Page 10 of Captive Rival: Armani
Armani seems to have no trouble settling into his seat across the aisle. His eyes close the second we start to taxi down the runway, and once we’re in the air, he downs a glass of scotch while reading an actual physical newspaper before reclining his chair into bed mode and dozing right off. I still have a million unanswered questions for my husband-slash-kidnapper, but I don’t ask any of them as we wing off to our unknown destination.
Unknown to me, anyway.
Hours pass. The view outside my window does nothing to calm me. We fly over mountain ranges, vast brown and green plains, the geometric shapes of farmland, through piles of puffy white clouds, through time zones. The afternoon light starts to fade as the sun drops lower on the horizon behind us, and I can see on the flight map that we’re getting close to Chicago, but there is no indication from the pilot or the flight attendant that we’re anywhere near our end point.
Where the hell are we going, then? New York City? Miami? Toronto? I’d love to annoy my so-called husband with my random guesses—hell, maybe he’d eventually crack and tell me where we’rereallygoing—but he’s still asleep. I’d probably be sleeping too, if I were him. He never came to bed last night. God only knows what he was doing all that time. Plotting against the Brunos, I’m sure. This feud is all he ever thinks about. Lately, it’s all I ever think about as well.
My frustration has reached the point of no return. As slowly and quietly as I can, I unbuckle my seat belt, slide my pillow and blanket to the floor, and tiptoe to the front of the cabin where the flight attendant is sitting. She looks up from her magazine—National Geographic, with a photo of Mars on the cover—as I approach.
“Can I help you with something, Mrs. Bellanti?” she asks warmly.
“You can, actually,” I say.
She’s already out of her seat, reaching for a clean wineglass, but it’s not a drink that I’m after.
“Oh, um, that’s okay—I’m good on the wine,” I tell her. “I just wanted to know where we’re flying to. You do know our itinerary, right?”
Her smile falters.
“Mr. Bellanti said the flight plan was confidential,” she says apologetically.
“I get that, but I’m his wife, so…do you think you can make an exception? He’s trying to surprise me, but I’m not really into surprises. I’m not even sure how long we’re supposed to be in the air for, and honestly I’m starting to feel a little air sick.”
“Oh! I’m so sorry, Mrs. Bellanti. Let me take care of that,” she says, sounding relieved as she busies herself whipping up a glass of Alka Seltzer with a slice of lime.
“Please—” I beg, pulling the glass out of her hand. “Please, tell me where we’re going.”
She bites her lip and drops her eyes. “I apologize, but I can’t. It’s a matter of security.”
“Fuck,” I whisper. “I’m being kidnapped, aren’t I? Maybe I need that wine after all.”
With that, I chug down the Alka Seltzer in my hand as the flight attendant watches me, her brows knit together in concern.
“I wish I could help you, but I’d lose my job,” she says quietly.
“It’s fine,” I sigh, handing the empty glass back to her.
“The flight time is eleven hours, forty-eight minutes,” she says softly. “We will be landing in the time zone of Greenwich Mean Time plus one. This is all I can say.”
“Thank you,” I murmur. It’s not a lot to go on, but it’s better than nothing. And at least I know we’re not going to be making our final descent for another seven hours or so.
Tiptoeing back down the aisle, I see that Armani is still passed out in his seat pod. The jerk. Sleeping like a baby while I have marathon panic attacks. Must be nice to be in control of everything.
I exhale, drop into my seat, and stare out the window again. The further east we fly, the darker it gets, and the more tiny city lights I can see winking on below us. A twelve-hour flight and GMT+1 puts us where? Pulling out my phone, I connect to the jet’s Wi-Fi and try to get my map app working so I can see exactly where we are. Except it isn’t working. Of course it’s not. I mess with the settings, trying to get my phone’s GPS to kick in, but nothing that should show me my current location is functioning. Fuck.
Frustrated but undeterred, I do a little Googling. Okay. GMT+1 time zone. We’re talking either Scandinavia, Europe, or central Africa. It has to be Italy we’re going to, right? Where else would Armani go to hide out? The Bellantis have allies there, and probably extended family. People willing to take us in.
Except that Italy is the first place anyone would look. It’s way too obvious. Unless…is it so obvious that it’s actually thelastplace anyone would look?
I’m back at square one. I know nothing. My best guess at the moment is that this trip has to be Bruno related. We have to be running from them. It’s the only explanation for our abrupt departure and the secrecy surrounding it. Maybe Armani found out about an attack they were planning. A raid, a bomb, something. But then, why are the rest of the Bellantis staying in Napa?
Although, maybe they’re not. Maybe the family has agreed to scatter across the globe to hide out in separate, secret locations so that the Brunos can’t wipe them all out in one fell swoop. It would make sense, considering the way the rival mafia clan sent their thugs to infiltrate my wedding celebration—a warning of things to come. The more I think about it, the more I feel certain that we’re going into hiding.
But that theory doesn’t totally make sense. Armani isn’t the type of man to run from a threat. He would much rather fight fire with fire, and swiftly. But if we’re not running, then whatarewe doing?
I can’t stand that he’s being so secretive. My insides have been tied in a knot since he started packing our suitcases this morning, and my anxiety is half the reason I’ve been so bitchy toward Armani all day. Did Dante order me and Armani to leave for our own safety, or did Armani decide to take me away? What if we’ve been banished from Napa, or kicked out of the family for some reason? Or maybe the rest of the Bellantis are going to meet up with us later…
Before I can spiral further, the flight attendant appears and gives me a little nod. I watch her gently wake Armani from his nap to tell him that dinner will be served shortly. Apparently the menu includes some kind of lentil soup, lamb kebabs, vegetable tagine, and couscous. I realize that my mouth is watering despite the terrible day I’ve been having. Lunch was hours ago.
