"Everything's all right, Sandro?" I asked the moment I stepped out of the car.
He nodded. "Everything's ready to go, Signorina."
"Good," I said, climbing into the jet.
Both my hands stayed buried in the pockets of my coat, fists clenched tight to hide the tremor in them, from what I've done. Of what I've chosen. Even when it was the only way.
I've told myself that over and over again, on the drive here, like a mantra. It hadn't helped. The guilt still clung to me, heavy and unrelenting.
Alex had told me not to dwell on it before it consumed me, his lips brushing my temple as he said it. And yet, the warning had done little to ease the weight in my chest. He was right, of course. But Camilla was one of my oldest friends. And I knew, firsthand, what it was like to wake up with no memories at all.
I took the window seat, leaning back as I fastened my seatbelt. At this point, I was ready to leave. Ready to put the distance between myself and what I've done, even though I knew forgetting was never really an option.
"All ready to go, Signorina?" the stewardess asked.
"Yes, please."
She smiled politely. "Would you like something to drink?"
"Whiskey," I said. "The strongest you have."
If her expression changed at my unusual request, I didn't bother to notice. Sandro had already stepped forward at that point, settling into the seat across from mine. The table between us a quiet barrier.
"And for you, sir?" the stewardess asked, her tone turning just a shade more suggestive.
"Water," he replied calmly. "Nothing else."
She nodded and walked away.
The cabin quieted once the stewardess disappeared behind the curtain. Somewhere up front, the engines began their low, patient hum, preparing for take-off.
I turned my head slightly toward Sandro. "Tell me what you've found."
His jaw tightened a fraction before he spoke. "Our sweep wasn't routine," he said quietly. "One of my men found a device in the aft compartment. There was a timer. Professionally installed."
My fingers curled against the armrest. "Was it live?"
"Yes." He held my gaze. "But it's disarmed. Cleanly, too. No damage."
A slow breath left me. Not relief, control.
"So I was right," I said. "The jet wasn't safe."
That should've been enough to steady me. But it wasn't.
"And?" I prompted.
The stewardess handed us our drinks, smiling suggestively at Sandro before walking away. Sandro ignored her. If I wasn't so distraught, I would've been amused by the exchange.
My eyes flicked to the window just as the plane began to taxi, lights sliding past the window.
"Dante's on board," Sandro said, his voice lowered. "Rear cabin. Right now."
My head snapped toward him. "On this jet?"
"Yes, Signorina."
"Fuck," I muttered, taking a sharp swallow of my whiskey. Then another. Not for courage, just to keep my hands from betraying me.
"You're shaking," he said quietly.
I set the glass down with more force than necessary, then laced my fingers together on the table, anchoring them there. Out of sight. Out of question.
"When did he board?"
"Before the sweep," Sandro replied. "Didn't resist when we found him. Didn't deny anything, either." A pause. "He said it made sense. You were both heading to the same destination."
My pulse slowed. Not from calm, but from calculation.
"So," I said carefully, "he planted a bomb on a jet he intended to fly on."
"Yes," he said.
Whatever response Sandro was waiting for, I didn't give it to him.
Instead, I exhaled slowly and nodded once. "Later," I said. "We'll deal with him later."
He understood immediately.
The rest of the flight blurred into logistics and numbers. Sandro pulled out his iPad, scrolling through reports as the jet taxied, then lifted into the air. We spoke in low voices, about New York, supply chains, which contracts would survive the transition and which ones needed to be cut loose before they became liabilities.
It was business. Predictable. Safe.
I let myself disappear into the things that I can control.
It was easier to talk margins and routes than to think about bombs and men who smiled while waiting to detonate them. Easier to correct projections than to ask myself why the fuck did Dante decide to hijack my flight, then planted a bomb in a plane he was going to be on.
By the time the seatbelt sign chimed off, my head ached with exhaustion. Not the physical kind, but the deeper one. The kind that came from trying to hold myself together for too long.
I stood, smoothing my coat, and Sandro looked up at me.
"I'll handle it," I said before he could ask.
He nodded, already back to his screen.
The trembling in my hands had already gotten better. Maybe it was the work, maybe it was the alcohol, I didn't know. Either way, the aisle was quiet as I made my way toward the rear cabin. Plush carpeting muffled my steps, the hum of the engines steady, almost lulling.
I paused outside the door for half a second, just long enough to brace myself, before finally pushing it open.
Dante lay sprawled, naked, across the bed with the stewardess draped over him, the same one who had just been making eyes at Sandro. Her knees framed his head as he gripped her waist, mouth ravenous, sucking on her slick flesh, while she returned the favor with equal hunger. Her fragile white lace bra was the only thing left between them. Her earlier blond slick bun was now wild and undone.
She yelped, scrambling away at the sight of me, clutching her bare hips as she scrambled to her feet beside the bed.
Dante just chuckled, sliding his back against the headboard. His tattoos on display, his jaw slick with her juices, one arm thrown back over his head like he fucking owned the place.
"Oh?" he said, smirking. "Didn't notice you there."
"Signorina...I'm sorry..." she whispered, her bottom lip quivering like she was about to break into tears. Pathetic.
"Save it," I snapped. "Cover yourself. Now. And get out."
She nodded, scrambling away, clutching her clothes to her chest as she fled. I stepped further from the door, giving her space. The heavy scent of sex and lust still hung thick, nearly drowning out the familiar sandalwood and vanilla I always associated with this jet. After all, this was practically mind, since I've used it the most.
"If I'd known you were going to be jealous," Dante drawled, his voice light with amusement. His gaze dragged over me, slow and deliberate, assessing. "I would've waited for you longer."
"Why are you even here?" I cut in. "This is my flight."
He shrugged, entirely unbothered. "Didn't one of your lackeys explain it? We're headed to the same place. Logistically, it made sense." His mouth curved. "Besides, shouldn't my presence make you feel safer? Fewer chances of something...exploding."
"I'd rather take that risk," I said flatly, "than be trapped in the air with you for hours."
He chuckled, dark and low.
But I didn't even bother responding. I stepped back and shut the door between us, the latch clicking into place.
Turning away, I walked down the narrow aisle toward the other restroom, exhaustion already seeping into my bones.
Fuck. This was going to be a long flight.