Author's Note: I apologize for the delay in publishing this chapter. I don't think I'm the only one that's struggled these past couple of months. I've been so distracted, that it's been hard to find my writing groove. For example, after posting last night, I reread chapter 25 this morning and realized there were a few mistakes, and the writing needed to be cleaned up a little. This usually doesn't happen! I always spend a lot of time revising and editing before I post. The good news is, I think that I've found my writing groove again, so thank you to everyone who's had faith and been patient with me. These next few chapters until the end of part one should flow smoothly. I hope that you enjoy this chapter of Lovesick Toxicity.

Chapter 25

Damon

They took all of my items before they put me in the police cruiser and cuffed me. By the time we got to the station, they placed me in a holding cell instead of cuffing me to a chair in the pit. I hope Santi and Mal are watching Elena closely, I can imagine several scenarios where she ends up right next to me in another holding cell. I don't want that but she has to wonder what's going on. Not knowing how she'll react is more worrisome than the reason I'm here, sitting on a metal bench, across from a skinny, goth type scratching his arms like crazy. Completely strung out.

Something doesn't feel right. None of this really feels right because the timing is off. Chase isn't supposed to set foot on campus, but he decided to risk expulsion to confront me? Then there's what happened last night, Frederick confronts me when he knows police cruisers were close by. They both knew how I'd react when confronted, so what's worth an overnight trip to the hospital?

I waited for Cameron at the police station all afternoon and into the early evening. Coach Harper's statement was helpful to my case, but in a surprising turn of events, Chase Worthington didn't press charges. When he woke up, his story aligned with mine. According to his statement, we got into a disagreement that got out of hand.

Cameron and I are moved to a private room used for conversations with counsel, waiting for my paperwork to be completed. Unlike last night, because Cameron was stuck at the courthouse, awaiting a trial, I was put in a holding cell. That one extra step requires more paperwork, apparently.

"I have good news and bad news," Cameron says, sitting at a steel desk across from me.

"It's usually bad news, bad news, so just spit it out."

"The purchase went through," he says. "Just some final paperwork and the property will be yours."

"That is good news," I muttered trying not to get too excited over that hurdle. "So what's the bad news?"

He lets out a long, weary breath. "While you were in custody, I received word that the video's distribution rights sold. It'll be available for sale at midnight. Commercials are already airing on some more colorful websites."

I inhale slowly through clenched teeth. "Is there really extra paperwork for my release, or did you need to tell me that piece of information in a secure location?"

He lifts up a hand. "Both."

I slam both fists against the table and look in Cameron's apprehensive eyes. He's never seen this side of me. The side that wants to burn the world down until every single person responsible for this video is in hell, right along with me. "This is my fault. This is all my fault and she's never going to get over this. Never."

"How?"

There are so many ways this is my fault, the main one being I should've confronted Elena about everything that happened after our brother's died years ago. My anger and hate created this.

I look down at my still clenched fists, thinking.

This was planned. Everything is too convenient and coincidental.

Then, it clicks. "When did Chase regain consciousness?"

"At the school," Cameron replies, startled by my change in subject. "He went to the hospital to get checked over, but nothing was broken and he only needed a few stitches above his right eye."

"What happened with your case today? The one that kept you from bailing me out of this place?"

"The trial?" I nod, prompting Cameron to continue. "It was delayed and then canceled by the judge. That sort of thing isn't uncommon."

"Who was the judge?"

Cameron blinks and then curses. His brows crease in desperation. "Damon, I swear, I didn't put two and two together! How was I supposed to know I was part of some plot against Elena? I respect her, you know that!"

"Who was the judge, Cameron?"

I need him to say it. I need confirmation that I'm right.

"Clifton Worthington," Cameron finally says.

Chase's dad, who also happens to be running for the senate.

I should've killed both of them.

"Did you find out when the bidding started?"

"Last night."

"This has all been a distraction and I played right into their hands. Sure it took physical sacrifices on their part, but not only did they distract me but I'm on record beating the shit out of both Frederick and Chase. My guess is the official bidding started last night once they knew enough buyers were interested, while I was in custody the transaction went through this afternoon, while you were distracted with your trial and I was in a holding cell," I conclude. "They must've known I was after it."

"It gets worse," Cameron says.

"How can it possibly get worse?"

"The video isn't anonymous, Elena Gilbert's name is all over it."

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I run my hands through my hair. I let out a guttural and animalistic curse. "Fuck!"

This is going to destroy her.

"We have to get her out of the country," I say.

"Damon, calm down. She's not the first girl to have a sex tape, she'll be fine."

I glance at the door to make sure no one is going to come in.

"This room is secure, yes?"

