Fall (A Mafia Crime Family Romance)

by Bella Love-Wins

  The last thing I see as I'm dragged up the aircraft steps are Vinny and the driver being forced down onto their knees, and two men wearing airplane refueling jumpsuits are pointing automatic weapons toward their heads.

  My vision blurs, and the last thing I hear is four distinct gunshots popping off one after the other.

  Then everything goes black.

  18

  Antonio

  I grit my teeth as I approach my guys that I left to work the front security gate. My chest tightens like there's a vice around it at the sight of one of them in the distance with his arms up, waving at me in a panic. This couldn't be good. I know that my phone died on my way back from Philly after that long detour to drop off the boss and return to the SUV. It couldn't be helped. The boss took the car charger with him when we switched cars. Besides, I was only unreachable for an hour, tops, and only Romano himself knew I'd be delayed.

  My mind races, trying to anticipate what the fuck he wants to tell me by ruling out all the possible disasters that could’ve happened.

  The property is still secure in front of me, so I dismiss that right away.

  It can’t be the boss. He’s out of harm’s way now, and I’m the last person to see him.

  I doubt it’s Nonna Romano. She should be perfectly safe among her people in Italy. After all, it’s her first cousin who has put Romano in the center of this shitstorm.

  Natalia.

  Fuck.

  Natalia was with Vinny. There’s no one I trust more to keep her safe. Her flight should be taking off any minute now.

  Fuck.

  If anything happens to her on my watch…

  My guy runs over to my SUV while it’s coming to a stop and pounds on the window with a fist. My entire body goes tense. This can’t fucking be happening. My hand is shaking as I hit the button that rolls the window down, anxious to find out what the hell has gone wrong now.

  “What the fuck happened?” I ask before the window is halfway down.

  “We were trying to reach you and the boss,” he shouts, and goes off into a long winded update that’s making no fucking sense.

  “Take a breath and calm down.” My order is harsh and cold, but my men can handle it. I stick my dead phone out the open window and call to the next guy. “Get someone to find me a charger for this,” I tell him, then snap at the first, “Who is this about?”

  "There was a problem… at the private airstrip. Vinny got a message to us. He tried to reach you."

  Dread bolts through me at his mention of Vinny's name, but it's the fact that he's said nothing about Natalia that sends me in a panic of my own. "Is Miss Romano secure?"

  I see the answer flash across his face before he can say a word.

  “Where is she?” I demand in a threatening growl. “What happened to Vinny?”

  “We don’t know! I’m sorry. The plane was ambushed before it took off. Someone took her.”

  “What?” My pulse is pounding in my ear, my stomach hard like a stone as my brain is going a mile a minute, refusing to accept what I’m hearing. “Where is she? How the fuck did this happen?”

  “We don’t know.” He inches to one side, scrambling for words when the other guard brings the charger over and hands it to me. “Vinny and Rodrigues were both shot. Vinny managed to send us a message… but we haven’t been able to get a reply back yet. He just stopped responding. Five of our men are on route to the airport right now. They took the last two SUVs in the fleet.”

  "Vinny… he was shot?" I listen to the words roll of my tongue and can't believe them myself. The image that flashes across my mind is the day I went to his middle school to make good on my promise. I'll never forget it, or what he did for me. It was six weeks after the shooting accident involving our abusive old drunk of a foster father. The asshole fucking died from that gash in his head. But Vinny came through for me. He told the cops his version of what happened. I'd be in prison somewhere if it weren't for him. And Romano smoothed it over by dealing with it from the inside.

  This can’t be happening. But I can’t afford to lose my shit right now. I’m the one my men are looking to for directions.

  I shove the charger into the nearest port and hook up my dead phone. "Have three of them dropped off at the airstrip to secure the location. Instruct the other two to split up with the SUVs. I want them back here. Fuel up the vehicles and have them waiting here, ready to go. And put some men on the phones. I want one of them to call all the hospitals close to the airstrip. Keep one listening for the house line too, in case there's any ransom demands or any updates from other sources about Miss Romano. Also, try to track down the boss's tech hookup. He has the know-how and the gear to trace Natalia's phone GPS. And keep trying Vinny's phone too. He might've passed out after he was shot."

  “I’m on all of it,” he confirms. “There’s one more thing. Romano’s mother. She’s been calling the main house and security gate nonstop.”

  “Does she know about Natalia?”

  “No. There wasn’t much to tell. We wanted you to be in the loop first.”

  “Good,” I say, relieved. “When did she start phoning?”

  “About ten minutes ago.”

  A check of the time on the car display console shows that it’s after seven. Her flight was scheduled to land about thirty minutes ago. “I’ll phone her. She needs to hear what happened from me.”

  “Okay, boss.”

  Throwing the gear into reverse, I turn the SUV and speed off.

  Boss.

  I'm the interim boss now. It's my first day on the job, and I'm walking into a shitstorm.

  I’m failing right out of the gate.

  Sinking like a fucking stone.

  Falling fast.

  As I drive, I keep glancing at my phone, waiting for it to pick up enough charge to make some calls. First to Natalia and Vinny. Then to Nonna Romano.

  Natalia has to be okay.

