Page 6 of The Bonventi Secret
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.
