18. Gigi

18

GIGI

As we touch down at Boston's Logan airport, my anxiety spikes again. We've managed to escape Lake Como and Italy, but ever since we've been on the run, I'm like a rabbit with a fox biting at my tail.

While we were in the air, there was a moment of relief. Nobody seems to have followed us onto the plane. The probability was almost zero, but we will be hunted down. All I can hope is Matteo is the solution that can work for now, or at least until the storm has blown over. Franco Fiore will take a wife from another Mafia family—surely, the Trapanis aren't the only ones bowing to the new order.

I don't know what happened to Don Trapani after we escaped. At some point, Carla's bodyguard will let us know. As Vito saw us off at the airport, he promised to send news via email.

Carla has been unnaturally quiet, probably shocked about the turn of events. What she doesn't know is how before my biological dad got killed by the Cosa Nostra, this was my life. The thing is, the higher up your parents are in the Mafia, the more distanced you become from it. In the highest echelons, you're almost untouchable. Almost . My mom's marriage to Don Trapani might have catapulted us to the highest inner circle of the Cosa Nostra, but I'll never forget my childhood.

I shift in my chair. The seatbelt rubs uncomfortably against my lower belly where I'm swollen and raw. I still haven't looked at what Franco did to me. I can't bear it. I didn't change the sanitary napkin I so hastily shoved between my skin and the front part of my panties. Not even while Vito was with us when we bought new clothes at the airport. We ditched everything we were wearing right there, even my tote. Carla's eyes bulged when I ripped through the tote's lining and transferred the stack of euros to my new purse.

"You've been walking around with this amount of cash?" she asked. "Just like that?"

"I always walk around with this amount of cash." I didn't want to spook her, but the reality of our situation was slowly sinking in.

"Who are we meeting at the airport?" she asks now as she looks out the window. The airplane is taxiing to its parking bay.

"Matteo Scalera. I met him last month in Cannes. He owes us."

He owes me.

As for his brother Stephano… I reckon he might cross my path. Hopefully not. But here I am, alive . When he tossed back how I need to work on my aim for next time that night in Cannes, I'd wanted to call back over my dead body. It doesn't sound so farfetched now, which just gives me the chills.

I still think of that night. Of me and him. It runs in my mind like a reel. The presidential suite, Stephano in his tux, him leaning over me and seducing me with his words, then with his lips. At these memories, my body heats up with desire catching flame. Every single annoying time. And I hate myself for it.

I wipe at my brow. I'm hot. And in pain. The painkillers I took have worn off, and my arm pulses where they cut me and I dug around with unsterilized tweezers. Where Franco hit me, my body aches every time I move. He bruised or cracked a rib or two. I've been sitting too long in an economy-class seat, and I'm stiff from all the crawling and contorting I did in the roof and tunnel as we escaped the house in Lake Como.

"Are you okay, Gigi?" Carla asks as she reaches for my hand where I'm gripping the armrest.

"I'm just tired." I hardly slept. My adrenaline still spikes out of nowhere, and I'm in too much pain. The reality I've always dreaded is on us, and I won't sleep properly until we're safe.

Carla presses the back of her hand against my cheek. "You're boiling."

"It's exhaustion." We've been on the run for a whole day now, having to change flights twice. I didn't sleep on Friday night either.

"No. Please, tell me. What did they do to you? Franco… And his men?"

When Franco marked me, the thing that kept me going was how it was happening to me and not to Carla. Now, I've had time to digest how he touched me, how he did everything to me while his men— his dirty, fucking men —looked on. How he told them what he was going to do to me once we were wed. Piercings. One by one. As he caressed my sex while all of them watched. I bet he'll let them fuck me, too. One by one.

I'll never be Franco's trophy wife. I'd be his slave for whatever duty he sees fit. His reward to hand out to men who'd want to have me as a prize.

"Nothing to worry about, Carla," I say, but I shudder inside. "The worst was the implant, and we left that behind."

The airplane has come to a stop. The other passengers get up to gather their cabin bags. We have nothing but two purses between us, the clothes we're wearing, and what's left of fifty thousand euros after paying for these flights.

"How long are we staying for?"

"Probably no longer than a month."

