Chapter 2 Livia #2
The car pulls to a smooth stop in front of a sign that reads "Gates 7-15.
" The driver gets out of the car and comes around to open my door.
The rush of cool night air hits me, carrying the unmistakable scent of jet fuel and that other thing—something I've never been able to describe, but whenever you inhale it, you know you're at an airport.
I watch as the man takes my suitcase out of the car.
I turn to look inside, and that's when I spot them—men in black suits, strategically positioned around the terminal entrance.
Their stance is casual, but their eyes are sharp.
They scan the area with practiced efficiency, and I know without a doubt they're waiting for me.
Okay, this definitely isn't normal. Sure, Gabriel's overprotective. But this? This is different. This is… I think for a moment, analyzing… like a silent declaration that I'm no longer just Gabriel's little sister, but a valuable asset—something to either be protected or controlled.
One of the men sees me and makes his way toward me. The driver places my suitcase on the curb, shuts his trunk, and leaves without a word.
"Ms. Falcone," the man says, coming out of the sliding doors. His voice is firm, emotionless. "This way, please," he says, pointing inside.
I reach down to grab my suitcase, and he takes another step forward. "Don't worry about that. We'll have someone take it to be checked in," he says, nodding to another man who starts walking toward us.
I hesitate for a moment, but then nod and follow him.
The terminal doors slide open with a soft hiss, and we step into the brightly lit interior. Since it's a late flight, the usual bustle of the airport is nonexistent; it's uncomfortably quiet.
We bypass the regular check-in counters, heading straight for a private security checkpoint. I feel the confusion and nerves rise in me. I've never been through this part of the airport before.
"Ticket and ID," the man guarding the checkpoint says to me, holding out his hand.
"Oh, I don't—"
"Here's her ticket and mine," the man I'm following says, handing the security guard some papers.
He reads them over and looks at me. "ID?"
"Oh, right, sorry," I say, fumbling in my bag, fingers trembling slightly as I hand it over. He scans it and looks at a screen, then at me and the man I am with.
"Clear," he says, his voice loud and professional.
We move through security with ease. No lines, no waiting, no removing shoes or emptying pockets. It's efficient, seamless. How much power does Gabriel wield to command this kind of treatment?
We reach a private lounge, tucked away from the main concourse. As the door closes behind us, shutting out the noise, I finally find my voice.
"What's going on?" I demand, turning to face the man in the black suit who's apparently flying with me. "Why all... this?" I gesture vaguely with my hands in the air. "The private area, you guys I saw when I arrived. My brother's one-hour demand. Everything?"
He remains impassive, his face betraying nothing.
"Hello?" I say.
"For your protection, Ms. Falcone. Enzo's orders."
Protection?
Enzo?
Protection from what? Or from whom? And why the fuck did he say Enzo's name and not my brother's?
"Wait, wait. What? Enzo? Do you mean—"
"Ms. Falcone, please take a seat. The plane will be ready shortly. I need to make a call," the man says and walks away from me.
I pull out my phone, the screen's glow illuminating my face in the dimly lit lounge, and unlock it. I scroll to my contacts, and my thumb hovers over Jake's number. For a moment, I'm tempted to press call, to hear his voice one last time before I'm swallowed up by whatever awaits me in Chicago.
But what would I even say? "Hey Jake, sorry I had to bail on our flirty moment. By the way, that family emergency, well, I'm actually being whisked away by some mafia goons. Catch you later?"
I let out a little laugh because I'd had his number for months and never called him. I see the suit across the room shoot me a sharp glance. He's still on his phone, speaking low so I can't hear. Probably reporting to Enzo or Gabriel about their precious cargo.
I sigh and bite my lip, tasting the waxy remnants of my lipstick. It's ridiculous, really. What could Jake possibly do anyhow? Come riding to my rescue on a white horse? No, not the Gothic heroine here.
In reality, if I did ask him—or anyone to come for that matter—they'd end up in a ditch somewhere if they tried to interfere with whatever this is.
I take a deep, frustrating breath, switch off the screen, and slip the phone back into my pocket, my fingers lingering on its smooth surface for a moment longer than necessary.
This isn't the lifeline you think it is, I think to myself.
I lean back in one of the waiting room seats and close my eyes.
My mind wanders back to the party at Dodd Hall, to the taste of cheap wine on my tongue and the warmth of Jake's smile.
It feels like a lifetime ago, though it's only been an hour or two.
I wonder if Megan's getting lucky. I wonder if Jake is still there.
I wonder why the fuck my brother has me here and I'm not in my bed with…
A sharp pain in my palm startles me. I look down to see I've been clenching my fists so tightly that my nails have left crescent-shaped marks in my skin. I open my hands, feeling the tense muscles relax, and force myself to breathe slowly.
My chaperone approaches, his footsteps echoing in the quiet room. "Ms. Falcone, the plane is ready."
I stand. "Lead the way," I say, short and direct, the frustration in me showing.
As we approach the gate, I spot a sleek private jet waiting on the tarmac. Its polished exterior gleams under the airport lights.
"Holy shit," I mutter under my breath. "Is that for us?"
The man glances at me, his expression unreadable. "Problem, Ms. Falcone?"
"No, no problem," I say, as I look at the beautiful prison ready to whisk me away.
We step out onto the tarmac, and the roar of distant engines fills the air while the wind whips around us.
As we near the jet, its door opens, revealing a fancy interior that would normally be seen on Instagram models or influencer feeds.
I pause at the foot of the stairs, looking back at the terminal. The lights of Los Angeles twinkle in the distance, a reminder of the life I'm being forced to leave behind. My research, my friends, my independence—all of it feels like it's slipping away.