"Yeah, I'm your legal counsel, no one can listen in on our conversation."

"We are trapped on all three sides," I explain. "Grayson and Miranda were involved with Domenico Moretti. Miranda sold the information of who Elena really is to him and now he's taken an active interest in her. He bought her home on the South Side, he's holding information Grayson left her over her head, and he's making her pay back her parent's debt to him by selling some new drug," I explain.

Cameron's eyes widen in shock l, but I continue. "Elena Gilbert isn't a Gilbert, she's the daughter of the Giovanni family and the Russo family. Her biological mom was pregnant at a young age and lived at the mansion with my mom. My dad and Grayson Gilbert helped hide Elena from the families, but they'll put two and two together. The trial was nationally publicized and my dad's name was brought up in the trial. With this tape, it's going to bring attention back to the trial and back to Elena, they're going to know she's the daughter of Isabella Russo and Antonio Giovanni. Two rival crime families that will take her in and marry her off. She'd be in a different kind of prison," I explain. "Or worse, she becomes a target for a rival family."

"Maybe they won't put it together. Do they even know she exists?"

"Yes, and they ran into trouble with Grayson five years ago," I say. "My dad and the Founding Families Council have been protecting her by keeping her information out of any database. There aren't any hospital records of her birth; she doesn't even have a birth certificate."

"I don't know anything about the Council, but my dad has been trying to get me on it. Maybe it is worth it…" Cameron mutters.

"I want to know how they were able to use her name," I ask.

"They could've made her sign something when she was out of it," Cameron explains. "We'll fight it, Damon. The moment it's released, we'll file an injunction and get it taken down. Their mistake was putting her name on it."

"That wasn't a mistake. They're trying to get back at her for ruining their name. Noah and Chase both got their scholarships taken away, early admissions to their dream schools are gone, and no school is looking at accepting them. If Noah ever gets out of jail, they're each going to have to rely on massive donations from their parents to get into any school. They think the same thing will happen to Elena. Once her name is involved in a sex tape, guilty or not, schools won't want her."

"After what they did to her?"

I nod. "I should've killed them when I had the chance."

"I would've helped you cover up the murder."

"This is going to destroy her," I groan, placing my head in my hands. "Even if you get the video taken down, it'll still be out there."

"We have time, Damon," Cameron says. "This video isn't going to hit New York or Chicago right away."

"Were you able to find John Gilbert?"

Cameron shakes his head. "My private investigator is on it, but he's having trouble pinning him down. He was in Morocco for a while, then Switzerland, then Thailand. The problem my investigator is having is that he goes under different aliases. John Bond and John Bourne being his favorites."

That sounds like John.

"I'm going to need passports and documentation," I tell him. "Just in case I have to move her out of the country."

"That's going to be impossible."

"Why?"

"The Russo family and Giovanni family are involved, they own the feds. The second they know who Elena is, they'll have her within the day. She won't be able to fly and their reach stretches too far for her to leave any other way. Between the Russo's, Giovanni's, and Moretti, none of my contacts are going to create documentation for her."

"Figure it out," I order. "Don't tell them who it's for. If you do it now, it'll be before anyone knows."

Cameron nods. "I'll do what I have to do."

A police officer opens the door and hands Cameron paperwork. Once I've signed everything, they give me my items and we leave. The first thing I do when I get my backpack, find my phone, and in case my day didn't already suck, my battery is dead.

Something doesn't feel right. Elena should be here yelling at me for getting in trouble and abandoning her at school. I half expected to see her when I walked out to the parking lot. She's either pissed or….

Santi and Mal stand by a black Escalade with their arms folded, leaning against the car. Elena better be sitting in that locked SUV or there will be hell to pay. Catching on to my mood, Cameron excuses himself to his car, promising he'll figure something out.

"Where is she?"

Santi scratches the back of his neck. "She hasn't been seen since the fire alarm went off."

"What about the tracker on her phone?"

"She turned it off."

"How?" I shout. "She doesn't even know it's there."

Both Santi and Mal give me a hopeless look and I want to fire them on spot, but they're the best in the business. Unfortunately, they don't know Elena was trained by her con of an uncle that currently isn't allowed back in the United States. The girl knew how to pick a lock in under sixty seconds by the age of six.

I run a hand through my hair. "Fill me in in the car."

The moment we get in the Escalade, I plug my phone in and wait for it to turn on.

"We do have a lead," Santi says, handing me an iPad. I press play and watch Moretti walk out of the school while all the other students gather for the fire drill.

"Did you see Elena leave with him?"

"She must've left out the back," Mal replies from the driver's side of the car.

