Chapter 3
Sienna Luciano
My stomach growls so loud I fear everyone can hear it over the roaring of the engines, but I refuse to open my eyes to check.
I don’t need to see their looks of concern, condemnation, or pity.
I haven’t eaten since yesterday morning and that was only a bag of chips and a protein shake from the convenience store on my way to work.
José spit in my only sustenance for today, and after walking miles to the airport in the rising morning heat, running into the dark and dangerous behemoth sitting beside me, nearly dying when he shoved me down, then rushing through security, my head spins from hunger and throbs from dehydration.
He knew who I was before I even stepped into view. None of what happened in the designated smoking area surprised him.
My mind drops into a pseudo trance as the g-force of takeoff pulls all my blood to my toes. Bittersweet memories threaten to swallow me whole.
The last time I took a plane, I was on my way home from summer camp and still blissfully unaware of my father’s deception.
I didn’t know he had used my naivety and innocence to frame my uncle and ruin my friendship with Valentina.
My dread had grown with every passing second.
Looking back, my instincts knew something catastrophic had happened.
The captain comes on the intercom, warns of several rough patches later in the flight, and instructs the attendants to begin serving food early. I breathe a silent prayer of thanks and will my body to wait just a little longer.
Dismay steals my strength as I realize the attendants are passing out uncovered trays of food.
The thought of ingesting anything prepared outside my sight sends my body into panic mode.
Sweat trickles down my sides, and an itching begins under my skin.
Nausea grips me as remembered pain flows through me.
I gnaw on my bottom lip to keep myself calm until our designated attendant—a gorgeous redheaded woman—leans over the mystery mafia man to my left and asks me which entrée I’d prefer.
To his credit, he doesn’t stare into her cleavage despite there being quite an eye full.
“Do you have any meals that are still in the packaging?” I ask.
My cigarette savior quirks a brow as he stares at me. I keep my attention on the woman.
“The menu says restaurant-style. We take the lids off before warming them,” she answers.
“Oh, well… do you have any still sealed, even if they’re cold? Or maybe an extra Kosher meal? Those are usually double sealed, aren’t they?”
I wipe my sweaty palms on my thighs.
The woman pauses.
“I’m sorry, but we prepared all we had since it’s a full flight and all the Kosher meals were handed out first to those who selected them before boarding.”
If there was even an ounce of frustration or snobbery in her delivery, I would be able to conjure up a healthy heaping of sarcasm, but her regret seems genuine.
Tears scratch the back of my eyes. I thank her and slump in my seat.
Taking pity on me, she offers, “Would you like some extra snacks? Those are still in their original packaging.”
I swallow and nod.
The mafia man doesn’t even have the decency to feign indifference. He watches me with cold eyes as I accept the pretzels, cookies, and even pita chips and hummus—which the woman promises not to charge me for since I didn’t take a meal—with shaking hands.
I also take a full, unopened can of soda when she offers.
Despite my hunger, I stuff the pretzels in the seat back for later before putting down my tray and slowly picking through my makeshift meal.
It’s the longest I’ve sat still and the most I’ve eaten in one sitting in months. When the soda goes right through me, I pack up my garbage, stow my tray, and lean forward to rise, but pause as indecision plagues me.
I don’t want to ask either of the men around me for a favor. Their male egos might mistake it for flirting or even that I’ll owe them.
My bladder complains. I clamp my knees together and grit my teeth.
The mystery mafia man sighs, peels himself out of his seat, and shuffles up the aisle before gesturing to the nearest lavatory.
I thank him as I dart past him, ignoring his outstretched hand as he offers to help, and lock myself in the restroom.
After relieving myself and washing my hands, I grit my teeth and wash the scrapes on my arms before splashing cold water on my face and drying with a few paper towels. I pull a hard candy from my pocket and pop it into my mouth. The cinnamon punches me into full alertness.
I open the door and step into the aisle.
My mystery mafia man doesn’t belong here. He may not be the bulkiest person onboard, but his broad shoulders and tall frame give him the most domineering aura. I roll the candy over my tongue and admonish my wayward body as heat fizzles between my legs.
He turns and locks eyes with me before I reach him. My stomach bottoms out at the intensity in his gaze. He rises and shuffles out of the way like a gentleman.
After how easily he shoved me to the ground earlier, I don’t buy into his chivalrous act, but I thank him as he stands.
I shuffle past him and drop into my seat. The other man, who looks like a washed-up high school quarterback, sends me an annoyed glance. When his eyes travel down my body, my soul shrivels in disgust, and I sneer at him as I cross my arms over my chest and close my eyes.
A massive body brushes against my other side.
