She was running away from her wedding, from her fiancé, from her life. She was running away, and she didn't know where to go, what to do, who to trust.
She was running away, and she was scared. Scared, of the man she loved, of the man she hated, of the man she feared. Scared, of the truth, of the lies, of the secrets. Scared, of the past, of the present, of the future.
She was running away, and she was confused. Confused, by the man who followed her, by the man who called her, by the man who threatened her. Confused, by the texts, by the pictures, by the evidence. Confused, by the crimes, by the deaths, by the mafia.
She was running away, and she was alone. Alone, in the crowd, in the street, in the car. Alone, with no friends, no family, no support. Alone, with no proof, no plan, no hope.
She was running away, and she was Maria. Maria, the woman who had a dream, the woman who had a purpose, the woman who had a friend. Maria, the woman who had fallen in love, the woman who had gotten engaged, the woman who had been betrayed.
She was running away, and she was Maria. And she was in trouble.
*
She had gotten in the car, the limousine, the trap. The car, that Antonio had sent her, that he had arranged for her, that he had lied to her. The car, that was supposed to take her to the church, to the altar, to the wedding. The car, that was taking her to the unknown, to the danger, to the end.
She had gotten in the car, and she had met him. Him, the driver, the agent, the savior. Him, who had introduced himself as Jensen Ackles, who had shown his ID of the FBI, who had told her the truth. Him, who had saved her from the car, who had taken her to the headquarters, who had shown her the proof.
He had shown her the proof, and she had seen it. She had seen it, and she had believed it. She had believed it, and she had been shocked. Shocked, by the photos, by the videos, by the reports. Shocked, by the crimes, by the deaths, by the mafia, by Antonio, by her fiance.
She had seen the proof, and she had known it. She had known it, and she had remembered it. She had remembered it, and she had understood it. Understood, the coincidences, the disappearances, the threats. Understood, the motives, the methods, the targets.
She had known the proof, and she had recognized him. Him, the groom, the fiancé, the killer. Him, who had pretended to love her, who had proposed to her, who had planned to use her. Him, who had killed them, who had blackmailed them, who had led them.
Him, who was Antonio, the man who had saved her life, the man who had tried to end her life, the man who had taken many lives.
He was Antonio, and he was a mafia boss.
She had seen the proof, and she had decided to run. To run, away from him, away from them, away from everything. To run, without looking back, without saying goodbye, without feeling sorry.
She had decided to run, and he had let her. He, the agent, the savior, the friend. He, who had empathized with her, who had explained to her, who had offered to her. He, who had given her the options, the choices, the chances.
He had given her the options, and she had rejected them. Rejected, to help them, to catch them, to stop them. Rejected, to testify, to cooperate, to protect. Rejected, to stay, to hide, to live.
She had rejected the options, and she had chosen to run. To run, on her own, on the run, on the edge. To run, without a plan, without a destination, without a purpose.
She had chosen to run, and he had respected her. He, who had wished her well, who had warned her, who had helped her. He, who had given her some money, some clothes, some contacts. He, who had driven her to the airport, who had bought her a ticket, who had hugged her goodbye.
He had hugged her goodbye, and she had thanked him. Thanked him, for saving her, for showing her, for letting her. Thanked him, for being kind, for being honest, for being there.
She had thanked him, and she had left him. Left him, to board the plane, to fly away, to start anew. Left him, to face the consequences, to deal with the aftermath, to finish the job.
She had left him, and she had called him. Him, the groom, the fiancé, the killer. Him, who had been waiting for her, who had been calling her, who had been lying to her. Him, who had asked her where she was, who had told her he loved her, who had begged her to come.
She had called him, and she had told him. Told him, that she knew, that she saw, that she ran. Told him, that she hated him, that she feared him, that she left him.
She had told him, and she had hung up. Hung up, on his voice, on his words, on his lies. Hung up, on his anger, on his pain, on his love.
She had hung up, and she had cried. Cried, for what she had lost, for what she had learned, for what she had done. Cried, for the dream, for the love, for the friend. Cried, for herself, for him, for them.
She had cried, and she had run. Run, away from her wedding, from her fiancé, from her life. Run, and she didn't know where to go, what to do, who to trust.
Run, and she was Maria. Maria, the woman who had a dream, the woman who had a purpose, the woman who had a friend. Maria, the woman who had fallen in love, the woman who had gotten engaged, the woman who had been betrayed.
Run, and she was Maria. And she was in trouble.