I watch the video again, trying to see if I can spot Elena anywhere. "Or she was taken."

"There's something else," Santi adds.

"What?" I groan, watching the video again. She has to be somewhere.

"Your dad is in town."

Of course, he is. The moment my life takes a nosedive, my dad is here to mock me. "Is dear old dad staying at a hotel or his actual house?"

"He insists you meet him for dinner at Jean-George."

"So he's staying at a hotel."

Mal, who used to work for my dad doesn't say anything, but I see his tattooed forearms flex as he turns left.

"He didn't want to disturb you and Elena at the mansion," Santi replies.

I don't believe it for one second. He's trying to hide his latest conquest- the one he was in Korea with. I have to meet with him or he'll suspect I'm in trouble and make things worse by taking control. He doesn't have the best track record when it comes to the Gilberts, all things considered. I have a feeling he'd do everything in his power to keep us apart and keep Elena from being associated with the Salvatore name.

"Why is he here?"

Santi shrugs.

My phone pings, notifying me it's finally turned on. I unlock the phone and see a voicemail from Elena that was sent six hours ago.

Fuck.

I press play.

Her voice sounds slightly hurried, yet calm and placating. "Damon," she breaths. "So, I deserve points for calling you. I could've just not contacted you but I thought, hey…I don't know what we are but you do give me orgasms so I should at least call you," I chuckle darkly. Yeah, I don't like labels, but I am hers and she is mine. "I'm okay. Perfectly safe. Moretti sent me on a sort of mission, so I'll be gone for a few days. I'll bring you a souvenir when I see you this weekend. Okay, bye!"

Moretti sent her on a mission? I don't like Moretti and I don't like the way he lays claim to my girl. I check her tracker and see that she did in fact disable it at school. "I need one of you to get me security footage of the entire school," I order. "She was sent somewhere without Moretti."

At least she wasn't taken forcibly against her will, but who knows where he sent her. Based on her message, she's not going to be back in town for days.

"We're here, Damon," Santi says.

I order Santi and Mal to find what they can on Elena and take my partially charged phone into the steakhouse.

Ever the impressive man, my dad can intimidate foreign leaders. I am just one of the people he has to deal with that happens to be related to him. Giuseppe stands before me in a custom Italian navy suit. The evergreen silk tie doesn't suit him at all. I'm probably the only one in the room not intimidated by Giuseppe Salvatore, the CEO and founder of Salvatore Investments.

"Son," he states by way of greeting.

"Giuseppe."

He shakes my hand and sits down. "I wish you wouldn't call me that."

"Considering you've only been there a third of my life, I'd say I'm being generous."

"It doesn't diminish who I am," he replies, sitting down and taking a sip of his scotch.

"Your genetics saw to that," I utter, taking my seat across from him and taking a sip of bourbon my father knowingly ordered. I appreciate the fact that he doesn't acknowledge the number of times he's sent me to rehab by ordering me water or worse, the orange soda I would've ordered as a kid. It's like a mutual understanding that rehab was to keep me from spending time in jail or keep me from getting expelled.

He gives me a look usually reserved for the boardroom. It's a look I know well. "We have matters to discuss."

"I'm here, aren't I?" I raise the tumbler to my lips. "So talk."

"When you graduate, you will start working for Salvatore Investments. I already have a position lined up for you where you'll learn about the business from the best. You can stay at the mansion, or use one of the companies penthouses, I don't care. I'm having Carlisle draw up the papers," he finishes.

So this is what he wanted to talk about? My future with his company? I already knew it'd come to this, it was written for me long ago, but to have this conversation now? Why? "I thought I'd at least be able to go to college."

"School won't teach you what experience can," he states. "When I retire, you're to take over the company. I want you to have as much experience as possible because I'm not retiring until I know you're ready."

I chuckle because I know my dad better than he thinks. "You'll be working until you die if that's the case."

I'll never be ready by his standards.

A flush creeps up his neck but he remains stoic. "You have two options, Damon and I want you to think about them very carefully. You can use your trust fund to go to college and continue to party, or you can do the right thing for this family and the company I built and start work the day after you graduate," he offers. He looks smug like he knows my decision. "If you choose the latter option, I'll have one of the Fell boys take your place. Both have already started working at the company and show promise."

Either work for him or lose my place in his company. Jokes on him, I don't care about his company.

"What about Elena?"

His thin lips curl into a slight frown. "What about her?"

"Where she goes, I go," I say. "She's got top universities looking at her, ready to offer her running scholarships. I'm not letting her go so you can force me to work for your company."

