“Most of my stuff is there,” I say. “In my apartment.”
“Anything you don’t need right away, we’ll have shipped back here,” he says.
“Not my knives,” I murmur.
“Not your knives.” A small lift of his lips. “You can sleep if you want. There are blankets and pillows.”
“I’ll try a little later. Jet lag hits me pretty bad.”
I’ll try, sure. But I know I won’t. I take a croissant instead, tear the end, and the buttered layers flake into my palm. I eat half, set the rest down, wipe my fingers on the linen tucked under the plate.
He tips his chin toward the window. “We’ll be wheels up in a minute.”
I nod and take another sip.
The attendant returns, checks belts, then disappears behind the galley curtain.
Giovanni rests his forearm on the armrest, fingers relaxed. He doesn’t fill the space with talk. He never does. I’m grateful for that. It makes it easier to think and breathe.
The plane turns slowly, straightens. We wait a few minutes, then the engines open up with a muted roar, and the runway starts running quickly beneath us. Pressure pins me back and lifts me in the same second. My stomach dips and rights itself. The city slides away, the glass of the terminals catching pale morning light.
The noise of the plane steadies, the ground turns to puzzle pieces of the buildings that make up Atlantic City.
Then we’re buried in the clouds. I let my head go back against the leather and release a long breath.
I’ve never been scared of flying, but flying on such a tiny plane is a very different experience. It feels more fragile.
Giovanni nudges the plate closer to me without words, and I take the other half of the croissant to settle my stomach.
The enclosed space of the cabin makes it hard to do anything but notice him, the way he smells, every shift of his body.
I stuff the croissant in my mouth.
This is going to be a very long week.
Chapter Eighteen
Giovanni
Seat belt light pings on. The nose dips a fraction, and the engines roll back.
Across from me, Bianca is asleep, reclined just enough to let her head tip to the side. One hand curved palm-up on the armrest. The other tucked under the edge of the blanket. Her mouth is soft, not guarded.
I tell myself to watch the approach and not her. I watch her anyway.
Alvarez steps up the aisle, bracing a hand on the seatback, voice low. “Twenty minutes, sir.”
I nod. “Thank you.”
Bianca doesn’t stir.
I give it thirty seconds and try her name. “Bianca.”
Nothing. Just the steady rise and fall under the thin knit of her sweater.
I unbuckle and lean forward, resisting the urge to get up and slide into the seat next to her, take her in my arms. A curl has escaped and lies across her cheek. I put my hand on the armrest, not on her.
“Bianca,” I say again, quieter. “We’re landing.”