God, I hope I'm overreacting.
One of the men aboard the plane clears his throat. "Ms. Falcone, we need to depart. We're on a tight takeoff schedule."
I offer a fake smile and climb the stairs, stepping into the unknown.
The interior of the jet is all soft beige leather and polished dark wood. It's beautiful. I sink into one of the oversized seats, my fingers tracing the smooth armrest.
The suit takes a seat across from me, his eyes never leaving my face. I want to scream at him, to demand answers, but I know it would be pointless. He's just another cog in this machine, following orders.
As the plane starts to taxi, I feel a surge of panic.
This is real.
This is happening.
The metal of the seatbelt clicks together as I try to buckle it, my hands betraying what's brewing inside me.
The jet picks up speed, the force pushing me back into my seat. I close my eyes as we lift off, my stomach dropping as the wheels leave the ground. I grip my skull pendant for comfort. I always hated taking off.
When I open them again, we're high in the sky, surrounded by darkness. I lean over and see the tiny lights twinkling below, and in that moment, I've never felt more alone.
As my eyes adjust to the dim cabin lighting, the gentle hum of the engines does nothing to calm the storm raging inside my head. I'm trapped in this flying prison, hurtling towards whatever Gabriel's done.
How dare he? I clench my fists, nails digging into my palms again, but this time, I welcome the pain.
"Would you like something to drink, Ms. Falcone?" The flight attendant's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts.
I look up, forcing a polite smile. "Something strong, please."
She nods and retreats to the galley. I catch my reflection in the darkened window—my makeup a mess, hair disheveled. I barely recognize myself.
She brings back an amber liquid I'm assuming is whiskey in a crystal glass. I don't give a shit what it is; I down it in one burning gulp, the fire instantly spreads through my chest.
It's a poor substitute for the warmth I felt earlier with Jake.
Fuck.
Another opportunity slipping through my fingers like sand. Is this how Victorian heroines I've studied felt? Powerless against the likes of men who claimed to know what was best for them? What they must do without choice?
And then Enzo's name echoes in my head. Why would the don of the Bonventi family be involved in my "protection"? Normally, when I visit, it's first class on a commercial flight, by myself, never some goon sitting across from me, watching me.
The whiskey's warmth fades, leaving behind a hollow ache in my chest. I want to cry, but I refuse to give any of them the satisfaction. Instead, I stare out the window, watching the endless expanse of darkness broken only by blinking lights on the wing.
After 20 minutes or so, I realize how late it is and notice my drowsy state. My eyelids grow heavy, and despite my best efforts to stay alert, I find myself drifting off. The darkness outside the plane melds with the shadows creeping into my consciousness, and I slip into a restless sleep.
Suddenly, I'm standing in a dimly lit Victorian parlor, its chandelier covered in cobwebs.
The air is thick with the scent of dust and decay.
I look down to realize I'm wearing a corseted gown, its fabric constricting my breath.
The wallpaper, once elegant, now peels away in strips, revealing glimpses of what looks like blood.
The floorboards creak beneath my feet when I try to move, but my feet are rooted in place. I look down at them and then hear something that brings my attention to the corner of the room. A shadowy figure emerges, its face obscured.
"Ms. Falcone," it whispers, its voice deep and sinister. "Your presence is required."
I want to scream, but no sound escapes my lips. The figure draws closer, and I catch a whiff of expensive cologne mingled with the metallic tang of blood.
The scene shifts, and I'm suddenly in a grand ballroom. Masked figures waltz around me, their movements jerky and unnatural. I spot Jake among them, his eyes pleading as he's pulled away by unseen hands. I reach for him, but my fingers grasp only air.
"Protection, Ms. Falcone," the dancers chant in unison, their voices like a deathly chorus. "Enzo's orders."
The ballroom floor begins to crack, and I'm falling, tumbling through darkness. I land with a thud in a library that could be straight out of my research. Books line the walls, their spines bearing familiar titles: 'Dracula,' 'Frankenstein,' 'The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.'
But something's wrong. The pages are blank when I open them, save for a single line repeated over and over: "For Your Protection. For Your Protection. For Your Protection."
A cold hand grips my shoulder, and I spin around to face Gabriel. But it's not the brother I know. His eyes are hollow, his smile cruel.
"Welcome home, my darling," he says, but it's Enzo's voice that comes out. "Your coffin awaits."
The floor opens beneath me once more, and I'm falling again. This time, I land in a purple plush-lined coffin. The lid slowly closes, blocking out the light. I try to push it open, but it's too heavy. The air grows thin, and panic sets in.
"No!" I gasp, my eyes flying open.
I'm back on the plane, my heart pounding in my chest. Sweat beads on my forehead, and I realize I'm gripping the armrests so tightly my knuckles have turned white.
The suit across from me raises an eyebrow. "Bad dream, Ms. Falcone?"
I ignore him, focusing on steadying my breathing. The images from my nightmare swirl in my mind, all feeling too vivid, too real.
The flight attendant appears again, this time with a glass of water. "Here, ma'am, maybe this will help. We'll be landing soon."
I nod and down the water, almost spilling it out the sides of my mouth.
The plane begins its descent, and anxiety claws at my throat. What awaits me in Chicago? The nightmare has left me shaken, blurring the lines between my academic fascination and the very real darkness I'm flying towards.
As we touch down, I remind myself of one thing I've known since I started my studies: true heroines meet their fates with courage, even in the face of unspeakable horrors.
Now, I must do the same.
The plane shakes as we touch down. After a few moments of taxiing, we come to a stop.
My chaperone stands and adjusts his jacket. "Welcome to Chicago, Ms. Falcone. They're waiting for you."