Afterwards.
The room was quiet, save for the hum of the air conditioner. Hunter sat on the edge of the bed, lighting a cigarette. He took a drag, letting the smoke curl lazily toward the ceiling.
Beside him, Margie lay tangled in the sheets, utterly spent. Her face was soft, her guard completely down. She looked like a woman who had finally stopped running.
"Pack your things," Hunter said, his voice calm. "I'm checking us out of the hotel. You and Mathilda can stay at my apartment for a few days."
He paused, glancing at her. "Unless... unless that place holds too many bad memories. If you want, I'll rent a new place. Something temporary. I'm in the process of buying a farm upstate. Once that's settled, you'll move there."
"Really?"
Margie sat up, clutching the sheet to her chest. Her eyes widened in disbelief.
She hadn't mourned Michael. Their marriage had been a transaction—two drowning people clinging to the same piece of driftwood. She was a former club hostess, aging out of the industry; he was a low-level thug who offered protection. It wasn't love. It was survival.
But Michael's greed had destroyed everything. His attempt to steal from Stansfield had cost Margie her biological children—her eldest daughter and her young son.
She hated him for that. She hated him with a depth that eclipsed any sorrow.
Hunter saw the desperation in her eyes. He smiled gently.
"Really," he confirmed. "Quit your job. You don't need to work anymore. Unless you want to manage the farm later. I'll give you a monthly allowance. As long as you want, I'll take care of you and Mathilda."
"Yes," Margie breathed. Tears welled up in her eyes, real ones this time. She pressed her face against his chest, listening to the steady, powerful rhythm of his heart. For the first time in weeks, the crushing anxiety in her chest began to loosen.
She had found a new anchor.
An hour later.
Hunter and Margie stepped out of the room, dressed and packed.
In the hallway, Mathilda was sitting cross-legged on the carpet, surrounded by a fortress of empty snack wrappers. A lit cigarette dangled from her lips.
Hunter had given her a hundred-dollar bill earlier to keep her occupied at the vending machines. Apparently, she had diversified her purchases.
"Mathilda!" Margie gasped. The bliss on her face vanished, replaced by maternal shock. She snatched the cigarette from the girl's mouth and crushed it under her heel.
Mathilda didn't flinch. She just stared up at her stepmother with that same cold, defiant look.
Margie glared, but the scolding died in her throat. She had never been the perfect mother, but she had tried. She had kept Mathilda in school, kept her fed, even when money was tight. But now... with everyone else dead... what was the point of yelling?
Hunter watched the dynamic with amusement. The girl was a spitting image of her movie counterpart—rebellious, precocious, and deeply damaged.
"Let's go," Hunter said, breaking the tension.
He bent down and helped Mathilda pick up the trash, tossing it into a nearby bin.
They left the hotel. Margie hesitated about returning to Hunter's old apartment—it was too close to the scene of the massacre. Hunter understood.
Money solved problems. Within an hour, they were at a rental agency. Hunter put down a cash deposit on a furnished apartment in a quiet neighborhood, far from the bloodstained memories of their old block.
He handed Margie twenty thousand dollars in cash. "For essentials," he said. "Get settled. I'll be back."
Toretto's Garage.
Hunter parked his motorcycle outside the familiar red brick building. The garage doors were shut tight, a padlock gleaming on the chain.
Sitting on the hood of a parked car, looking ten years older than the last time Hunter saw him, was Old Parker.
"Parker!" Hunter called out.
The old mechanic jumped, his head snapping up. Recognition dawned on his face, followed immediately by fear. He scanned the street nervously.
"You?" Parker hissed. "What are you doing here?"
Hunter raised an eyebrow. The paranoia was palpable. "FBI already swept the place?"
Parker nodded, looking miserable. He accepted the cigarette Hunter offered, his hands trembling slightly as he lit it.
"Closed indefinitely," Parker rasped. "The Feds say Dom owns a piece of the shop. Asset forfeiture pending investigation."
"What happened?" Hunter lowered his voice, leaning in. "Dom doesn't just run without a word. Why did they bolt?"
Parker stayed silent for a long time, smoking down to the filter. He looked at Hunter, weighing how much to say.
"You and Mia?" Parker asked finally.
"We were... seeing each other," Hunter said, rubbing his temple. "I was helping Dom with his legal trouble. I turn my back for a few days, and suddenly they're ghosts."
Parker sighed, exhaling a cloud of gray smoke.
"Word on the street is... someone talked," Parker whispered. "The night before they ran, Vince and Letty were discharged from the hospital. Someone picked them up. Not Dom."
Hunter froze.
"A few hours later," Parker continued, "Dom packed everyone up and vanished."
Hunter's grip on his cigarette tightened until it snapped.
He understood now.
Vince.
Vince had always been the weak link. He was jealous of Brian, jealous of Dom, and fiercely insecure. Or maybe it was Letty—injured, vulnerable, and pressured by the authorities?
No. Letty wouldn't break. She was ride-or-die.
But Vince? Vince was a loose cannon.
If the FBI had gotten to Vince... or if Vince had cut a deal...
"Betrayal," Hunter murmured.
That explained the sudden flight. That explained why they left him behind. They had been compromised from the inside.
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