Chapter 2 Livia
Iburst through my apartment door, heart pounding.
My fingers fumble with the light switch, and I squint when the ceiling lights turn on.
My suitcase hits the floor with a thud as I yank it from the closet, nearly tripping over a stack of Victorian literature texts full of post-it notes and highlights.
"Shit, shit, shit," I mutter, my hands trembling as I fling open drawers.
As I grab fistfuls of underwear and socks, the scent of lavender fabric softener fills my nose, and I roll my eyes because it's doing anything but "bringing a calming feeling to my day."
Useless marketing when your family is entangled with the Mob.
I toss them haphazardly into the open suitcase. I stop and glance in the mirror—my favorite black dress, yeah, that's coming too. I strip out of the dress and throw jeans and a white shirt on.
I pick up the dress from the floor and toss it over my shoulder into the suitcase.
I pause, staring at my overflowing bookshelf. My research notes. Months of work, meticulously organized and color-coded. Do I bring them? Leave them? What the hell kind of "emergency" is Gabriel talking about?
I know I had planned on visiting, but shit, I pushed it off for three weeks, so I hadn't thought about what to bring, and now I have what? Thirty minutes at most?
My fingers find the skull pendant around my neck, the cool metal making me realize how hot I actually am. I close my eyes, trying to steady my breathing as I rub my thumb over the familiar ridges and hollows.
Relax, Livia. The man can wait when he gets here if you're not ready. Fuck Gabriel's time limit.
When I open them again, my gaze falls on the chaos of my bedroom. Clothes are strewn about, and my suitcase lies open on the bed.
Ugh, I was supposed to be on that bed with Jake tonight. Fuck!
I grab my laptop bag and shove my computer into its case along with a handful of flash drives. Better safe than sorry. I toss in my power cord, headphones, and stacks of post-it notes. My eyes search for the clock—28 minutes left before Gabriel's "someone" arrives.
The bathroom light flickers as I gather toiletries, the buzzing sound matching my frantic energy.
Toothbrush, deodorant, birth control pills—I pause, staring at the little foil packet. Like I ever have any time for that, but I take them diligently just in case I get the chance to take that hot psych research assistant home.
I take one more glance around the bathroom and turn off the light.
Back in the bedroom, I toss everything into my suitcase and snatch my phone charger from the wall, nearly knocking over a framed photo of Gabriel and me from last Christmas.
His arm is around my shoulders, both of us smiling.
Normally, it brings me joy, but not right now.
I grab a handful of pens and my favorite notebook. Feeling the worn leather cover in my hands brings a slight calmness that I desperately need.
My fingers trace the spine of 'Carmilla' on my nightstand. I'd planned to reread it tonight, maybe use a few choice passages to tease Jake.
With a frustrated growl, I shove the book into my bag. Whatever's happening, I refuse to leave my work behind entirely.
I toss in my most recent notes, a few books I think I'll need, some Victorian lit journals, and any other items for my research I can think of.
Sitting on top of my overstuffed suitcase, I finally manage to zip it closed, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet apartment. As I straighten up, I survey the wreckage of my carefully ordered life.
What am I walking into? I ask myself, and more importantly, will I be able to walk back out of it?
I stand at the doorway of my apartment, my bulging suitcase leaning against my leg. The weight of it almost pins me in place. I have a slight awkward feeling come over me, as if my body knows what my mind refuses to accept—that I might never return here.
My eyes trail over the small living space once more.
The secondhand couch where I've spent countless hours curled up with Poe, Shelley, Dickens, and Stoker novels while scribbling down research notes.
The rickety desk by the window, cluttered with post-its and half-empty coffee mugs.
The walls, adorned with framed quotes from my favorite authors and a few cherished photos.
Gabriel's call put me in such a panic state that it all feels different now. Foreign. Like I'm looking at a life that belongs to someone else.
The sound of a car pulling up outside snaps me back to reality. My heart rate increases, and I feel a rush of adrenaline course through my body. This is it.
I open the door and see a sleek black car idling at the curb, its tinted windows reflecting the streetlights like dark mirrors.
