Page 7 of Fall
2
Natalia
Present Day
"We're supposed to wait for the transfer attendant," I say firmly to Nonna as she unbuckles the airplane seatbelt of her chair beside me in first class and tries to stand.
“Sto bene," she replies in Italian, her tone sharp. She raisesher eyebrows so high that they seem to blend with the short silvery waves of her recently cut bangs. "I can do this myself, birthday girl."
The reminder that some of this time I’ve been traveling falls on my eighteenth birthday is slightly unnerving, although it’s mostly my doing. We were supposed to fly back last week, but Nonna was so happy during her time visiting with one of her youngerbrothers that I cleared it with Father for us to stay another week. And rescheduling a flight during the summertime with such short notice takes some effort and flexibility. The kind that results in my turning eighteen only hours before I hit forty thousand feet on this morning, ten-hour international flight.
My phone buzzes in my purse with the umpteenth text message that's loaded ontomy phone since I took off the airplane mode when the flight touched down. Like the others, I ignore it for a while longer and give my grandmother's wool covered elbow a gentle pull to coax her a little. She's normally dressed warmer than the weather, but the full-length wool coat over her loose floral summer dress seemed a bit much for the end of August. At least it did, until the flight we are onmade it to forty thousand feet, and the cabin began to feel like the middle of winter.
"Please wait with me," I beg her. Not that she can go anywhere at the moment. She has the window seat, and I'm at the aisle. And if she manages to push past me, the Italian bodyguards that Father assigned to us for the flight are sitting in the row directly beside us. We never travel alone. They'll returnto Italy on a later flight as soon as they lay eyes on our usual local protection detail. The handoff is seamless to us most of the time. "I don't doubt you, Nonna. But we booked a wheelchair and transfer attendant so that you don't exert yourself too much. This was a long flight, and we still have the close to two-hour drive home from JFK. Come on, let's just wait. I'll stay with you."
“Never liked planes,” she mutters under her breath as she lowers into the seat again.
"I know, but the worst part is over now. And it was worth it, right?" I cup my hand over the back of hers. My palm feels her paper-thin skin, and it reminds me of how much time has passed, how little time I might have left with this eighty-six-year-old woman who's been at the center of my existence.
She clucks her tongue, seeming to recall some of the high points of the trip, and her face softens. “Yes. It was nice to go home again. Next time, I’m going there to stay.”
I smile softly at her, choosing not to correct her. She's older now, and her health issues like rheumatoid arthritis and early-stage Alzheimer's are sure to advance, even with the best North American medical carethat money can buy. It'll be much harder for her to be comfortable in her small hometown outside Catanzaro, in the Calabria region of Italy. The house she grew up in is still standing, cared for by one of her great-nephews who lives nearby. But it's no place for an elderly woman. As quaint and cute as it is, there's not even electricity or running water. Father wouldn't dare let her live there. He'stold her he doesn't plan to let her travel again. And we all know that what he says goes.
The sound of my phone buzzing pulls me back to the moment. Lifting it out of my purse, I scan the locked screen, and my pulse jumps at the name that shows up.
Antonio DeLucci.
I know he’s supposed to drive with Father to the airport, but I didn’t expect him to message me. Just last night,Father mentioned he’d text me once he’s at the arrivals terminal. I should be worried about why Father isn’t the one making contact. But then again, he’s frequently called away from his scheduled plans to deal with the empire he’s built over the years. Antonio is his right-hand man. Father trusts him with his life, so I shouldn’t be too surprised.
I just don’t trust myself with him.
Not anymore.
Not since I realized he’s the only man who makes my heart feel like it’s riding a roller coaster.
I remember the first time I met him and his younger brothers. My Uncle Marco and Aunt Francesca took them in after their mother died. Back then I only saw Antonio when he passed by our house while walking his brothers home from school sometimes. I’d see him at familyfunctions too, sometimes. But Father never let me play with him or his brothers. He kept saying they were too old, that I needed to play with girls my age, not almost full-grown men.
But that all changed as he moved up the ranks in Father's organization. The higher he climbed, the more I saw him. Four years ago, when Father made him my personal bodyguard, I thought what I felt for him wasjust innocent puppy love. But last year, he was put in charge of Father's protection detail. His best friend, Vinny Costangelo became my bodyguard, and that's when I knew for sure that my feelings for Antonio were real. As I grew closer to Vinny, I realized he was more like the brother I never had. We'd talk and laugh and share our secrets, but my heart never felt what it felt for Antonio. My teenagecrush kept growing into much more.
I overheard his men talking about him one night. They say he’s got all these women after him because he lives up to the hype. The stereotype Italian stallion seems to apply, although I haven’t yet had the pleasure of seeing his body without clothes to know how much it applies.
Just the thought of what I might be missing makes me press my knees togetherto dull the ache that begins to throb at the tops of my thighs.
Maybe one day...
But the talk around town is that he's more of a one and done kind of guy. That once in a while he'll hook up with a random chick to get his freak on. But according to them, it's because his job is far too dangerous, and he's too devoted to my father to ever be serious with one woman.
If that’strue, the way I see it, it’s a good thing. It means he’s available.
It means I have a chance to win his heart one day.
“Is that your father?” Nonna asks, pulling me out of my longstanding daydream.
“Um, no,” I answer. “It’s Antonio. He’s waiting at the baggage claim in arrivals.” I unlock the phone and try not to show my excitement as I read the entire message, which includesa sweet birthday greeting at the top. “Father’s delayed at a meeting in Staten Island somewhere. He sent Antonio for us.”
“Good. And the airline worker is here for me.”
Lifting my eyes from the screen for the first time in what feels like hours, I notice that most of the passengers have disembarked. The plane's aisles are empty. A quick scan to the back of the aircraft confirms thatjust a couple of families with young children and a few adults needing ground transfer assistance remain on board. One pilot and two flight attendants stand off to one side of the cockpit door up ahead, making room for the uniformed airport ground staff rolling a wheelchair toward us. Nonna is more at ease within a few minutes when we're off the plane and on our way to the baggage area.
