Chapter 3 - THE PRIVATE GATE AT LEONARDO DA VINCI
The Boeing 777 began its slow descent into Rome forty-five minutes later.
Below us, through the cloud cover, the Mediterranean coastline gleamed like a ribbon of polished sapphire under the bright Italian afternoon sun.
I was sitting in the massive first-class leather chair of 1A, holding my sleeping cousin—whose name, Julian told me, was Leo.
Leo was fast asleep, his small head resting soundly against my collarbone, his breathing perfectly peaceful. In 2B, little Maya had finally woken up. She was sitting cross-legged on the leather seat, happily eating a bowl of fresh organic strawberries that the chief flight attendant had brought her on a silver platter, completely unaware that her life had changed forever.
Julian was standing near the galley door, finishing a series of encrypted phone calls with his legal team in London and his private security force in Milan.
He walked back into the cabin, taking off his charcoal suit jacket and handing it to Lev. He sat down across from me, looking at Maya, then at me, then at Leo.
“Your distant cousin in Rome,” Julian said, raising an eyebrow. “The one whose couch you were planning to sleep on. What was her name?”
“Cousin Sophie,” I murmured sheepishly. “She lives near the train station.”
Julian pulled a tablet from his bag, tapped the screen, and displayed a high-definition street view of an old, dilapidated apartment building near Roma Termini station.
“Sophie works as a waitress at a tourist bistro,” Julian said gently. “She shares a two-room flat with four other people. She’s a good person, Lia, but she has no security, no money, and no ability to protect you from the men Richard Moreau hired.”
I looked down at my canvas sneakers. “It was the only place I knew.”
“You don't need to look for places anymore, Lia,” Julian said, his voice dropping into a deep, unwavering promise. “You are a Vance. You and Maya are coming with me to my estate in Lake Como.”
“Lake Como?” Maya chimed in, her mouth red with strawberry juice, her big brown eyes shining. “Is there a swimming pool with a duck?”
Julian’s granite face melted into a genuine, warm smile—the first real smile I had seen on his face since I stepped through the silk curtain.
“There are three swimming pools, little one,” Julian said, reaching over to wipe a spot of strawberry juice from her chin with a crisp linen napkin. “And there are eight white swans that live right by the dock.”
Maya gasped in sheer delight, clapping her sticky hands together. “Swans! Lia, we are going to see swans!”
I looked at Julian, my heart swelling with a strange, overwhelming feeling I hadn't felt in two years. Safety. Real, impenetrable safety.
“What about the airport police?” I asked quietly. “Our passports... we don't have exit visas from France.”
Julian smiled, a sharp, confident flash of white teeth. “Lia, when you own thirty percent of the private aviation infrastructure at Leonardo da Vinci Airport, you don't go through passport control.”
Ten minutes later, the aircraft’s tires touched down onto the Italian runway with a soft shhh-shhh of rubber against hot asphalt.
Instead of taxiing toward the main international terminal where thousands of passengers were queuing up at customs, our massive Boeing 777 turned onto a restricted perimeter taxiway, guided by two black airport security vehicles with flashing yellow lights.
The plane came to a final stop outside a private, secluded hangar surrounded by high security fences and cypress trees.
The cabin door hissed open.
The warm, flower-scented Italian air rushed into the pressurized aircraft, carrying the smell of pine, ocean salt, and aviation fuel.
Down on the tarmac, three black Mercedes-Maybach sedans were parked in a tight, professional formation. Eight men in dark suits and sunglasses stood by the open doors, their posture rigid and alert.
“Lev,” Julian commanded as he stood up, taking sleeping Leo back into his arms with smooth, practiced ease. “Get their suitcase from premium economy.”
“Already done, sir,” Lev said, holding my scuffed, green green suitcase in one hand as if it weighed nothing at all.
We stepped down the air stairs into the bright Roman sunshine.
A tall, elegant Italian woman in a sharp grey pantsuit stepped forward from the lead Maybach, holding an iPad and a stack of leather-bound folders.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Vance,” she said in crisp, flawless English. “Welcome back to Italy. The private clearance for Miss Lia and Miss Maya Vance has been signed off by the Ministry of Interior. Their diplomatic guardianship paperwork is currently being processed in Milan.”
Julian nodded. “Thank you, Elena. Are the Como security teams in place?”
“Yes, sir,” Elena replied, opening the door for us. “Villa Vance has been placed on Tier-1 lockdown. No unauthorized personnel within two kilometers of the perimeter.”
As I climbed into the soft, fragrant leather interior of the Maybach, I looked back at the giant commercial airplane we had just left.
Less than four hours ago, I was a terrified ten-year-old girl sitting in row 18, clutching two hundred and seventy-four euros in my pocket, praying that a crying baby wouldn't ruin our escape.
Now, I was sitting in a bulletproof limousine, protected by an army of security guards, sitting beside an uncle who had the power to move mountains with a single phone call.
Maya leaned against my shoulder, her little hand holding onto mine. “Lia? Are we safe now?”
May you like
I looked at Julian, who was carefully adjusting little Leo’s cashmere blanket while reading a legal document on his tablet. He glanced up at me, his gray eyes shining with an absolute, fierce protection.
“Yes, Maya,” I whispered, kissing the top of her head. “We’re finally safe.”
