Chapter 3 - The Skybound Traitor
The Boeing 777 began its gradual descent into Chicago airspace, cutting through thick gray storm clouds that rattled the cabin windows.
Maya sat in seat 1B, munching quietly on warm almonds provided by a visibly trembling flight attendant. She held baby Leo’s tiny hand through the armrest divider; the infant had taken an instant liking to Maya’s quiet presence, cooing softly every time she tapped his tiny nose with Barnaby's worn ear.
"He likes bunnies," Maya announced proudly to Vincent, completely oblivious to the fact that the man beside her commanded an empire built on lead and silence.
Vincent looked down at her, the sharp contours of his jaw softening. "Does he? Good to know, little lady. I'll buy him fifty of them."
"Fifty is too many," Maya said seriously. "One is enough if you love it."
Franco approached from the galley, leaning down to whisper into Vincent's ear. I leaned slightly forward, straining to listen.
"...checked the manifest," Franco muttered. "Only three people had access to the private boarding lounge at Terminal 4 before we took off. Your personal chauffeur, the terminal liaison, and the senior purser on this flight—Elena Cross."
Vincent didn't react visibly, but his knuckles whitened against the armrest. "Elena has flown my family for six years."
"Julian Vance has deep pockets, Boss," Franco noted grimly. "And her brother owes three million to the sportsbooks in Atlantic City."
Vincent closed his eyes for a long three seconds. When he opened them, the father was gone; the Don had returned.
"Leah," Vincent said without turning his head.
"Yes?"
"Take your sister and Leo into the forward restroom. Lock the door. Do not open it for anyone except me or Franco. If you hear loud noises, stay on the floor."
"Is she going to hurt us?" I asked, my heart pounding against my ribs like a trapped bird.
"Not anymore," Vincent said calmly.
I scooped up Maya, who grumbled at having her almond snack interrupted, while Vincent carefully transferred baby Leo into my arms. Holding the two infants—one three years old, one barely four months—a surge of protective fury flooded my veins. My mother had always told me: *When the storm comes, Leah, you don't hide from the wind. You become the anchor.*
I slipped inside the small forward lavatory, clicked the deadbolt into place, and sat on the floor, bracing my back against the locked door with both children tucked securely between my legs.
Outside, the confrontation was muffled by the roar of the jet engines, but the tension was thick enough to bleed through the aluminum paneling.
"Elena," Vincent's voice resonated through the partition, perfectly modulated, chillingly calm. "Bring me a glass of sparkling water, please."
Footsteps approached. The soft clinking of glassware.
"Right away, Mr. Moretti. We'll be landing in twenty minutes. How is the baby?"
"He's quiet now. The pain went away once we removed Julian Vance’s micro-transmitter from his swaddle."
A sudden gasp. The sharp shatter of glass against the carpeted floor.
"Mr. Moretti, I—I don't know what you're talking about—"
"Do not insult my intelligence while standing in my presence," Vincent said, his voice dropping an octave into pure menace. "Who contacted you? Was it Vance himself, or that serpent who calls himself Magistrate Cole?"
"They—they said it was just a tracker!" Elena sobbed, her voice unraveling into hysterics. "They told me they just needed to know which hangar your jet was taxiing to! They have my brother, Vincent! They swore they wouldn't hurt the baby!"
"You put a live military pulse-tag against the ribs of an infant," Vincent said coldly. "You forfeited your right to invoke family."
"Boss," Franco's voice cut in. "She has a burner phone taped beneath the galley cart. Incoming message just popped up: *Target package arriving Gate B12. Team in position.*"
"They aren't waiting for the terminal," Vincent deduced instantly. "They’ve bought the ground crew. The moment this plane taxis to the gate, they storm the jet bridge under the guise of federal quarantine."
Inside the lavatory, my breath hitched. My mother had talked about "federal jurisdiction" being manipulated by corrupt judges. Magistrate Cole—that was the name she had written in red ink inside her hidden notebook back home.
I pounded once on the bathroom door. "Mr. Moretti!"
The latch clicked from the outside, and Franco opened the door. Vincent stood there, looking at me with dark, calculating eyes.
"What is it, Leah?"
"They won't wait for Gate B12," I blurted out, remembering the documents I had secretly peeked at on my mother's desk. "My mom’s notes said Vance operates through the private cargo tarmac on the southern runway! If they have Gate B12, it's a bottleneck trap! They want you trapped on the jet bridge where your men can't use long-range defense!"
Vincent stared at me, then a slow, dangerous grin touched the corners of his mouth.
"Smart girl," he murmured. He turned to Franco. "Get the cockpit on the horn. Tell Captain Henderson we’re executing Divert Protocol Delta. We do not taxi to B12. We touch down, deploy the emergency slides on the tarmac, and meet our heavy armored convoy at Runway 4-Left."
"On it," Franco barked.
May you like
Vincent reached down and took his son back into his arms, then extended his other hand to me. "Hold onto your sister, Leah. Things are about to get noisy."
***
