The Italian

by T L Swan

  My mother is quiet, pensive, and barely holding it together. The pain on her face is unbearable.

  Francesca is heartbroken and won’t speak at all. When she does, it’s through her tears. She’s only fifteen years old—way too young to be left without a father. I die a little inside every time I look at her.

  “Your mother is nearly ready,” Lorenzo says behind me.

  I nod, the lump in my throat hurting. “How do we do this?”

  Lorenzo falls into the chair beside me and closes his eyes. He, too, is in pain.

  “How do we say goodbye?” I whisper.

  “We put one foot in front of the other and do what we need to do.”

  “Then what?”

  His eyes rise. “We avenge their deaths, Enrico,” he whispers. “We have the names. We know who is responsible. Let us take them out.”

  His profile is blurred as I stare at him through tears.

  “We can’t go forward without your lead, son.”

  I drop my head, defeated. “I can’t take over. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  “Yes, you can… and in time, you will. Give us the go-ahead to take care of this, Enrico, I’m begging you.”

  We’ve had this conversation every day now. He won’t give up. Hunger for revenge is his only goal. I drag my hands through my hair in despair. My father’s men want to start a war. They want my approval to kill the men responsible for their deaths.

  I’m the only one who can give it, but I know that once I consent, I’m agreeing to taking over. To this lifestyle. To turning into something I despise.

  The Don, leader of darkness.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket and I glance down. The name Olivia lights up the screen and my heart constricts. My beautiful angel. The only person I do want to see is the one that I can’t. I put my phone back into my pocket. I can’t speak to her right now. Not until I’m stronger. If I do, I’ll cry like a baby.

  I don’t want her to feel my pain through the phone, because she would. She’s so in tune with me that I couldn’t hide my heart from her. I’m not whole anymore.

  When my father died, he took a piece of me with him.

  The best part.

  He took my belief that I was good.

  I stand and stare at the coffin as it sits in the ground. Dark rosewood against dirt.

  My father is inside.

  Cold and lifeless.

  My mother’s soft sobs can be heard beside me. My brothers huddle together in their united grief.

  Francesca’s hand is in mine. She won’t let me go.

  We’ve already buried my grandfather, now it’s Dad’s turn.

  In a daze, I look around and see the thousands of men surrounding us, crying.

  They’re mourning their leaders. They’re pledging their allegiance to us, the Ferrara’s.

  These men have been loyal to the death.

  The priest passes us all a red rose, and I watch on as my mother, with tears streaming down her face, kisses the rose and bends to place it on my father’s coffin.

  Adrenaline begins to surge through me.

  Why?

  I hold Francesca’s hand as she sobs out loud. My heart breaks watching her. She kisses the rose and bends to copy my mother. She puts her head down, leans onto the coffin, and she begins to sob. I bend and pick her up to hold her tight.

  A strange detachment falls over me as we go through the processes one by one.

  It’s like I’m not even here anymore—as if I’m watching from up above.

  Twenty minutes later, with the funeral over and a swell of well-wisher’s kissing my family, I look over to Andrea and Matteo, and I nod.

  It’s time.

  They frown in question.

  “I need to do this.”

  They nod, realizing exactly what it means.

  I walk over to Lorenzo. “Can I have a moment?”

  “Yes, son.”

  My eyes hold his. “I want it to be painful,” I whisper. “I want them to suffer.”

  He smiles darkly. “You have my word.”

  “Bring their hearts to me in a box.”

  He clenches his jaw and nods. “Yes, sir.”

  “Start the fucking war.”

  7

  Olivia

  Six days later

  I pace back and forth on my balcony, listening to the phone ring.

  “Pick up, pick up,” I whisper.

  The call is cut off and my heart drops. Rico rejected it. He usually just doesn’t answer but today he actually rejected it—me.