His left hand casually picks up his crystal tumbler and takes a pensive sip. He takes his time answering my question. Classic Guiseppe Salvatore negotiation tactic. His dark eyes flick to mine and give me a penetrating stare. "Have your fun in your final year in high school and then you let that girl go."

"Why would I take relationship advice from you of all people?"

"This isn't relationship advice. Do you think I don't know what goes on in that mansion when I'm gone? Parties with strippers, drinking, and drugs. Parties you make money off of. In the past twenty-four hours, you've been arrested twice. You've been in and out of rehab. Your grades are decent, but even I'd have a hard time getting you into any school, son. I'm giving you an opportunity to grow up and make something of yourself," he pauses to take another sip. Readying for his final blow. "You don't deserve her."

I feel the color drain from my face. I place my shaky palms on the tops of my thighs and rub back and forth, trying to steady them. I think of the way she looked at the party that night. She was wearing a long flowy summer dress with buttons up the front. I wanted to beat the shit out of Noah just for making her laugh like that, flashing a smile that draws everyone closer to her. She looked happy and carefree, a look she hadn't worn for years. Then everything went so horribly wrong.

"I don't need your money," I say, the confidence in my voice wavers. "And I don't want to be anything like you."

His lips thin but he gives nothing away. "I'll give you to the new year to decide."

I want to leave but he hasn't told me why I'm really here. "What else do you have to tell me?"

"I want to talk to you about Elena Gilbert," he pauses. "Aside from what I just said."

"And then you're back to Korea or Singapore or wherever your latest girlfriend resides?"

"Damon," he says severely. "This is serious."

I knew it was based on the fact that he's in town. However, he currently has my attention.

I straighten. "Okay."

"You have to understand that I took Elena in because I loved her mother and knew she was in danger. I loved Isabella like a sister and your mother loved her like a best friend. Grayson tried so hard to care for Elena the way she deserved, but Miranda was always a bitch."

I shake my head and take a sip of the water before me. "Isabella wasn't like a sister, you fucked her. That much was revealed at the trial. Luciana thought it was Elena coming out of your office a couple of years ago in a towel, not Isabella."

Giuseppe flexes a hand but covers up the twitch by raising the crystal tumbler to his lips. "She needed help."

"I'm sure…" I add with a smirk. "Why?"

My father steeples his fingers and gazes at the immaculate chandelier set in wood beams in the ceiling. "Elena's bloodline is more valuable than all the oil in the middle east. Comprised of two of the wealthiest families in the United States, she would've had her fate arranged before she turned three. She's also the most dangerous person to the families. She could bind them together or be the subject of another war. Isabella, having just escaped that, knew that'd be her daughter's fate and risked everything to keep her safe. We met at our summer home in upstate New York, so no one really knew of our relationship and Elena was easy to hide… until now."

"You said the council kept her safe."

"Between Grayson and myself, they couldn't say no. The council is very tight-lipped about her, even after everything Grayson put this town through," he explains.

I had Cameron do some digging. His findings contradicted the man I knew before me. "I have to know," I pause, and gather my thoughts. "Why did you put a trust together for Elena?"

His eyes cast a wary gaze and in the light of the chandelier, he looks old and so, unlike my immovable father. "Guilt," he sighs as if he's been holding onto this information for years. "I turned my back on Grayson after Stefan…"

"Died?"

The word wakes him up. He straightens and takes another sip of his scotch. "Elena's a good kid, always has been. She needed to be protected from that woman."

Miranda.

We're quiet when the waitress places the food before us and the food remains untouched long after she leaves. I don't trust my dad with any information about Elena. He'll take her away. Lock her up somewhere in town where the council can protect her to fulfill his promise. "The trust is set to release when she comes of age. She's eighteen, can she access the money?"

"It's meant for college, Damon, not some party you want to throw."

I caught his hesitancy a split second before he talked. "You know that I pay for my own parties, what are you hiding?"

"Where's Elena?"

I push my plate away. Uninterested in food even though I haven't eaten since the coffee and bourbon I had this morning."Safe," I lie.

"Damon, I made her mother a promise. Tell me the truth," he orders.

I place my palms on the table, stand up, and hiss. "If you cared so much about her or her mother, then why's she been alone so long? She's been working herself to the bone just to put a roof over her head, and at the same time, she's been fighting the mob."

"Don't be foolish," he exclaims. "Use your head, Damon!"

I sit back down and think. "It would expose her."

"You think that I didn't want to send her out of the country the moment Grayson went to jail?" He barks out. "Grayson didn't want me to, he was equally worried. Worried that his own problems would lead the families right to her."

"And you were angry," I remind him. "So angry you sent me to rehab without a seconds hesitation."

Hearing the edge in my voice, he flinches but quickly straightens. "Sit down, you're making a fool of yourself."

