Page 89 of Gin & Trouble

International flights sucked—evenwhen surrounded in luxury on the Marchionnis’ private jet. I’d tried to sleep, to read a book, to meditate but nothing had worked. The time had oozed by like a file downloading over a dial-up connection.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Sophia and wondering what had happened to her. Marco was right. Tommaso wouldn’t have any use for her if she refused to marry. Not to mention, our brother wasn’t known for his patience. If she caused trouble…

No. Sophia is smart. She’ll do what she needs to do to survive.

By the time the plane landed, I was more than ready to get on with the next leg of my journey. At least I could get some fresh air on the boat to my gilded prison cell on Alicudi.

The pilot stepped into the main cabin, flashed me a smile, and ruined my already shitty day. “We’re in Rome.”

I had a million questions, but I settled on one. “Not Trapani?”

“Mechanical delay.”

I offered him a polite nod and turned to the window. I would have loved to stretch my legs on the tarmac, or better yet, go into the terminal and find a freaking phone, but I didn’t bother to ask. The pilot and flight attendant worked for Marco. I was quite sure he’d told them to keep me under lock and key.

“I’ll update you when I have more information.” He opened the cabin door, stepped outside, and strode across the tarmac toward the terminal.

“Can I get you anything?” The flight attendant spoke from behind me.

I glanced over my shoulder and shook my head.

She pressed her lips into a thin line. “Miss, I shouldn’t tell you this, but the plane was cleared before we left New Orleans. I’m not sure what’s going on, but it isn’t mechanical issues.”

Too exhausted to worry about the cause for the detour, I nodded. Like everything else in my life, whatever or whoever had grounded us was beyond my control. “It’s fine.”

“Are you sure I can’t get you anything?”

I took in her wringing hands and couldn’t help but wonder how long she’d worked for the Marchionnis. If I had to guess, I’d say not long. “Actually, is there a phone I can use? I’d like to let my sister know I’m going to be late.”

“Sure, but you’ll need to hurry.” She exhaled her nervous energy and motioned to the satellite phone behind the bar. “I’ll keep an eye out for the pilot.”

I’d solved one problem, but had bigger ones. Namely, I kept my contacts in my phone and had no idea who to call. Mia used a burner and I couldn’t remember the number to save my life—which in this case might not have been far off.

Luckily, Iris had a number close enough to the old song about a woman named Jenny. I dialed the New Orleans area code and hummed the lyrics to get the rest of the digits.

“Hello?” She sounded skeptical as if expecting a solicitor to reply.

“Iris, it’s Frankie. I need a huge favor.”

“Oh, my god. Frankie? Where are you? I’ve been worried sick. Dante was here and the police and—”

“Dante called the police?” My brain whirled like a carnival ride.

“No. I did. I saw the news stories and your pic. The reporter didn’t say they thought you were the murderer… I don’t think you are either. What I mean is, I called because I thought you were in danger.” She spoke so fast, I barely made sense of her words.

“It’s okay. I know you wouldn’t rat on me. Slow down and tell me what happened?”

She drew a deep breath. “As soon as the detectives came and started asking questions about you, I knew I’d made a mistake. They just… They started going through Dante’s things.”

I leaned against the bar to stay upright. “Was Dante there?”

“He came home while they were interrogating me.” Iris’s voice cracked. “He was seriously pissed. I thought they’d arrest him for the way he was talking to them, but he got them out of here.”

“Is he there now?” I wasn’t sure I could handle speaking to him, but then again, I wanted to hear his voice so bad it hurt.

“No, he left after the cops did. Where are you?”

“Rome.” I debated how much to tell her. The last thing I wanted was to put her in danger again, but at the same time, I needed someone to know where I was. Someone who wasn’t a Marchionni. “I’m going into hiding on Alicudi.”

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