  My Italian Stallion is an asshole. He’s the kind that is too gutless to let me down like an adult. Instead, he’s going to pretend nothing happened between us, which makes him the worst kind of fucking asshole.

  Weak.

  I throw my phone onto the couch and drop down onto the bed.

  How could I have been so gullible? There I was, opening my heart and telling him he’s my sun, falling to my knees and sucking his dick as a goodbye present, and he doesn’t even want to talk to me now.

  I fell for his act hook, line, and sinker. I really thought we had something.

  I feel stupid that my feelings are hurt, and if this is what the world of casual sex is like, count me out. I want nothing to fucking do with it.

  I’m not heartbroken because I really didn’t know him, and it was very early days.

  But disappointed? Yes. Hell, yes.

  My ego has taken a massive hit. I mean, if Rico didn’t call me after the chemistry we shared, what chance do I ever have of hearing from someone who I share mediocre chemistry with?

  I gave him my best and did all that I could. I was totally myself and still, it wasn’t enough. Maybe there really is something wrong with me.

  I get a vision of Rico and I laughing and riding around on the bike. I see us making love—fucking like rabbits. It felt so real and raw at the time.

  I’m getting angry now.

  Screw you, Italian Stallion. I’m too good for you, anyway.

  I would rather be single than made to feel like a worthless piece of meat.

  You know what? I’m just going to see it for what it was: a great weekend.

  It didn’t work out. So what?

  Maybe something has happened to him…

  God, Olivia, can you hear yourself right now? Stop being pathetic.

  He hasn’t called.

  He doesn’t care. Onward and upward.

  Enrico Ferrara who?

  I stand at the luggage carousal in Rome and wait for my suitcase. I watch as, one by one, the travelers collect their belongings and make their way out of the airport.

  Why is mine taking so long?

  Damn it, I knew I should have changed my flight and flew home from Sorrento. It was going to cost me an extra thousand dollars. I need to get on top of my finances, and putting a thousand dollars onto my credit card just because I didn’t want to accidently run into a man seemed so stupid at the time.

  Now, not so much.

  I find myself keep looking around, scared that I’m going to see him.

  I’m embarrassed that I kept calling him. I was sure something must have been wrong for him not to call me. It didn’t occur to me that he just didn’t want to speak to me until I had already called him six times. Then it was too late to take them back.

  What a loser I am.

  I stare at the rotating carousal. For fuck’s sake, where is my bag? I’m not in the mood for this shit. It’s going around empty now. Have they lost it?

  It’s probably on its way to Antarctica or some shit.

  Ugg, this is typical.

  Another round of bags roll out, and I finally see mine. Oh, thank God. False alarm. I drag it off the carousel, pop the handle up, and make my way outside to the cab rank.

  “Excuse me, signore,” a voice says.

  I turn toward him. “Yes?”

  “Is this your suitcase?” He gestures to my luggage. He has a very strong accent—so strong that I can hardl
y understand him.

  I frown as I look down at it. Don’t tell me I picked up the wrong bag. I quickly check the luggage tag.

  Olivia Reynolds

  “Yes, this is my bag,” I say.

  He exchanges looks with a man. “Come with me, please.”

  “What?” I glance up to see that I am surrounded by airport security. There are five of them in total. “Why?”

  “Come into the office.” He picks my bag up and begins to wheel it back into the airport. “Hey, what are you doing?” I ask. “I don’t have time. I have to go.”

  “You’re not going anywhere,” he tells me.

  “What? Why not?”

  A strong hand grabs my elbow. “Into the security office… now.”

  “W-what’s going on?” I stammer as I look between them. They all remain silent as the man on either side of me pulls me along. “I don’t understand. Do you speak English?” I ask, desperate for answers. We walk past a woman on the help desk. “Excuse me!” I call to her. “Do you speak English? What’s going on here?”

  Her sympathy-filled eyes hold mine, and in that moment, I know something’s wrong.