The hairs on my nape rise. I curse the warming of my blood and the throbbing between my legs as the mafia man’s scent invades my nostrils.
Combined with my cinnamon candy, his expensive cologne and the hint of cigarette smoke may be the most addictive combo I’ve ever experienced.
I tell myself I’m just too tired to control myself like normal.
I’m not attracted to a dangerous mafia man.
My father has taught me firsthand over and over just how untrustworthy and nasty a mafia soldier can be, although the vibes this stranger gives off are anything but soldier.
He’s too sleek and sexy and carries himself with too much authority to be bullet fodder.
I scramble for answers I don’t have but am too stubborn—and too aware of my vulnerability—to ask. Even if he told me his name, there’s nothing I could do to escape him right now. The less interaction between us the better.
My curiosity remains.
Did someone send him? Maybe my stepmother sold me to him, but with my shattered reputation, I doubt someone so powerful would accept me. Most likely my father stiffed him and he plans to take it out on me.
What if my uncle sent him to protect me during my travels?
How much does Zio Mario know of my current situation? Has he known all along how miserable my life has been? Is this his final revenge? He and Valentina must hate me so much. They might have sent this man to safely deliver me to them so they can dispose of me themselves.
My chest tightens.
Maybe that’s a fitting end for me. I don’t want to die, but if that’s what it takes to ease this overwhelming guilt that only grows with time, then so be it.
I shove the morose thoughts away by focusing on the food in my belly and pulling my resolve tight around myself. I’ll plead my innocence while apologizing for my stupidity. Somehow, I’ll make them listen. I’ll beg Valentina and Zio Mario for forgiveness.
As little laser beams of freezing air stream down from the vents, I wrap my arms around my midsection and prepare myself to endure a few hours of being squished between two large strangers.
Exhaustion overtakes me, and I slip into darkness despite my unease.
I dream of dark, oppressive shadows looming over me and cruel hands grabbing and groping my legs. Ice surrounds me, so I burrow into the warmth pressed against the side of my face.
I snap to awareness as fingers squeeze my right thigh. Before I can react, the shoulder under my head shifts as the mafia man reaches across my lap and grabs the other guy’s wrist. He yanks his hand off my leg, flings his arm away, unbuckles us both, and lifts me with startling ease.
My head spins, and before I know it, I sit buckled into the aisle seat with only one masculine shoulder pressing into mine.
Warmth still emanates from the cushions, but fiery need sinks into my skin from everywhere the mafia man touched as he manhandled me into his seat. I don’t know how he swapped our places so seamlessly, but he did.
He could snap me in half without even trying. My strength and size are no match for his.
Despite the terror thrumming through me, a dark, delicious thrill shivers up my spine. Too afraid to speak and reveal how much his hands affected me, I clear my throat, tuck my hair behind my ear, and shift closer to the aisle.
I should admonish him for taking liberties with my body, but I can’t muster the energy and refuse to contemplate why his touch doesn’t gross me out like the other guy’s does, so instead I avoid him as much as possible.
There’s no way a man with such a cold, cunning mind would save me from another man—not once, but twice—without ulterior motives.
He’s not a knight in shining armor nor a hero wearing a cape.
His kind don’t rescue damsels in distress.
The silence only grows more tense as time passes. Part of me wallows in disappointment. I want him to demand I thank him, which makes no sense. The less we interact, the more likely I am to survive.
His possessive touch lingers on my body. He manhandled me too easily. My sense of dread grows.
I remain statue still as the plane lands and taxis to a terminal. The moment the fasten seatbelt sign turns off, I yank my buckle open and rise.
Thick fingers close around my wrist. My heart leaps into my throat. I tug once. He presses my bag of pretzels from the seatback into my hand. The moment I close my fist around it, he releases me.
I lunge up the aisle and manage to make it half a dozen rows forward before the other passengers block my way. It’s enough of a headstart to see me off the plane and past the next gate before Mr. Dark and Dangerous exits.
I duck into the crowd and merge into the flow of people heading toward baggage claim.
I’ve never been to New York City, have only forty dollars and my ID in my pocket, and have no idea how I’m going to get to Valentina and mio zio’s wedding tomorrow—or even where I’m going to sleep, eat, and find a dress—but nothing matters beyond escaping the mystery mafia man.
I’ve made it this far in my miserable life. I can make it another twenty-four hours.
I hope.
A dark premonition grows the more distance I put between me and the mystery mafia man, and I can’t help but check over my shoulder every chance possible.
I’m not free of him. My skin tingles from his touch.
Despite lying to myself, I know I’ll see the mystery mafia man again. Part of me can’t wait.
The other demands I flee.