The driver's door opens, and a man steps out. He's tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a black suit.
His eyes are cold, devoid of any warmth or emotion. They sweep over me, assessing, before settling on my face with an intensity that makes me want to shrink back into my apartment. His expression gives nothing away, unreadable.
I've seen men like him most of my life, well, ever since Gabriel linked up with Enzo Bonventi. They were always hovering at the edges of gatherings, always watching. Men who move with a dangerous grace, their very presence a veiled threat. The enforcers or henchmen for my brother and Enzo.
In that moment, the last threads connecting me to my safe, predictable academic life snap. The world I've built for myself—filled with macabre Victorian literature, late-night study sessions, and the promise of a hard-earned PhD—suddenly feels as if it's turning to smoke.
Whatever Gabriel says or needs, I won't lose myself or what I've built in the process. Maybe he did—but I sure as hell won't.
"Ms. Falcone," the driver says in a monotone voice. "We need to leave now."
I nod. "All right," I manage to say, my voice sounding small and uncertain even to my own ears.
My fingers brush against the doorframe, feeling the slight roughness where the paint has chipped. How many times have I absent-mindedly touched this spot, coming and going without a second thought?
"Ms. Falcone," the driver says again, a hint of impatience creeping into his tone. "We're on a schedule."
With a deep breath, I grab the handle of my suitcase and step outside, closing the door behind me and locking it.
The night air is cool against my skin, carrying the scent of jasmine from the bush near my building's entrance.
The driver approaches me and takes my suitcase without a word, placing it in the trunk. The sound of it closing echoes between the buildings so loudly it makes me flinch.
He opens the back door for me, and I hesitate for a moment before sliding into the car. The driver gets in, and as the car pulls away from the curb, I watch as my home—my safe haven—disappears around a corner.
I close my eyes, leaning my head back against the seat. The reality of the situation washes over me in waves, each one threatening to pull me under.
Sure, I've visited Gabriel before in Chicago, but never like this.
Normally it's a joyous, planned week or two stay where I look forward to visiting my big brother.
Never, never has he ever demanded me to come, never not given me a choice or said how important it must be, and never has he called me and told me I only had an hour.
Taking a deep breath, I do what I'm good at—I analyze the situation, read between the lines.
What do I know? Well, not much beyond what Gabriel told me, but what do I know about my brother?
I know he's in the mob, and I know that when he thinks something is important or no choice is given, it's way more fucked up than a normal person would think.
Not everyone has cartels or other mafia families trying to kill them.
So maybe he's in trouble, or worse. I stop and open my eyes.
Am I in danger?
Is someone trying to come after me?
The silence in the car is suffocating. My mind races with thoughts of escape, and I briefly sit up, considering making a run for it at the next red light. But I remind myself that these men would find me, my brother would find me, and God forbid what they would do to whoever tried to help me.
No, I have to go.
I sink back in my seat, frustration bubbling up inside me. I'm not some helpless damsel, dammit. I'm a smart PhD student, for fuck's sake. I've spent years honing my analytical skills, diving deep into the darkest corners of Victorian literature.
But here, in this car speeding towards LAX, all that knowledge feels useless. What good is understanding the subtle nuances of Gothic horror when I'm living in my own twisted narrative?
A bitter laugh escapes me, earning a sharp glance from the driver. I can almost hear Dr. Hawkins' voice in my head, urging me to find the academic angle. "Consider the parallels, Livia," he'd say. "How does your current situation mirror the plight of the Gothic heroine?"
Trapped.
Powerless.
At the mercy of forces beyond her control.
Check, check, and check.
But unlike those fictional heroines, I don't have the luxury of a 'deus ex machina'—no miraculous twist of fate, no sudden savior swooping in from nowhere to pull me out of the fire.
No brooding hero waiting in the wings to rescue me at the last moment.
Just the cold reality of Chicago's underworld and whatever fucked-up situation Gabriel's gotten him—or us—into.
The car takes a sharp turn, and I grab the door handle to steady myself. My knuckles turn white with the force of my grip.
"We're almost there," the driver says, his voice low.
I nod.
I'd like to at least get there alive.