  “What’s going on?” I demand as they lead me into the office. One of the men puts his hand on my shoulder and pushes me down into a seat.

  He takes my passport, and then sits down opposite me. “Are you aware it is a federal offence to transport drugs?”

  I frown. What the fuck is he talking about? “Yes.”

  “And are you aware that the imprisonment for such an offence carries a minimum of twenty years imprisonment.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  He lifts the cover of a trolley that I didn’t see in the corner to expose five big bags of white powder. “Explain to me why this was in your bag? Twenty-five kilograms of cocaine, with a street value of approximately nine million euro.” He picks up the bags and counts them one by one.

  My face falls. This can’t be happening…

  Oh, my fucking God.

  “What?” I gasp. “That was not in my bag.”

  “It was, and we have footage of the moment it was discovered.”

  My heart begins to race, and I look between them all in a panic. Why didn’t I put the locks on my bag?

  “This is a mistake, I don’t.” I begin to shake my head. “That’s not mine. I swear to you, that’s not mine.”

  “Do you have any more drugs on your body?”

  “What?” I shriek. “No.” I try to stand and am pushed back into the chair. “Those drugs are not mine. You have the wrong person.” My heart is beating so hard that it feels like I’m about to go into cardiac arrest.

  Suddenly, there’s a knock on the door.

  “Come in,” the security officer calls out.

  Three policemen walk into the room.

  “Oh, thank God. Officer! There has been a terrible mistake. They think I’m a drug trafficker. You need to help me.”

  They begin to talk to the airport staff in Italian, and I look between them hopefully. What are they saying? They will know this is a mistake, surely, they will.

  “We’ll take it from here,” the policeman says.

  “She hasn’t had a cavity search yet,” the security guard says.

  “What?” I shriek. “I haven’t done anything wrong. You have to believe me. I’m not a drug trafficker. I swear to you,” I cry in an outrage. I try to stand again and am pushed back into my chair with force.

  Fuck.

  “We’ll take it from here,” the policeman says to the airport staff before he turns to me. “Olivia Reynolds, you are under arrest for the possession and trafficking of cocaine.”

  “I didn’t do this. I swear to you. Please, you have to believe me,” I beg as tears well in my eyes. This can’t be happening. You hear about this stuff in the media all the time, but never in a million years did I think it would happen to me.

  “We will search her down at the station.”

  The police officer drags me to my feet, and I dig my heels into the carpet.

  “I did not do this!” I cry. “I want an attorney.” Yes, yes. I need an attorney. They will make them see sense. “I have a right to call an attorney.”

  The policeman grabs my hands and puts me into handcuffs. They snap shut hard—too tight around my wrist. The bite of the metal hurts and I wince. I’m lifted from my chair and yanked out the door with an officer on each arm, I’m led out of the office and through the airport. People stop and stare as we walk past, and my eyes fill with even more tears.

  Oh God. Things can’t get any worse.

  Twenty years imprisonment. This can’t be happening.

  We walk out of the airport and across to where the police car is parked. I begin to really panic.

  They’re not going to put me in jail, are they?

  They can’t.

  I can’t be locked in.

  My chest begins to tighten. “I didn’t do this,” I whisper as my vision blurs. “I swear to you, it wasn’t mine. I’ve never seen those drugs before in my life, you have to believe me. Somebody has put it in there. Check the security tapes. I promise you. It was not there when I got to the airport.” I dig my heels into the concrete. “I didn’t do this!” I cry out loud as people around us begin to stop and stare.

  I feel a hand go to the top of my head, and I’m pushed into the backseat of the police car. One of the officers climbs in beside me.

  The car pulls out, and I stare out the window with tears streaming down my face, but I can’t wipe them away because my hands are cuffed. I feel like I’m about to throw up.

  What do I do? What do I do? What the fuck do I do?

  They speak Italian amongst themselves and I have no idea what they’re saying.

  Fuck, why didn’t I learn this language?

