“Sure.” I took a seat. “I’ll watch your bag if you want.” I tipped my chin at the laptop bag he had slung over his shoulder.
“Don’t worry about it. Back right now.”
I watched him walk away. He took a call and as if distracted, he continued walking past the men’s room. I frowned but didn’t go after him. Ten minutes passed and my anxiety became a ball in my stomach. Without thinking I chewed my thumbnail. Somewhere between my mother’s death and marrying Salvatore, I’d forgotten that little habit. Now, I pulled out my thumb and stared at it as if it could tell me what to do. Another ten minutes and I shot up from my seat and began a small back and forth pace.
I had no money, no phone, and no phone number to contact anyone. Leo held onto my passport for safekeeping, and I feared if I moved, he might miss me if he came looking for me. Another ten minutes and I was ready to puke from the prongs of dread spearing my insides.
“Excuse me, miss,” a voice steeped in a Japanese accent called out.
I turned. “Yes.”
Two airport officials stood there. “Can you come with us, please,” the shorter of the two held out his hand, gesturing for me to follow him.
“Um...where?”
“Come, please.” I shook my head and immediately his features tightened. The two of them drew closer and flanking me on both sides, they took hold of my arms, forcing me to walk with them.
“Please, I’m waiting for someone,” I squeaked, noticing a third official rolling my bag behind him. My head snapping from side to side, I searched for Leo and cringed, noticing people stop and stare. But instead of embarrassment, I felt the tears well in my eyes. “Please,” I begged, trying to stiffen my body but their grips tightened on my arms, and short of being dragged, I went with them.
I had no idea how long we walked but given the size of the airport, I figured it was a good ten minutes. They shoved me into a room that was bare except for a white table and two metal chairs. Another official, with his hands, crossed over his chest, stood just inside the room. He wasn’t Japanese like the other two and his uniform different but his expression was a lot harder. I decided he was a senior official.
He pointed to a chair. “Sit.” His American accent immediately adding a little comfort to my dilemma. Slowly, I slid into the seat while the man who’d carried my bag set it on the table. “What’s your name.”
“Gianna Mancini,” I replied. “But I married a few days ago, so it’s Salvatore,” I quickly corrected. “Why am I here?” I stammered, fear straining to escape. But I pushed it down, telling myself it was a mistake. They got the wrong person. Maybe they’d help me find Leo or get back home to the safety I knew.
“Is this your bag?” ignoring my question, the senior official asked, taking a step closer.
“Yes.”
“Can you open it?” it was an order.
Nodding, I opened the tiny purse that held a pack of gum to aid with the gravity, a small bag of crackers Rosana had given me to help with nausea I couldn’t get rid of, and the key for the bag. Once I had it open, the senior official nodded to one of the other men. The shorter one, using a baton, began moving things around. Haphazardly, he emptied the items of my bag onto the table. What the hell are you looking for, I wanted to scream but recognizing I was at a distinct advantage, I just waited.
When the short man was done, he stepped back and the senior official picked up one of my dresses. “Is this yours?” I nodded. He picked up a pair of jeans next. “This?” Again I nodded. One by one, he began picking up an item and each time, he’d ask if it was mine and I would nod. By the time he reached for the last of the two items, my patience resembled thin ice. The last item was my vanity bag that contained my make-up, toiletries, and beauty products. It had two trays. The top held all the bigger items and the bottom, all the smaller ones. I almost screamed when he began asking me if each of the items belonged to me.
Then he lifted the tray and right there nestled among the lipsticks, nail polish, and perfume bottles sat three little plastic bags filled with a white powder. My eyes widened and my heart rate sped up. Disbelief lined every cell in my body and I was already shaking my head as he picked up the plastic and looked at me.
“Is this yours?”
I shook my head. “No,” the whisper slipped through trembling lips.
“I’m going to ask you again, Miss Gianna, is this yours?” He pointed to my suitcase. I nodded. “And this?” He pointed to the vanity bag. I nodded. “And this?” He waved the plastic in my face.
I shook my head, the tears now a full-blown river down my cheeks, my heart an unstoppable roar against my ribcage. I felt like I was dying on the inside. “Please. It’s not mine.”
He slammed the table with his baton and that comfort of knowing he was American went right out the door. The loud thwack kicked me in the stomach and I jumped, my body shaking. I gripped the edge of the table, my sobs filling the room. “P-please...” I stammered.
“I will ask you again, Miss Gianna. Is this yours?” He pointed to the vanity bag. I nodded.
“Then how is this not yours, if it's your bag that you have the key to? How?” he yelled, slamming his baton against the table. “How?”
Cowering from his shouts, I kept swiping at the relentless tears. I was shaking so badly, the chair was moving, the squeaks against the tiled floor adding resonance to my sobs. “I don’t know,” I mumbled, my words broke between my cries. “The man—”
“What man?” he sneered as if I was lying.
“The man I came with,” I sobbed.
“Where is your passport, Miss Gianna?” he grated, leaning closer.