"You still can't admit it, can you? You can't apologize for sending me away right after my brother died."

Nothing. Just a glare warning me he's two seconds from losing it.

"We're done," I say. I should've never come. I should be looking for Elena, not dealing with him.

"I'm leaving town in a couple of days," he says. "I want to see Elena before I go."

I ignore him and walk off, leaving the two-hundred-dollar steak he ordered untouched and cold.

If he finds out about the video, I don't know what he'll do but I have a feeling he'd easily send me back to rehab and take over the situation with Elena which would end up with her being locked up in a tower somewhere. I may be eighteen, but Giuseppe is incredibly good at getting what he wants.

I have so many fires to put out, I don't know where to start. Mal and Santi stand outside the SUV, once again, with their arms folded. Jesus. Can today get any worse?

"We have news," they say when I approach the vehicle.

"And?"

"Something happened in Macon, Georgia."

Elena

It's freaking hot. So hot my tank is sticking to my stomach. I have to lift the fabric from my skin just to get some much-needed air. Is it normal for a place to be so effing hot with Thanksgiving just around the corner?

Georgia is a swamp and I can't wait to get out except I need to find whatever it is I'm supposed to transport before I make it to Miami. The moment I got in the small SUV, I checked the destination on the car's GPS and then disabled it. I also found several cameras hidden throughout the car and ditched the phone Moretti gave me and my phone after I called Damon. Then I hauled ass out of the state, following the route I memorized from Dom's directions. I need the information Grayson left me, but I'm betting everything that he needs whatever is in this car delivered more. So here I am, in the parking garage of a mall in Macon, Georgia, stripping the car.

No hidden drugs or weapons. I take the knife I bought and use it to slash the vinyl seat covering. Still…nothing. I put the back seats down and continue my search. Was this all just a test? Maybe a way to get me out of town? But why send me to Miami?

The car is a mess of plastic coverings and torn fabric. Thanks to Dom, I have the cash to repair the damage if he's that upset. Where haven't I looked? My eyes scan the interior of the car.

Wait.

Except for looking for GPS trackers, I haven't checked the exterior.

I climb out of the backseat of the car and on my hands and knees, start looking beneath the car, around the tires. When I don't find anything, I do something I have yet to do, I open the hood.

Nothing.

I'm staring at the engine, the alternator, the battery, and still don't see anything. I'm moving the metal latch holding up the hood when it comes down to fast and smacks me on the back of the head. "Ow!" I yell, feeling the back of my neck for blood.

My hand holds the hood up while I examine my neck but then something catches my attention. A small magnetic box tucked under the frame. I have to tilt my head to get to it and stretch out my arm to reach it. Something exposed near the suspension scrapes my forearm as I reach for the small red box. Anyone who didn't know about cars might've thought this was part of the car or the engine, but I know better. I'm able to easily take the box from its hiding spot and clasp it securely in my hand. I lower the hood of the car and sit in the passenger seat, locking all the doors out of paranoia. It reminds me of a miniature version of a firebox, with a heatproof coating the small square box. I slid open the covering of the box and find a small black flash drive.

Huh.

I slip the drive into my pocket and clean up the car as best as I can. When everything is somewhat back in place, I grab my backpack and walk into the mall, my eyes set on the Apple store. Time for a new phone and a new laptop- thank you, Dom, for letting me keep all the money I earned selling drugs.

After setting up my iPhone with prepaid minutes and my new MacBook, I sit in a Starbucks with a latte and a picked at scone, trying to decipher what's on the flash drive. Short answer? A lot. especially considering the flash drive wasn't encrypted.

Ledgers.

Court papers.

Bank documents.

Property titles.

Tax returns.

It's all on this small flash drive.

After spending the better part of an hour sifting through the contents on the drive, I take the final sip of my coffee cup and close the laptop I bought. There are two numbers I wrote down before I ditched the phones, Damon's and Dom's.

I place my computer and phone in my backpack and walk out of the coffee shop. I don't know if it's what I just read but unease courses down my spine; something doesn't feel right.

Instead of going to the parking lot, I cut through the food court and stride to the closest department store. I hide behind a beauty department display and search for the gun I kept in my bag. I look around the corner without giving away my location and see a crowd of shoppers taking advantage of the Mac Cosmetics display.

Maybe I'm just being paranoid.

I subtly move the gun to the front of my bag so I can easily access it and walk to the escalators that lead to the third floor.

The paranoia stays.

