6. Ariana
6
ARIANA
I blink at the oval-shaped window that only opens to darkness. The low hum of engines drone in my ears. Far off, a single light blinks.
I don’t move, waiting for the fog in my head to lift. The past few days have blurred into a mess of distorted memories. Wearing sunglasses indoors to have my eyes adjust to the light after weeks underground. Food. I could eat for days. A shower. Washing my hair…brushing my teeth. Luxuries I’ll never take for granted again.
Franco never lived up to his promise. Monday—execution day—came and went. I recall his henchman dragging me up the stairs out of the dungeon, just before I went completely mad.
Of all the inhumane things to do to someone, isolation in the dark is probably the worst. Franco could have asked anything of me, and I’d have given it to him. A list of my colleagues’ names who are out to get him? Done. Where do they live? Give me a map, and I’ll show you. Wives and kids he can eliminate en route? Here’s the exact headcount.
Staring at the far-off blinking light, it sinks in. How the hell…? I’m on an airplane, and I don’t recall getting on it at all.
As I shift in my seat, my head sways. God. I’ve been drugged. With a deep drag of air, I come up again only to see Franco Fiore sitting across from me. The sight is so sudden and creepy, a shudder runs through my body, and I gasp.
“Welcome back, Ariana. You’ve been so well-behaved, I almost want to give my little girl a golden star.”
I start to tremble. It’s in fear, but for all I know, it’s the first hint of withdrawal.
The last time I saw him was when he came to my hole of a jail cell with Vincenzo Trapani. I glance around slowly. I have no idea how long I’ve been on this flight. We’re on a private jet heading straight to…hell? “Where’re we going?”
“The end of the road.”
And the worst is, even if I want to fight him with everything in me, this drugged, my body won’t have the strength for it.
He stands, and I turn my face into my seat to ignore him, but then he leans over me.
“Come on.” He takes hold of my chin and forces me to look at him. He studies my eyes, checking how out of it I am. Then he lets go of me to casually slap me on the cheek a few times. “Snap out of it now. You have work to do.” He straightens and calls to the back. “Food and water for our piccola ragazza .”
Two of his henchmen are on the plane, and one comes over with a sandwich and a bottle of water. He uncaps the water, and I take it with a hand that seems to dumb for the task.
“What work?” Probably prostitution, and for that I don’t want to sober up at all. But I’m not dead yet, and my mouth is parched. Base needs first.
Franco nods to the henchman, and he brings a case over, perches it on my seat’s armrest, and opens the lid. Makeup. My gaze jumps over the array of brushes, containers filled with cottonwool and cotton buds and other essentials—it’s filled with everything I need to transform someone—then snags on the beard prosthetic.
“Drink up, piccola ragazza , so you can sober up. Otherwise I’ll have to funnel it into your stomach.” Franco pulls out his phone and checks the time. “You have four hours.”
“And then?”
“And then you’re going to behave like my darling wife while we collect my fucking AWOL fiancée. Or else…”
Or else what? Death is hardly a threat anymore. Keeping me alive and doing what he’d done to me over the weeks in that dungeon is a far worse fate.
“Imagine arriving with a wife on your arm to fetch your fiancée,” I joke, defiant. Something’s gone wrong with his plans for the Trapanis, and Franco has lost his cool and is on the warpath. There might be hope, after all. “Awkward, much?”
Franco grinds his jaw. “I’ve packed my kit. There’s a lot of you left, Ariana.”
My stomach turns, and I push down the bile by drinking all the water in one go. There’s no hope. Just this monster still on a mission to take me down.
I have so many questions, but respect for Gigi Trapani blooms in me—she’s given the maniac the slip and an up-yours in the process. Good for her. If only I can help her keep it that way. A pang of guilt blooms in me. I shouldn’t be helping the Italian Mafia and their offspring in any way, but a woman with Franco on her scent? Anytime.
Franco starts to strip. First his jacket then his shirt. I want to look away, but I’m mesmerized by those hands with the snake tattoos. Hands, unmarred at the time, that once touched me in places no fifteen-year-old is ready for. Franco had said it was in preparation for the work Randazzo had lined up for me. After that night, I’d known my only option was to run. No man has ever touched me again.
My gaze drops to his chest. Franco’s tastes have evolved, and so has the man. He was already into tattoos back then, but nothing like this. He’s covered, and my job is probably to hide it all. I stare into the case and reach for the full-coverage concealer and the biggest brush there is. I’ll have to mix and blend it, and that’s going to take time. At least that’s doable with my head seeming to float separate from my body as it’s doing right now. Anything more complicated, I’d mess up.
