundred-dollar bills from my leather bag and shoved them through the partition. "Take this. Fix your bumper. Keep your mouth shut."

I shoved my phone through the open window and zoomed in on the lead sedan as it reversed into the shadows. I knew the Rizzo family vehicle identification rules. I wrote them. Dante's official fleet used reinforced grilles and sequential plates ending in zero.

The car in my viewfinder sported a modified brush guard and a license plate ending in '8X4'.

That was Bianca's personal security detail.

I snapped the photo. The camera flash caught the crushed metal of the license plate just before the sedan vanished into the dark. I tapped the screen, uploading the image directly to my encrypted cloud vault.

I pulled up Dante's private number and hit dial.

He answered on the first ring.

"Plate number JKR-8X4," I stated, skipping any greeting. "Bianca's private security detail just rammed my cab on the interstate."

"You are supposed to be leaving the city, Elena," Dante replied. His voice gave away nothing.

"I am," I said, staring at the upload confirmation bar. "But your sister's men are trying to run me off the road before the deadline. Did you order this hit, Dante? Or is Bianca running the family now?"

Silence stretched over the line.

I counted the seconds. One. Two. Three.

"Midnight is your deadline," Dante finally said. "Leaving the city before then is your only safe answer."

He hung up.

I stared at the black screen of my phone. He didn't deny it. He didn't call off the dogs. The man I spent eight years building an empire for was perfectly fine letting his sister execute me on the highway, so long as his own hands remained clean.

"Drive," I told the cabbie, my voice turning to ice.

"Where?" he asked, his hands still shaking on the wheel.

"Mercy General Hospital. The emergency room entrance near the state line."

We passed through the toll booth, leaving the State Police cruiser behind. The rest of the ride passed in tense silence. I watched the side mirrors, tracing every pair of headlights that merged behind us, but Bianca's men didn't reappear. They missed their window in the dark.

The cab pulled into the brightly lit ambulance bay of Mercy General.

"Stop right here," I said.

I grabbed my bag, pushed the door open, and stepped onto the concrete. A nondescript gray Honda idled next to the glass doors of the ER. Miriam, my lawyer, had texted me the make and model ten minutes ago.

I walked straight to the Honda and opened the passenger door.

"Elena?" the young woman behind the wheel asked, glancing nervously at my torn silk dress.

"Drive south," I told her, throwing my bag onto the floorboard.

She put the car in gear and merged onto the main avenue. I watched the GPS on her dashboard screen. Two miles to the border.

"Miriam said you needed to cross the line tonight," the driver murmured, keeping her eyes straight ahead.

"Just focus on the road."

I checked my watch. 11:54.

The city buildings began to thin out, replaced by industrial parks and empty lots. The tension in my neck refused to release. Bianca's men could still be waiting at the boundary.

"There is the sign," the driver pointed.

A green reflective board read: Welcome to Indiana.

We crossed the threshold.

I checked my watch again. 11:57.

I had survived Dante's deadline. I was out of Chicago. I was officially a ghost to the Rizzo family.

"Pull into that gas station up ahead," I instructed.

The driver parked near the air pumps.

"Miriam paid you for the night, right?" I asked.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Wait here."

I unclasped my leather bag and reached into the hidden lining. My fingers bypassed the titanium signature key and closed around the small, wax-sealed card my mother gave me twenty-six years ago.

I stepped out of the car into the cool night air.

Standing under the flickering fluorescent light of the gas station awning, I cracked the brittle red wax. The seal crumbled into dust, falling onto the concrete. I unfolded the thick parchment.

A single phone number was written in sharp, elegant black ink.

No name. No address.

I pulled out my phone, punched in the digits, and pressed call.

The line rang once. Twice.

A sharp click echoed through the speaker.

"Speak," an elderly woman's voice commanded. The tone was gravelly, carrying the heavy weight of unquestioned authority.

"I need to cash in a marker," I said, staring at the dark highway stretching back toward Chicago.

"Five capos have waited twenty-six years for you, Elena Valenti."