Chapter 2 - Two More Months to Stay Invisible
For the next three weeks, I lived in a state of suspended terror.
Working in Bay Four meant isolation, which was a blessing for my disguise but a curse for my nerves.
I was no longer lost in the chaotic background of pneumatic drills and loud mechanic banter.
I was in a sterile, perfectly lit garage, working on machines worth more than the life insurance policies of everyone in the building combined.
And Dante Moretti was always watching.
He didn’t hover, but he made his presence known.
He would come down in the evenings after the rest of the shop had clocked out, bringing a tumbler of amber liquid and a stack of ledgers.
He would sit on a leather stool in the corner of my bay, doing his business in silence while I worked under the hood of a bullet-riddled Cadillac or a pristine Aston Martin.
The physical toll of being Eli was becoming agonizing.
The chest binder restricted my breathing, leaving me lightheaded when I had to heave heavy tires or wrestle with rusted suspension bolts.
I was constantly exhausted, terrified to sleep deeply in my cheap apartment for fear of talking in my sleep, terrified of waking up to Marcus Bellamy’s enforcers kicking down my door.
Every time Dante spoke to me, it felt like a test.
“You don’t talk much, Eli,” he remarked one Tuesday night.
It was past midnight.
Rain was lashing against the frosted glass of the garage doors.
I was underneath a Mercedes G-Wagon, draining the transmission fluid.
“Not much to say, Mr.
Moretti,” I replied, my voice echoing slightly off the concrete floor.
“You don’t drink with the boys on Fridays.
You don’t talk about women.
You don’t complain about the hours.”
I saw his polished black shoes step into my line of sight, stopping just beside the oil catch pan.
“You work like a man who’s running from something.”
My wrench slipped, barking my knuckles against the sharp edge of the transmission pan.
I bit down hard on my lip to stop the sharp, feminine gasp that tried to escape.
I swallowed the pain, sliding out from under the chassis on the creeper, wiping my bleeding hand on a rag.
“I just need the money, sir,” I said, keeping my head down.
Dante crouched.
It was a fluid, athletic movement that reminded me he wasn’t just a businessman; he was a predator.
He reached out and caught my wrist before I could pull my hand away.
His fingers were warm, rough with calluses of their own.
My breath hitched.
His thumb brushed over the bleeding scrape on my knuckles.
“Small hands for a mechanic,” he noted, his voice dropping an octave.
“Gets me into tight engine bays,” I countered, tugging my arm.
He didn’t let go immediately.
His dark eyes scanned my face, drifting from the fake shadow of dirt I rubbed on my jawline every morning, up to the heavy cap I never took off.
“You smell like lavender soap, Eli.
Not industrial grease like the rest of them.”
Panic, icy and sharp, clawed at my throat.
“It’s the cheap stuff from the dollar store.
I’ll switch to something else.”
He finally released my wrist.
“Don’t.
It’s an improvement.”
He stood up, towering over me again.
“Get that fluid changed and go home.
You look exhausted.”
As he walked away, I leaned my head against the cold steel of the G-Wagon’s bumper, squeezing my eyes shut.
He knows.
He has to know something is wrong.
But the alternative to staying was running, and running took money.
I had saved nearly three thousand dollars, stashed under the floorboards of my apartment.
It still wasn’t enough to buy a solid fake passport and disappear to Europe.
I needed two more months.
Just two more months of being Eli.
The illusion shattered on a Thursday in late November.
Chicago had frozen over, the streets slick with black ice.
The garage was quiet, most of the crew having left early to beat a coming blizzard.
I was alone in Bay Four, finishing a brake job on Dante’s armored Range Rover.
Dante was upstairs in his office.
The radio on my workbench was playing a local news station on low volume.
I tuned it out, lost in the rhythm of tightening lug nuts, until a familiar name cut through the static like a knife.
“…update on the disappearance of Lake Forest heiress Elena Russo.
It has been nearly eight months since the twenty-five-year-old vanished on the eve of her high-profile wedding to logistics magnate Marcus Bellamy.
The Bellamy family has just announced a staggering two-hundred-thousand-dollar reward for any information leading to her safe return.
Authorities still suspect foul play, though Mr.
Bellamy insists she may be suffering from a psychological episode…”
I froze.
The heavy pneumatic torque wrench slipped from my hands, clattering violently against the concrete.
Two hundred thousand dollars.
Marcus wasn’t just looking for me anymore.
He was putting a bounty on my head.
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In a city like Chicago, that kind of money would make neighbors turn on each other.
It would make every cop, every informant, and every desperate criminal on the street look twice at every dark-haired woman they passed.