  I have to find her.

  There’s no other option.

  My jaw goes tense as the battery icon comes to life at the center of the phone screen. Once I turn this phone on, there’s going to be a reckoning. I have people to answer to. Nonna Romano in particular.

  I press the power button on the side and give it a minute to turn on and update with the messages I missed. And there's a hell of a lot of them, chirping one after the other without end. Half are voice messages from Nonna Romano or my men back at the house. Most of the text messages are from Natalia, but the time showing on them are all from well before she was scheduled to arrive at the airstrip.

  And one is from Vinny.

  Fuck.

  I open the message trail and start the painful task of catching up on the messages I miss. But first, I need to phone the numbers of two people who might very well be dead.

  The boss hasn't been gone for a day yet, and the worst possible thing happened.

  His daughter is missing, or worse.

  My Natalia.

  It’s a disaster.

  And it’s happening on my fucking watch.

  19

  Natalia

  My heart is racing, and my body wouldn't stop shaking.

  Why is it so cold? It should be September still, with leaves falling, not actual ice on the ground. I wish I knew where these men took me.

  Running nonstop for what feels like hours, and barefoot, only makes the panic churning in my stomach worse. I've been gone for a while. They're sure to realize that I've escaped by now. I need to put more distance between me and them.

  I look back across the farmer's field, squinting through the bitingly cold darkness. I capture one more parting glance at the distant flickering outdoor lights of the rundown farmhouse that's been my prison for over a month, by my estimation. I can only guess that it's been a month. Which is why this wintery weather continues to confuse me. Sure, with so much time locked in a damp, windowless room, no natural light, it's expected to have a sense of some lost time, but winter? There are only a couple of rational exp
lanations for this weather. First, it's possible that the men who took me flew me to a location where the seasons change earlier. Or maybe I lost a block of time? The red, crusty pockmarks in the crook of my elbows would support this theory. Possibly I was drugged for some of the time. All I had were the meals that helped me keep track of the passing days and nights.

  If I could call them meals.

  Smelly scraps of food in dirty, crudely made metal dishes not even fit for serving your least favorite pet. Those were all I got. And after three days of turning the food away, the starvation hit me hard. Blinding stomach pain, unbearable weakness, and the shakes. In the end, it was the little voice in the back of my head that made me take the first bite.

  Chew.

  Swallow.

  Eat.

  Live another day.

  Survive.

  Be strong enough to run if they ever get careless.

  I took another bite. And the next. And with every unpalatable meal shoved through the partially open door of my prison, I'd make a tiny scratch on the ground with the edge of the empty metal plate.

  There are now twenty-seven scratches on the floor on this night. When taking account for the three missed meals, it added up to thirty days on the night they finally got careless. Correction. He got careless. One of my five captors. The one whose large meaty hand had a Latin cross tattooed onto the flesh between his thumb and index finger. I had a name for each of them.

  This one was Overgrown Catholic.

  I gave the others names to suit their size, disposition, or the distinguishing features on their hands or forearms. That was all they allowed me to see.

  But I swear on my life, it'll be enough when the time comes, and the tables turn.

  Gruff Goldie was the loud, rude bastard with a solid gold Rolex wristwatch.

  Wiley Rose had a rose tattoo on the inside of his wrist, which was narrow and veiny, like he either grew up malnourished or spent his entire paycheck tweaking the hard drugs.

  The back of Human Ashtray's entire right hand was peppered with cigarette burns. If he weren't party to my being held against my will, I might feel sorry for him.

  And then there was the Inked Ringleader. I only saw the sleeve of ink on his forearm twice. First, when his hand clasped over my mouth with a chloroform handkerchief on the night that I was taken. And last night, when the door opened a crack wider. I felt eyes on me, then his deep, threatening voice spat out the words, "Lucky whore's still breathing," before he slid my meal into my cell, letting the metal scratch the floor on its way to me.

  But it's Overgrown Catholic whose screw-up led to my current state of freedom.

  Thank fuck for him.

  Tonight he brought me the meal and shoved the door shut, but forgot to turn the key in the lock. I gave it fifteen minutes, eyeing the door intensely as I wolfed down my food.

  And when nobody came back, I took my shot. I lifted my weight onto my shaky legs, snuck out the door to a snow-dusted, hay-filled hallway that could only be somewhere in a barn, and crouched down low all the way to the open wooden double sliding barn doors. Not a soul was around, so I found my strength, prayed my weak body could defend against the cold, and I ran.

  That was a while ago.

  Now, my feet are bare and bloody, and threatening to turn blue or black from frostbite. My torso and limbs are struggling and failing miserably at maintaining enough body heat to survive for much longer before it shuts down. My clothes are filthy and tattered. And all I can hear are occasional echoes of their distant voices, approaching faster than I can carry myself away. The threat of being caught again has me in a panic. I can almost sense them, their menacing, faceless frames closing in on me from every direction.

  I run until my legs can't carry me, then I crawl. At one point, I lose my balance at the edge of a moderate yet icy slope, and slide down about thirty feet, only stopping when my back crashes into the base of what feels like a frozen shrub.