According to the flash drive, Dom is a multi-billionaire that needs a piece of land off the coast of Virginia in order for his business to continue to thrive and grow. I didn't find anything about myself, but I read ledgers. Ledgers with shipment dates, times, and locations. Ledgers that indicated what was on the loads sent north and what he was receiving from the south. Loads from Columbia and Mexico. A few from China.

I make it to the third floor and instead of walking directly to the overhead bridge that leads to the parking garage, I take a hard left to the home goods section. Hiding behind a showroom bed, I see him. A man, wearing a black suit, obviously searching the area. I roll my eyes. Moretti really needs to up his game.

If it's him following me.

It could easily be someone else.

I slip in a dressing room near the lingerie section of the department store and move the gun to the waistband of my shorts. Making sure everything is secure, I peer out of the doors and see that the coast is clear. Maybe I am being paranoid. Maybe that guy was trying to decide which thousand count sheets to get or which push-up bra to get his girlfriend.

With my back is to the wall, I make my way out of the store. I walk through a group of normal teenagers who curse at me for being so rude. Kids my age enjoying an evening at the mall and here I am, forced to work for a mafioso because of a debt the people who I thought were my parents, left me. Oh, and he's holding information over my head. I would give anything to be one of those kids on a weeknight.

My stride quickens as I weave through shoppers. I don't dare look over my shoulder but from the reflection in a storefront window, I see him swiftly closing in on me.

It's time to run.

I take a hard right and sprint down an escalator going the opposite direction. People yell and curse for me to move, but I don't care. I'm running flat out, past clothing stores, jewelry stores, and the like. I briefly twist my head to see if he's still behind me when I run right into someone. Tall, foreboding, wearing all black. He grabs me by the upper arms and easily hauls me to a narrow hallway used for maintenance like I weigh nothing. I wouldn't be surprised if he worked for the Worldwide Wrestling Federation in his spare time. Probably has one of those giant gold belts hanging on his bedroom wall.

"I have her," he says into a mic.

Is he sure about that?

I take his moment of arrogance to suck back saliva collecting in my mouth and hock it right in his face while simultaneously raising my knee and stomping on his foot. He curses and I use the opening to make a break for it. Instead of going back out into the mall, I run down the maintenance hallway, which leads to the back of the mall. It's dark outside, but the lights from trucks unloading cargo guide my path.

With my back to a Sysco truck, I take out my gun and after releasing the safety, hold it in my hand the way Uncle John taught me, pointed down and ready to shoot if I need to. I need to get to my car, but the garage is on the other side of the mall.

I mentally calculate my risk. These men were most likely sent by Moretti for disabling the car's GPS and ditching the phone. I could also be in someone else's territory, on someone else's radar. It could be someone that's not Moretti, and after the flash drive I'm delivering. The Russo or Giovanni family could've found me, that's another possibility.

It could also be Damon, but I quickly rule that out because he'd just come himself. He'd think it fun to freak me out and then he'd probably fuck me against this truck.

I feel myself heat up and then shake my head. Now's not the time to mentally play out fantasies. The rush adrenaline coursing through my body is making me horny as hell.

Think, Elena!

I hear quick footsteps and the sound of gravel being kicked up. If I run around the truck, I risk exposure. Not a possibility. There is another way.

Through.

I take off my backpack, slide it beneath the semi-trailer, and lying flat on my back, I roll on my stomach until I'm hidden in the shadows of the massive wheels. Keeping the gun in my hand, I wait.

"Where did she go?"

Loafers gleam in the moonlight a few feet from me. I hold my breath and wait.

"She can't have gone far."

"Boss is going to kill us for losing her."

The other pauses. "We haven't lost her yet."

Sitting a foot away from me are larger rocks. I toss one in the opposite direction of the truck. It clatters and skips against the gravel.

"Shut up!" One of the goons hisses, effectively silencing his partner.

I hear them move away from me and around the truck toward the noise. I throw a rock against the truck next to the one I'm currently hiding under.

The moment they round the corner, I grab my bag and roll back to where I was, then I pop to my feet and sprint back into the mall. I don't care if people see me running with dirt and gravel all over me, holding a gun, I run as fast as I can around the ice skating rink and toward the mall entrance. When my path is clear, I look over my shoulder and see them on the other side of the rink. They can't know where the car is. Years of running trained me for this moment, I sprint up the stairs next to the elevators until I get to the third floor. Then I double back so I can access the parking garage through Macy's.

Security guards block my path, and it's evident in their stance they want to talk to me. Running throughout the mall probably caught their attention.

I casually move my backpack so it covers the gun in my hand. I don't dare put it away. I don't have to dig deep to create the tears I'm able to force. "Oh my goodness, thank god," I cry before they can accuse me of anything.

A heavier set one looks at me curiously. "Ma'am, please calm down."

