Page 4 of The Bonventi Secret
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 studysessions, 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."
