Chapter 22
The Flight Home
The stolen car screeched to a stop just outside the small airstrip, gravel crunching beneath its tires. Matteo barely waited for the engine to cut before throwing the door open and stepping out, scanning the darkened tarmac. His pulse hammered in his ears, the adrenaline of the past few hours refusing to fade.
The airport was almost deserted, just as Enzo had promised. A single jet sat waiting under the dim glow of overhead lights, the hum of its engines a low, steady vibration in the still night air. The faint scent of jet fuel lingered in the cool breeze, mixing with the distant sound of cicadas in the surrounding fields.
Aldo and Russo exited the car behind him, their movements tense, hands never far from the weapons they had claimed from their captors. Their escape had been close, too close, and the weight of what they had learned pressed heavily on his shoulders.
Matteo rolled his neck, trying to ease the tightness that had settled into his muscles. They had been running, fighting, and surviving for days; now, they finally had a way out. But even as relief flickered at the edges of his mind, unease sat heavy in his chest. They were going home, but what kind of home would they be returning to?
Russo exhaled loudly, shoving his hands into his pockets as he sauntered a few steps ahead. "Well, boys, I gotta say, it’s been a hell of a trip. Not exactly the kind of vacation I had in mind, but hey, can’t win ‘em all. Though, you do own me a house, you know."
Matteo ignored him, his gaze locked on a man in a pilot’s uniform standing at the foot of the stairs leading up to the jet. The pilot stood with the composed, professional air of someone who had seen a lot and questioned little. When they were close enough, he nodded in recognition.
“Signor Moretti,” he said, his voice calm and even. “Your brother sends his regards. We’re ready for takeoff.”
Matteo gave a stiff nod before glancing back at Aldo and Russo. “Let’s go.”
Russo clapped his hands together with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Finally, some goddamn luxury.” Without hesitation, he bounded up the stairs first, unbothered by the grimness of their situation. His confidence was as irritating as it was strangely reassuring; nothing seemed to shake him.
Aldo followed at a steadier pace, his eyes flicking over the shadows around them even as he climbed. Ever cautious, ever calculating. He had been that way since the beginning, and Matteo had come to rely on it more than he wanted to admit.
Matteo lingered for a moment, taking one last look around. The night stretched endlessly beyond the airstrip, dark and empty, yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that something unseen still lurked in the distance, watching, waiting. He exhaled sharply, forcing the paranoia away before finally stepping onto the plane.
The cabin was dimly lit, the sleek leather seats inviting in their solitude. The soft hum of the engines was a soothing contrast to the chaos of the world they had just left behind. For the first time in what felt like forever, Matteo allowed himself a brief moment of peace. But it was fleeting.
Russo, ever the cynic, wasted no time in claiming the seat farthest from them, stretching his legs and slouching into the chair with a deep sigh. “Wake me when we land,” he muttered, his voice already thick with fatigue as he closed his eyes, seemingly oblivious to the tension still lingering in the cabin. Within moments, the rhythmic sound of his snores filled the space, blending with the low thrum of the plane’s systems.
Matteo, however, couldn’t bring himself to relax. The weight of his thoughts pressed heavily on his chest as he dropped into a seat near the window. Outside, the darkness stretched on endlessly, offering no comfort, no answers. Somewhere, far across the ocean, his brothers were waiting for him; waiting for the storm.
Enzo would be gathering men, strengthening their positions. Enzo always had a plan. But Luca… Matteo’s stomach twisted at the thought of his younger brother. Luca was different. Reckless. Impulsive. While danger loomed, Luca wouldn’t wait. He’d dive headfirst into the fray, no hesitation. And that terrified Matteo more than anything else.
He ran a hand down his face, his fingertips brushing over the stubble that had begun to grow in the hours since the confrontation at the villa. He wanted to push the thoughts away, to focus on the flight, on the safety of the moment. But they lingered, gnawing at him. His mind was already three steps ahead, calculating the next move, the next risk. The moment they landed, the fight would begin, whether they were ready or not.
A shift in the seat beside him broke through his spiral. He hadn’t noticed Aldo moving, but there he was, settling beside him without a word. For a few seconds, he said nothing, just sat there, his presence unwavering. Matteo could feel his gaze on him, even though he didn’t look up. It was as if Aldo was reading him, understanding the turmoil that Matteo couldn’t voice.
“You’re worried about them,” Aldo said, his voice low, steady, like a pulse in the quiet cabin.
Matteo’s lips twitched into a humorless smile as he exhaled sharply. “Was it that obvious?” His voice was rough, as if even speaking the words would make the reality of the situation hit him harder.
Aldo shrugged, eyes flicking out the window as the darkness blurred into the endless night. “You have that look.” His tone was casual, but there was something in it, a quiet acknowledgment of the weight Matteo carried.
Matteo turned to him, frowning. “What look?”
Aldo’s lips curved into the faintest of smirks, though there was no joy in it. Just understanding, maybe a touch of sympathy. “The one that says you blame yourself for everything.”
Matteo stiffened, a bitter laugh escaping him. “I should’ve called Enzo sooner.”
Aldo didn’t flinch. He didn’t sugarcoat anything. “You should’ve,” he agreed bluntly. “But it wouldn’t have changed much. Vittorio had this planned for a long time. We were just the last to know.”
The words hit harder than Matteo expected. It wasn’t what he wanted to hear. But Aldo was right. The harsh truth echoed in Matteo’s mind. It wasn’t his fault. Not directly. But that didn’t make the guilt go away. Not when he felt responsible for everything that had gone wrong, everything that was about to happen.
“I could’ve done something,” Matteo muttered under his breath, his voice barely above a whisper. He didn’t want to hear logic, didn’t want to hear the truth. He wanted to believe he could’ve changed the course of events. That maybe, just maybe, there was a way out without all of this bloodshed.
Aldo leaned back in his seat, his eyes never leaving Matteo’s face. He studied him carefully, the intensity in his gaze unwavering. “You’re doing something now,” he said simply, his voice carrying a quiet strength.
“You’re doing something now.”
The weight of that statement hung in the air, settling between them like an unspoken promise. The silence that followed felt heavier, thicker, than any words they could’ve exchanged. The hum of the engines, the rustle of Russo’s snores, it all felt distant now, like background noise in a world that had shifted beneath their feet.
Matteo exhaled deeply, rubbing his temple as the exhaustion that went far beyond physical fatigue swept over him. It wasn’t just his body that was drained. It was his spirit. His heart. The weight of the responsibility he carried, the burden of his family’s survival; it was crushing.
And Aldo seemed to sense that. Without a word, without hesitation, he nudged his knee gently against Matteo’s, a simple touch that spoke volumes. Matteo didn’t need to hear the words; the gesture said it all. You’re not alone in this.
Matteo glanced at him then, his eyes lingering longer than they ever had before. It was strange how much had changed in such a short time. Aldo had been an enemy once; someone Matteo had never expected to find any form of connection with. But now… now it was different.
There was no animosity in Aldo’s gaze, no bitterness, no anger. Just understanding. And something more; a bond that had formed in the midst of the chaos, in the heat of shared struggle to survive. Their shared vulnerability. Matteo didn’t have the words for it, but the feeling was there, thick and undeniable.
He didn’t respond verbally. He didn’t need to. But Aldo didn’t seem to expect him to. Instead, without hesitation, he reached out, his fingers closing around Matteo’s hand in a firm, steady grip. The touch was grounding, anchoring them both in the quiet turbulence of the moment. They sat in that rare silence, the hum of the plane the only thing separating them from the storm of what was to come.
And, for once, Matteo didn’t feel quite so alone.