Page 5 of The Bonventi Secret
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, forfuck'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.
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.
