Even while I’m speaking, the two on my left are drawing closer. I’m looking at Siberia, but I’m watching them in my peripheral.

“You want a fair fight?” Siberia says. “Fair like your brother’s hand?”

Before he’s even finished his taunt, the two on the left are rushing at me.

It’s what I expected.

I depress the handle of the nozzle and fling gasoline right in their faces. At the same time, I’m already flicking open the lid of my zippo and lighting the flame. I throw the zippo at Brass Knuckles, hitting him square in the chest. He ignites like a torch. Within half a second, Tattoos is likewise aflame.

They scream in shock and pain, flailing around, forgetting to drop and roll. You don’t often hear a man scream. It’s worse than a woman.

The Armenian and Siberia don’t help their friends. They rush at me instead.

Some of the liquid flame has splashed onto the arm of my jacket. I can’t even feel the heat. My whole body is burning with adrenaline. I ball up my fists and swing my arms upward at the Armenian’s jaw. The force of the blow knocks him sideways into Siberia.

It doesn’t slow him down any. He shoves his friend aside and comes at me, fists raised in front of his face like a proper pugilist. He throws tight punches right at my face. I block my jaw, and he attacks my body instead, hitting me in the gut and ribs with full force.

Each blow is like a hammer. His fists are massive and rock-hard. They slam into me, rapid-fire. Keeping my hands up, I crack him across the jaw with an elbow, followed by a left cross. It barely phases him.

Meanwhile, the Armenian dives at my legs. He takes me down. We roll over on the concrete. I hear the unmistakable sound of a switchblade opening. With no time to look up, I grab the Armenian by the front of his shirt and lift him up, throwing him in the direction of Siberia. Siberia’s blade sinks into his friend’s arm, but he jerks it free again and runs at me, swinging the knife at my face.

I put my arm up. The blade cuts through my leather jacket like linen. It bites through the flesh of my forearm, leaving a long gash down to the bone. I feel the blood flowing down, dripping off my fingers.

Meanwhile, Brass Knuckles and Tattoo are screaming and rolling around, trying to extinguish the flames. But all they’re doing is rolling over into the pooled gasoline, splashing it around and spreading the fire.

The Armenian has doubled over. I knee him in the face and smash my fists down on the back of his skull. Siberia swings his blade at my face again and I jerk back, the tip of the knife cutting down my right cheek. I dive at Siberia, grabbing his knife hand by the wrist. My hand is slippery with blood and it’s hard to hold on. I hit him again and again with my left fist, and he does the same, while straining to force the blade forward into my chest.

I hear a whooshing sound behind me. It sounds like a high wind rushing down a very small tube. I’m afraid I know what that means.

Releasing Siberia’s hand, I let him stab the switchblade into my right shoulder. Meanwhile, I hit him hard in the throat with the heel of my hand. He stumbles backward, choking.

With the blade still embedded in my shoulder, I crouch down low and run as fast as I can away from the gas pumps. I’ve only taken a dozen steps before the pump explodes. The heat hits me first, like a wall of liquid heat, shoving me from behind. The sound comes a split-second later—loud, booming, and metallic. I hear it as I fly through the air, crashing down hard on the concrete. My head slams against the curb.

I’m dazed and deafened.

It takes me a minute to even raise my head. I look back at the brilliant remains of the fireball, and the flaming hulk of metal that used to be Nero’s car. The Russian’s SUV is likewise on fire, as are two of the bodies next to the pump. The other two figures were thrown farther out, including Siberia, who’s still alive. I can hear him groaning.

I pull myself up onto the curb. I grab the handle of the knife jutting out of my deltoid, and I yank the blade out. It hurts worse coming out than it did going in.

My hand looks like a bloody glove. The whole arm is stiff and useless.

I can feel blood leaking from my nose and ears. Several of my ribs feel cracked, if not broken. I don’t know if that’s from Siberia, the explosion, or landing on the cement.

I pull my phone out of my pocket. The screen is shattered. My watch is broken too. I have no idea what time it is—all I know is that I’m late. My car is out of commission, and I hear the distant wail of sirens headed for me.

I haul myself up to my knees, and then I stand, hunched over.

I’ve got to get to Simone.

I can’t hail a cab—nobody’s going to pick me up in this state. I could steal a car, but that would only draw more attention.

There’s only one thing left to do. I’ve got to run.

I start limping in the direction of Lincoln Park. After a few yards, I break into a shuffling kind of jog. My head is throbbing with every step. My ribs are agony, stabbing me with each breath.

But I have to get to Simone.

I can’t stop even for a second.

17

Simone

Serwa helps me sneak out of the house. It’s not terribly difficult, because we’re not actually in a prison. My main concern is that I don’t want to be followed, because I want to speak to Dante uninterrupted, without my father hearing or calling the police.

Serwa carries a huge load of recycling out to the bins in the backyard, then drops it all over the patio, with a whole lot of shattering glass, bouncing milk jugs, and rolling cans. When the two security guards run over to help her pick it all up, I sneak out the back gate.

I hear that nasty dog growling as I run across the lawn, but the guards have him on a leash so he can’t chase after me. Thank god for that—I’ve never seen a meaner animal.

Dressed in jeans and a gray sweatshirt, with the hood pulled up, I feel like a criminal. I never go out at night alone. Lincoln Park is a safe neighborhood, relatively speaking, but I’m still in downtown Chicago. I flinch away from anybody walking the opposite direction down the sidewalk. I feel like everybody’s looking at me, even though nobody is.

I walk about six blocks over to the park. I wanted to meet here for symbolic reasons, because Dante and I sat under the wisteria vines and talked and kissed for hours, and it was a beautiful afternoon, one of the best of my life.

The sun was shining then, and the bees were droning, and I had the man I love next to me. Now I’m all alone. It’s chilly and dark. The season has changed—the wisteria has lost its thick green leaves and clusters of purple blooms. It’s just dry brown vines now. The gazebo isn’t a sheltered alcove anymore—it’s exposed to the wind and the eyes of anyone else who might be roaming around the park.

I huddle up in the corner of the gazebo, trying to keep watch in all directions at once.

I should have worn a coat, not a sweater. It’s windier than I thought, and colder.

With each gust of air, the dry branches of the trees scratch together. I hear rustling sounds that might be a squirrel or a cat. I jump every time and stare around in all directions.

It was stupid to come here. I should have had Dante meet me at a cafe—somewhere warm and bright and safe.

I should have brought my phone. I was afraid Tata would notice it missing.