"You don't understand," I blubber, choking in hysterics. "These men are after me. They tried to rape me," I say, motioning to the gravel and dirt down my front with the hand not currently holding a gun.

Concern blankets the other guard's face. "Where are they?"

Like they can do anything.

"They're wearing black and…" I turn behind me and see the two men in black closing in. "That's them!"

"Ma'am, wait here."

I don't.

The officers step away from me to deal with the goons. With their backs to me, I dart into Macy's and run across the kid's clothing department and athletic wear until I find the sliding glass doors that lead to the parking garage.

My legs carry me down the slope of the ramp leading to my car. I don't have time to apologize to the few people parking and getting out of their cars and I refuse to look back as I make my way to the Rav 4.

Loud pops of gunshots ring out. Jesus Christ!

I dive behind a white Prius and fall to my knees, praying no one innocent got hurt. My ears listen for screams or sirens. Nothing. That's good.

With one palm flat on the asphalt to steady myself, I consider my options. If I stay here, they'll find me. If I run, I leave myself exposed.

God, I really wish I had a drink. Just one shot of something.

Think, Elena!

These aren't Moretti's men. I'm pretty sure Moretti doesn't want me dead. I crouch below the car so I'm hidden between the white Prius and gold Honda sedan. I hear quickening footsteps, I need to move.

"Where is she?"

"Keep looking, we can't let her get away."

With my head bent, I move to a crouch and run between the cars until I hear another gunshot. This one hits the passenger window of the car I just past. I spot the Rav.

Fuck it.

With my head lowered and attempting to stay concealed behind cars, I run, sliding over the hood of a sedan, to the Rav 4. My hands nervously shake trying to get the keys out of my pocket when another shot rings through the air, crashing into another car.

That's it.

That's fucking it.

I turn around, and staying concealed behind a car that's two cars away from the Rav, I point my gun in the direction of the shots.

Then I see him. Wearing all black, with a look of pure venom and determination on his face. He's easily one-hundred-fifty pounds heavier than me and will probably face hell if he doesn't bring me back to whomever he works for. Might as well save him that trip to hell. The moment he pauses his pursuit to scan the parking lot, I pull the trigger and hit him in the shoulder of his shooting arm. I could've done worse.

I hear shouts and more gunshots as his partner attempts to find me, but in the midst of it, I make it to the Rav, open the door, throw my backpack in, and pull out with my head ducked. A bullet flies through the rear windshield in a clean shot and I feel searing pain slice through my right bicep. My steering falters as I hit the back of a truck. Ignoring the pain shooting through my arm, I back up and continue to drive out of the parking lot.

Cars are lined up to pay for parking and exit the garage. I glance behind me and calculate the risk of waiting. If I wait, I have a high probability of being stopped, either by cops for the damage caused by my driving and gunfire, or the goons that chased me through the mall. I put the SUV in reverse and making sure the path is clear, drive through the entry barrier with my head ducked.

I make it to the road and continue until I see the exit for the interstate. The further away I am from the scene, the more my arm throbs. Blood trickles down my bicep as I drive south and I pray I don't get pulled over for the obvious bullet holes in the back of my car or because someone at the mall called it in.

After driving for twenty minutes, I relax when I realize no one is following me. I move the gun from my lap to the passenger side of the car and keeping one hand on the wheel, take off my shirt. I have a thin camisole underneath, so I'm able to use the fabric to stem the flow of blood. I peer down and inspect the wound. The bullet just grazed me, as evidenced by the clean hole in the dashboard.

I lean over and dig my new phone out of my bag. Blocking my number from the call, I dial one of the numbers I memorized.

"I am not happy," he says by way of greeting. I don't know how he knew it was me, but Dom does have his ways.

"Well you weren't just shot at," I try to collect my thoughts. "For all I know, you were just shot at but that's something you're probably used to. However, I'm not, Dom!"

"You were shot at?" He inquires, mildly interested.

"I'm assuming you weren't the one that ordered my death?"
"Why would I get rid of my most valuable asset? It is bad business."

"Look, Dom." I groan in pain. Getting shot really sucks. "I want my Grayson's files and letters. You get them to me, and I finish this delivery. If not, I won't think twice about driving this car into the Atlantic and using the money you so kindly let me keep to buy a one-way ticket out of this country."

I hear him huff. I genuinely think I surprised him.

"You don't know where I am," I add. "I think it's dangerous for me to go further south, so I'm going to need an incentive."

There's a pause where I hear shuffling of papers and additional voices in the background.

"Tomorrow morning, at the Westin in Jacksonville, I will have everything delivered."

"How can I trust it's everything?"