Three hours later, I have a blistering headache, and I can’t drink enough water, thirst constantly scratching my throat. But I’m done, and through the ritual of applying makeup, I’ve claimed back my inner calm. The bearded man in front of me looks so different from Franco, even I buy into it. He looks like some American country star, cowboy boots and all.
“Dress the part, darling,” he says as the henchman tosses a plastic bag filled with clothes by my feet. “And do it here.”
I’m used to this. Since being taken out of the dungeon, I’ve been afforded zero privacy. Even when I showered or used the washroom, someone was always right there, watching me. I don’t question anything. I still have no idea where we’re going, but this flight has been long, and once the morning dawned, the small oval window gave glimpses over the ocean. America? That’s all I can think of…and that I’m screwed. Dead in a country where I don’t belong. I’d be a body they’d never be able to identify, if they find me. No chance in hell my team will be looking for me anywhere but in Italy.
Apparently, we’re landing in forty minutes. I strip, overly aware of every pair of eyes on me, how pale and sickly my skin must look, and how fragile I’ve become in just weeks. My hands skim my ribcage which is mere skin on bones now. Parts of me seem to have died, every want and need and desire, everything except this desperation to stay alive at all costs. Screw human nature and the need to survive.
I’m going through the motions because I have no choice. The denim miniskirt and tank top sit loose even though I’ve been eating everything that came my way. A white denim jacket and cowboy boots round off my outfit. The henchman hands me a brush, and I drag it through my hair.
“Good enough?” I venture, no longer daring to poke at Franco’s mood. He seems to hang over the precipice of something here, probably his sanity.
“Color in your face,” he snarls. “Do you think I’ll walk around with someone who looks like this?”
I haven’t looked at myself in the mirror. Not if I can help it. Obediently, I dig through the makeup box and take twenty minutes to hide the dark circles under my eyes and do the best I can to look like some dolled-up version of someone on death row. It’s sickening.
“Just so you understand what’s happening next, cara ,” Franco says as we’re strapping in to land. “I know who you work for. I have names, addresses, family connections, everything. One wrong move on your side, and triggers start pulling all over Europe.”
Of course he does. Why am I not surprised? He found me with such ease, I bet he has a list of agents all over Europe. They might not be connected to me, or even to Randazzo’s case, but for Franco, we’re just no-name bodies in a much bigger war.
“Do you understand, Ariana?”
I could claw his eyes out, but then he just reaches for my hand and wraps his fingers around mine.
“I’d hate for anything to happen to Pietro Garlini’s twin girls, don’t you agree?”
The casual way in which he throws my team lead’s name out there sends chills down my spine. How much intel does he really have? How did he manage to dig so deep into our operations to know this ?
“You know what they say, piccolo ragazza . Keep your friends close but keep your enemies closer. You know better than to underestimate me.”
I close my eyes, not doubting him for a second. He could do whatever he wants to me now. I’d rather die than have something happen to my boss’s ten-year-old twins. Without a doubt, Franco won’t hesitate to let men do to them what he’d done to me.
We land, and by the time we’ve gone through passport control and got into a taxi, I’m rattled with shock at how easy it was to get into the States. I’m done for, though. What else could Franco possibly use me for now?
Observe, adapt, act only when the time is right. My little go-to mantra pops back in my mind. I’m not dead yet.
We’re pulling up into a truck rental company, one of those dodgy places outside of the city where line upon line of vans and trucks bake in the sun.
“This is us, darling,” Franco says as he pays the taxi driver. We all clamber out, his hand steel around my arm, squeezing in warning.
This might be in the middle of nowhere, but I should run while I can. Even just try my luck…but I choke the notion. Whatever I do today will have repercussions on the most innocent people out there, and even though I’m already dead, I won’t be able to live with myself if Franco retaliates.
The henchmen also get out of their taxi, and we wait for the vehicles to drive away. Then one of the men walks off and returns minutes later with car keys and nods, so we follow him. Franco never lets go of the death grip on my arm, but he doesn’t need to force me along like this. His warning about Pietro’s daughters sucked out the little energy I had left.
We stop at a white van standing at the end of a row. The henchman opens up its double back doors.
Only one thing is certain here: once I’m inside, I’m done for. I gather my strength and strain against Franco’s hold for one last futile second. We’re far off in a corner of the yard, and even if there were security cameras, the men and the doors block everything that’s happening from view. Nobody is going to come to my aid.
“Bad timing, Ariana,” Franco hisses as he punches me in the gut. I fold into the back of the van with such force, I stumble and hit the side of my head on the hard metal floor. My head spins, but I’m not out for the count—not yet. Feet step over me, and arms drag me deeper into the van by my hands.
The doors close, swamping the space in darkness.