Page 8 of The Bonventi Secret
Fuck.
Another opportunity slipping through my fingers like sand. Is this how Victorian heroines I've studied felt? Powerless against the likes of men who claimed to know what was best for them? What they must do without choice?
And then Enzo's name echoes in my head. Why would the don of the Bonventi family be involved in my "protection"? Normally, when I visit, it's first class on a commercial flight, by myself, never some goon sitting across from me, watching me.
The whiskey's warmth fades, leaving behind a hollow ache in my chest. I want to cry, but I refuse to give any of them the satisfaction. Instead, I stare out the window, watching the endless expanse of darkness broken only by blinking lights on the wing.
After 20 minutes or so, I realize how late it is and notice my drowsy state. My eyelids grow heavy, and despite my best efforts to stay alert, I find myself drifting off. The darkness outside the plane melds with the shadows creeping into my consciousness, and I slip into a restless sleep.
Suddenly, I'm standing in a dimly lit Victorian parlor, its chandelier covered in cobwebs. The air is thick with the scent of dust and decay. I look down to realize I'm wearing a corseted gown, its fabric constricting my breath. The wallpaper, once elegant, now peels away in strips, revealing glimpses of what looks like blood.
The floorboards creak beneath my feet when I try to move, but my feet are rooted in place. I look down at them and then hear something that brings my attention to the corner of the room. A shadowy figure emerges, its face obscured.
"Ms. Falcone," it whispers, its voice deep and sinister. "Your presence is required."
I want to scream, but no sound escapes my lips. The figure draws closer, and I catch a whiff of expensive cologne mingled with the metallic tang of blood.
The scene shifts, and I'm suddenly in a grand ballroom. Masked figures waltz around me, their movements jerky and unnatural. I spot Jake among them, his eyes pleading as he's pulled away by unseen hands. I reach for him, but my fingers grasp only air.
"Protection, Ms. Falcone," the dancers chant in unison, their voices like a deathly chorus. "Enzo's orders."
The ballroom floor begins to crack, and I'm falling, tumbling through darkness. I land with a thud in a library that could be straight out of my research. Books line the walls, their spines bearing familiar titles: 'Dracula,' 'Frankenstein,' 'The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.'
But something's wrong. The pages are blank when I open them, save for a single line repeated over and over: "For Your Protection. For Your Protection. For Your Protection."
A cold hand grips my shoulder, and I spin around to face Gabriel. But it's not the brother I know. His eyes are hollow, his smile cruel.
"Welcome home, my darling," he says, but it's Enzo's voice that comes out. "Your coffin awaits."
The floor opens beneath me once more, and I'm falling again. This time, I land in a purple plush-lined coffin. The lid slowly closes, blocking out the light. I try to push it open, but it's too heavy. The air grows thin, and panic sets in.
"No!" I gasp, my eyes flying open.
I'm back on the plane, my heart pounding in my chest. Sweat beads on my forehead, and I realize I'm gripping the armrests so tightly my knuckles have turned white.
The suit across from me raises an eyebrow. "Bad dream, Ms. Falcone?"
I ignore him, focusing on steadying my breathing. The images from my nightmare swirl in my mind, all feeling too vivid, too real.
The flight attendant appears again, this time with a glass of water. "Here, ma'am, maybe this will help. We'll be landing soon."
I nod and down the water, almost spilling it out the sides of my mouth.
The plane begins its descent, and anxiety claws at my throat. What awaits me in Chicago? The nightmare has left me shaken, blurring the lines between my academic fascination and the very real darkness I'm flying towards.
As we touch down, I remind myself of one thing I've known since I started my studies: true heroines meet their fates with courage, even in the face of unspeakable horrors.
Now, I must do the same.
The plane shakes as we touch down. After a few moments of taxiing, we come to a stop.
My chaperone stands and adjusts his jacket. "Welcome to Chicago, Ms. Falcone. They're waiting for you."
LIVIA - 3
Istep off the plane, my legs unsteady from having not moved much on the 4-hour flight.
"Livia."