  After what feels hours later, although I know it’s only a few minutes, we pull into a police station.

  I’m lifted from the car and dragged through the front doors.

  I go into panic mode and begin to sob uncontrollably.

  “I want a solicitor!” I cry as I am bustled through reception. “I need a translator.” I glance up and see Enrico at the other side of the desk. He’s writing something. He looks up and his face falls when he sees me. His eyes dart to his co-worker.

  “Cosa è successo?” Translation: what’s happened?

  “Stava trafficando droga.” Translation: She was trafficking drugs.

  “Cosa? Come lo sai?” Rico snaps. Translation: What? How do you know?

  “Rico!” I cry. “Help me. Tell them I didn’t do this.”

  “La sua borsa era piena, ovviamente colpevole,” the policeman tells him. Translation: Her bag was full, guilty as.

  I’m bustled away quickly.

  “Rico!” I cry as I try to crane my neck to see him. “Please, help me.”

  I am pushed into an office and the door is slammed shut behind us.

  Six hours is an eternity when you’re locked in a room.

  Eeriness is lurking in the air. I stare at the wall through my tears, battling the silence, trying to quieten the sheer terror of what I’m facing.

  Drug trafficking in another country.

  I’ve been strip searched, interrogated, humiliated, and then… deserted.

  Enrico left.

  Well, I’m assuming he left.

  He hasn’t come to see me. There’s been no mention of him or the fact that we know each other from the policemen I’ve been dealing with. Did he even tell them that he knew me? I stupidly thought he cared. If not enough to carry on our relationship or whatever it was, at least enough to help me as a friend when I’m in need… and I’m in dire fucking straits here.

  They allowed me to make one call and I chose to call the Australian Embassy.

  They will know what to do; they have to. I’m assuming by now they would have called my parents back home, and I feel sick knowing what they must be going through. This is every parent’s worst nightmare. Natalie is in t
he air, on her way home to London, and she won’t have any idea of what has happened yet.

  Maybe I’m going to wake up any moment and find that this is all a bad nightmare. Please, please, please let me wake up soon.

  The door opens and clicks quietly closed. I close my eyes in dread. Here we go again.

  “Olivia.”

  I turn suddenly to see Enrico standing over me, and my emotions bubble over at seeing a familiar face and my eyes instantly fill with tears. “Rico.”

  “What’s happened?” he whispers.

  “I don’t know.” I shrug sadly. My hope of this being a big mistake is dissipating by the second. “I’ve no idea. I got on the plane as normal, and then when I arrived, they said I had drugs in my bag.”

  His cold eyes hold mine. “How did they get there?”

  “I don’t know.” I throw my hands up in the air. “I have no fucking idea who put them there but it wasn’t me.”

  He rolls his eyes and drops into the chair opposite me. His body language tells me he knows it’s as bad as I think it is.

  “What do I do?” I whisper.

  “Just sit tight,” he says with a clench of his jaw. He seems angry.

  “For how long?”

  “Until I get you a lawyer,” he snaps.

  “This isn’t my fault.”

  “What is the one fucking rule of travel, Olivia?” He holds his finger up to accentuate his point. “One rule.”

  “Lock your bags.” I sigh sadly.

  “Exactly. Are you so fucking lazy that you couldn’t lock your god damn bag?”

  My emotions bubble over. “If you came in here to upset me then don’t bother. I’m upset with myself enough about this.”

  He pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales heavily. “I don’t need this shit. This is the last thing I need to deal with. I have enough on my plate without having to worry about you.”

  What?

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” I whisper angrily. “You don’t need this shit. You think I do?” I slump back into my seat. “Just go.”

  “I’ve called a lawyer. He’s on his way.”

  I wonder if I ever knew anything about him at all. “Thanks,” I eventually reply. We sit and stare at each other for a moment. He looks terrible with dark circles under his eyes and a pale complexion. “Are you all right?” I ask.