But it's a lie. As long as it takes. I heave up, and pain shoots through me. I wince, and Carla's hand is on my back.

"Can you walk?"

"Yes." I made it this far. I just need to get into Matteo's car.

He must be here. I don't know what we're going to do if he isn't. I've memorized his phone number just in case. That last desperate phone call, made from Vito's phone using a burner SIM card, was dreadful. I forced myself to be cool and calm, authoritative, demanding. Calling in this favor. We didn't have time to discuss the full extent of this disaster, but Matteo isn't stupid. He'll know what it means to have us landing on his doorstep. I made him promise he wouldn't let Don Trapani know where we are. Not yet. Not until this storm has passed.

We make our way out of the plane with the throng of other passengers. Once we're in the terminal corridor, I step to the side. I can't walk fast, not with my ribcage feeling like it's gaping open and my jeans taking a bite out of my groin with every step. Carla slows down and has me by the elbow.

"Come on, it's not far now."

What a lie. It feels like miles. We go through passport control, basically lying our way into the country with the false documents I have on hand, telling them we're here for two weeks as tourists to see Boston and then New York. I'm going to change or not show up for our return flights, depending on how soon I know what's happening next.

Nothing flags on the border control officer's side, not from what I can see in any event, and I deflate, feeling even weaker as we make our way through baggage claim.

I stumble as we walk out into the arrivals lounge, and Carla grips me tighter.

"God, Gigi, come on, stay with me."

"I'm okay," I whisper, but I lean into her.

I scan the arrivals lounge for the only person I want to see. I've met him only once, but Matteo's face, going through every emotion when I kidnapped him on the yacht that day, is a solid memory. I won't miss him.

The airport is busy, and I'm scanning the area for Matteo when my gaze snags on Stephano Scalera. I snatch in a breath. The one man I vowed to never see again if I could help it.

He's coming towards us, and his eyes lock with mine. He is just as I remember him. Tall, dark hair, broad shoulders only accentuated by his suit's perfect fit. My heart skips a beat. My ribcage protests. I sag a bit on my feet.

"Gigi?" Stephano is right here, his gaze filled with concern.

"Where's Matteo?" I manage, but I'm seeing black spots. I might faint.

"He sent me to fetch you." He steps even closer.

"My sister needs a doctor," Carla tells him, and before I can straighten properly, I've lost my grip on Carla.

But Stephano has me, and I lean into him as my head sways.

"Hey," he murmurs. "I've got you."

His arm snakes around my waist for support. I wince as I press into his chest to keep upright, but honestly, I want to collapse in his embrace. In these Mafia paws that hold me tenderly and don't punch with the least provocation like my dad's did. Or like Franco's did. I swore to never get hitched to a man like that, and for now, I seem to have escaped such a fate.

"Where're you hurting, angel?" Stephano asks softly.

Tears are flowing now. For Carla's sake, I've contained them, but his tone, his touch, so caring and tender as he holds me steady, is too much.

"She won't say," Carla tells him when I say nothing. "Ever since Friday night— I don't know what happened in the library, but he hurt her." She chokes. "He hurt her real bad."

A shudder runs through Stephano's body, and for a second, he just rubs my back.

"Okay. I'll take care of you. Lean against me, angel," he says in my ear. "That's right. As if we're having a hug like we haven't seen each other for years. I'm going to call the car to come around to the pickup and go. I'm sorry, but I think you need to walk out of here. I'd carry you, but I don't want to draw any attention."

"No," I whisper. "No attention. I'll manage. We made it, and Carla is safe."

I'm wrapped in his arms, his hold firm and solid around my back. I inhale the fresh scent of his laundered shirt, my one hand resting against his pecs, the other settling on his hip under his jacket. I can't smell very nice at all, but through his shirt, I can smell him. His male scent that seems to pair perfectly with every feminine need my body has. He is so solid and warm, and for the first time, I'm able to let go. This giant wall of responsibility I've been scaling seems to shrink against this wall of a man. He is here now. He's in control, and he'll keep us safe. I can hand the reins over to him.

Within seconds, he's on the phone, giving orders.

"Come on," he says once he's rung off. "It isn't far. You don't have luggage?"

"No," Carla says.

"It was a ‘come as you are' moment," I mutter.

Nobody laughs at my little joke.