"Because if you do not deliver the product, I will find you," he replies simply.

It's enough of a threat. He doesn't need to say anymore.

"Who shot me?"

"Could be the Russo family…." He mutters.

Fuck, that's technically my family- biologically.

"Could be the Riviera family…"

"Riviera family?"

"Miami business," he informs me. "They are good people- family people."

"My arm says otherwise," I mutter, slightly repositioning the blood-soaked cloth on my arm.

There's an intake of breath and I can almost picture Dom sitting up and steepling his fingers ominously. "You are hurt?"

"I'm fine, Moretti."

I don't think he believes me.

"I want the items my dad left me. Tomorrow."

"And I want that car delivered."

"You mean the flash drive," I say, right before I hang up. That'll keep him occupied.

After thirty minutes of driving, I pull into a gas station. I put the safety back on my gun and move it into my backpack. I tie a clean shirt I found in my bag around the wound to stop the blood flow and with my bag over my shoulder, walk into the station.

I walk the aisles full of chips and candy until I find a health and wellness section with small packs of medicine. I scan the items until I find a first aid kit meant for a car. I take two kits, vodka, an energy drink, and grab a bag of Skittles on my way to the register.

After filling up the tank, I drive the car to a lit side of the parking lot and take care of the wound by cleaning the cut with vodka and butterflying the wound. I then wrap gauze around my arm several times over and secure it with medical tape. I have no clue what I'm doing and am basing everything off of a combination of common sense and reruns of Grey's Anatomy.

I'm going to need stitches, that much I know, except I can't exactly walk into an E.R. without them asking questions. Plus I have to get to Jacksonville. It'll have to wait.

I roll down the window as continue the drive south. I breathe in the cool night air, casually checking my rearview mirror whenever a car comes close. The radio plays a local classic rock station, reminding me of Damon. I don't want to admit it but thoughts of missing him float through my mind and into my heart. He'd know to make me laugh right now, probably with some dumb and inappropriate joke. He would've wanted to play a stupid car game, kids play on road trips and when I got bored, he'd give me one of those road trip coloring books to scribble in as a joke and insist on driving, reminding me that I have limits and a bullet hole in my arm is the very definition of a limit.

But he's not here.

I've been alone for so long, having him bug me these past few weeks has been something I didn't realize I needed.

He's probably so mad at me and I can't blame him, it's not like I gave him a whole lot of information on the phone. I should call him, but he'd freak out and probably charter a plane to meet me in Florida. I can picture Damon parachuting from a small crop duster just to be able to call me a stubborn idiot.

Free Bird by Lynyrd Skynyrd comes on, so I turn up the music and softly sing along to the lyrics, trying to keep my mind off the pain in my arm. I continue down the highway, grateful I don't have to stop for gas again. Once I pull into the hotel at just past three in the morning, I sling my bag over my shoulder and ignoring the looks of horror on the valet's face, slip him a fifty, and walk through the lobby to the front desk.

I thought I'd have to get a room, but of course, there's one in my name. The front desk clerk gives me a funny look. "You're the Elena Gilbert?"

I ignore the way he scans my body, his eyes fall on my arm and he goes back to his computer. "Yeah, so there's a reservation under my name?"

"Yes, there's a standing reservation for all of Mr. Moretti's…" he pauses, looking up at me again. His dark brown eyes land on my lips. I wipe them self consciously. Maybe they're a weird tropical color from the Skittles. He clears his throat. "Guests."

I frown. I don't want to be in a room that houses his "guests". What if there are cameras or what if one of his goons is hiding behind a curtain to finish me off. I provoked him with the flash drive comment. "I'd like to reserve a different room. I'll pay."

"You don't want the penthouse suite?"

Do I?

"No, a standard room with a bed is fine."

He shrugs and enters something into the computer. "I thought it'd be more comfortable for your guests."

"My guests?"

"Aren't you one of Mr. Moretti's girls?"

Oh…

I don't know how I feel about this accusation.

I point to my bloody forearm. "As you can see, not one of his girls."

The clerk barely glances at my arm because his eyes fall on my boobs. "Hey!" I snap my fingers and point my index finger in an accusatory fashion. "What the hell? Do you ogle all the guests like this? Should I talk to the manager?"

He checks behind him nervously. "Sorry," he replies, and he seems like he means it. "I'm just a fan." Fan? Did news of the trial hit Jacksonville? Damon said it was national news. I give the clerk my debit card to pay for the deposit. The clerk hands me an envelope with the keycard in it. I thank him and make my way to my room.

I don't check my bandage. I don't even brush my teeth. I drop my bag, move the gun to the nightstand, kick off my shoes, and fall into bed.