  I’m sure I strained or threw out something along my spine, but the adrenaline coursing through me and the beginning stages of hypothermia won’t let me feel. I frantically look for a way out of here. It’s dark, the only illumination from the night sky and the glistening ice, adding to my terror.

  For the first little while, I worry that I'm off-course down here. I'm more trapped and cornered in this embankment, with no straightforward way to get away from them if they find me. But after some time, I realize this fall might've saved me. It tucks me away from sight as they continue their search, and gives me a few minutes to make my body small and pull my limbs to my chest so I can gather up what's left of my warmth and my strength.

  When the sounds they make pass above me and diminish to silence, I start again, first running, then walking, them limping from the piercing pain down my back, until I drop to my hands and knees and crawl. It's not long before I can't move a muscle. I can’t, but I force each arm forward because no one is coming to save me. I have to save myself.

  After what feels like ages, I reach a narrow snow-covered gravel road, and on the other side of it, past a stretch of snow and a spattering of pine trees, I catch sight of some dim lights. Two tiny log cabins spread across many acres of the mountainside. Each one has smoke climbing out of rough brick chimneys, and there are one or two vehicles in front of each cabin, except for the one tow truck that’s parked closer to the road.

  Help!

  I can't form the word in my parched throat.

  My mouth moves, and there's a squeak of sound, but it's too small and weak, and I'm way too far off, far too tucked away to be seen if anyone's out there. Every cell in my body tenses up when the hazy glow of light from the approaching dawn reveals some rhythmic movements at the side of the first house. But soon, my eyes adjust and I can breathe again. Several inflatable bouncy castles waft in the light breeze.

  I want to dwell on the question of what month I’m in, and how in the hell it can be so snowy out, but there’s no time for anything but getting as far away from here as I can. These lawn ornaments aren’t just bright and nice to look at. They're my lifeline. They mean someone other than the sons of bitches chasing me are in there. It means a shot at a real miracle for me.

  Looking back and forth along the road, I emerge from my hiding place and keep my body ducked low as I cross to the other side.

  As I slip past the door of the tow truck near the entrance of the first cabins’ driveway, I catch sight of more good luck inside. A bulky pile of clothes and brightly colored, reflective emergency gear in the seat behind the driver’s seat. I want to believe that my fortune is changing, improving by the second. I just can’t allow myself to have too much faith. Shit can hit the fan if the tow truck alarm activates when I try to open the driver door.

  I’m too close to freedom. Undermining my chances by drawing the wrong kind of attention to myself is a bad idea. Thankfully, a discerning comparison of the driver’s and passenger door latch locking mechanisms reveals that the passenger door is unlocked.

  If I can just climb inside and hide for a few hours, maybe I’ll be safe.

  And as a best case scenario, if I can change out of these dirty rags and find some shoes, maybe I can ask for help.

  No one will want to look at me like this, let alone be willing to stick their neck out.

  While I'm weighing options, I notice a water hose that's hooked up to a rusty outdoor faucet, and I cheer inwardly. Crouching low as I head right for it, quickly opening the pipe and drinking straight from the hose.

  Water is life.

  It'll quench my thirst, end my dehydration, and clean me up.

  To get away from here, I need to be presentable.

  I need money too, and real food, but I remind myself it's one step at a time.

  Using my old clothes, I drench the fabric under the water hose and wipe off the smudged dirt on my face and limbs. I pull my messy hair back, smoothing out the knotted parts with some water in my hands.

  There's nowhere to see my reflection except for
the back windows of the house and shallow puddle that's formed while I drank from the hose. It's still too dim out to see. I didn't want to be anywhere near the main road. Can't afford to be seen by the wrong pair of eyes. But I sneak out to the driveway to hunker down in the tow truck and use the side mirror to take a look at my face.

  Good. Acceptable for the average, normal, law-abiding American man or woman to give me a chance.

  Because out here, under the light of day which is approaching fast, I won't last if I look suspicious.

  Silently, I ease the passenger door open, climb inside, and squeeze into the cubby space between the seat and the cab frame. Stripping down to my bare bones in the narrow space, I throw on a long-sleeved t-shirt, a pair of overalls, and one of the sleeveless emergency vests. I can't believe how much weight I've lost since they took me. The tee and vest hang off the sharp angles of my emaciated shoulders, drowning me in the fabric. But the dry clothes and being inside the vehicle warm me up quickly.

  Fully dressed, I find an old pair of tan, lace up construction boots underneath the driver seat. They're several sizes too big, but I make do. I just need to stop the sores and broken skin from bleeding long enough to find some relief.

  Just as I peek out the window, the front door of the nearest cabin opens. A stocky, middle-aged man steps outside.

  And he’s heading right this way.

  Crouched down as low as I can go, I cover myself with the pile of extra clothes and stay stock still when he unlocks the door, his set of keys jangling. The interior lights go on, but he doesn’t see the pile has grown now that I’m tucked inside it. But as he steps one foot inside one of the shirts in the bundle near my face shifts a bit. There’s a logo on it that explains everything about this wintery weather.

  It could very well be October.

  Because the logo has the words, Estes Park Towing and Repairs, Colorado, with raised stitching that outlines the unmistakable Rocky Mountains.