Page 70 of Capo

I dart up off the bed and slam my fists on the door. “Hey! Don’t leave me! What do you mean sending me away? Where?” There’s no reaction from the other side, and still I feel his presence, as if he lingers, but it’s probably only my imagination.

My insides crawl with anxiety by the time the door is unlocked the next time. I rush toward it and stop flat when it swings open. Rose, pale, her blonde hair in a ponytail, no makeup, jeans, boots, and a red leather jacket. Her face is serious and there’s nothing reminding me of the girl I first met, the seductive prostitute.

“I heard,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

I scoff. “Sorry is the only thing everyone around here ever is.”

She raises a shoulder in a half-shrug. “Are you ready to go?”

I throw up my hands. “Go where?”

“Doesn’t anyone tell you anything, girl?” She glances into the hallway and then reaches for me. “We really need to move. Please.”

I look around me. It’s instinct. In any kind of normal life, I’d grab keys, phone, purse. It strikes me hard when I realize I have absolutely nothing. Not even the clothes on my body, down to the last thread, are my own. It’s as if I don’t exist. When I leave this room, this house, nothing remains of Chloe. My eyes dart to Rose’s. Leave. I get to leave. I can get the fuck out of here and make a run for it. With a thudding heart, I take Rose’s hand and step out into the hallway. My gaze darts inadvertently toward the other bedroom, the slaughterhouse, but the door is closed and there’s no sign of the horrors that took place in there a mere few hours ago. When I turn toward the exit, my stomach plummets. There stands a guard. Tall and dark, clad in black cargo pants and looking like he’s going into war with the guns, the radio equipment, and the security vest. Okay. Not running.

Rose entwines her fingers with mine and pulls me toward the man. “We gotta go, Chloe.”

As the three of us move through the house, I listen to faraway voices, trying to discern Salvatore’s, but I can’t, and Rose keeps pulling, urging me to go faster.

I’m pushed into the back of a car, Rose jumps in next to me and slams the door shut, buckling us up. The guard hops in behind the wheel and we’re moving in the next instant. It’s dark outside. I crane my neck to look at the digital clock on the panel. It’s 6:14 a.m. I don’t know when I ate last and I feel faint. Breakfast yesterday, I think. We move fast on winding roads, through the suburbs, toward industrial areas. Rose holds both my hands, her thumb stroking back and forth. My stomach churns at how serious she looks. The sky is getting brighter. An orange hue tints the horizon as we pass guarded gates and come to a stop on an airfield outside a small plane. Our driver hops out and pulls the passenger door open, cocking his head impatiently.

Rose unbuckles me. “Go, go, go.”

I put a leg out, then I spin around. “Are you coming with?”

She shakes her head. “I can’t. Matron needs me.”

“Who?”

A fleeting sadness sweeps across her face, then she waves her hand impatiently. “Never mind. He said he’d call you. You need to—”

“Miss Becker,” barks the guard, his voice a deep baritone. “You have one second, or I’ll carry you onboard.”

He reaches for me. I slap away his hand and give Rose one last pleading look, but she averts her gaze.

“Okay, okay, fuck. Fine, I’m coming!”

He grabs my elbow and pulls me with him along the tarmac to the descended stairs that lead up to the plane. It’s windy. The air is easy to breathe, crisp. A smell of exhaust, of oil and wet concrete lingers. The guard follows me all the way up to the plane entrance, his huge body behind me preventing my desperate wish to make a run for it. I’d be down and bundled up in a second, and I bet my flight to wherever I’m going would be a lot less comfortable.

I step inside and turn to take one last glance at the vast outside world, the dark gray hills in the distance, the rising sun. My eyes meet the guard’s. He doesn’t look hostile, just wary. I look down on a white envelope that he holds up between us.

“From the boss,” he mutters. “Be safe.” He smacks his large palm against the steel wall next to my head. “You’re good to go,” he shouts toward the cockpit before he turns and walks down the stairs. As soon as his feet leave the stairwell it begins to ascend and I back up so as not to get hit.

“Miss,” shouts a man’s voice from the front of the plane. “You need to buckle up. You can move around when we’re in the air, but not during take-off.”

I walk up to the cockpit and take in the backs of two men, clad in dark blue suits, wearing caps, looking very much like pilots.

“Where are we going?”

They turn and give me a once over. “Sicily, ma’am. Buckle up now, or you’ll bounce all over the cabin in a few. It gets bumpy for a while when we cross the hills.”

“Sicily?”

A terse sigh from the co-pilot jerks me into action. “Okay, fine!” I turn and take in the passenger compartment. It’s small, but luxurious with plush, beige leather seats with lots of butt and leg space. In the back there’s a lounge area with a bar and couches along each wall. I sink into the nearest seat and strap in.

As we move, I realize I’m clutching something in my hand and remember the envelope. My hands shake as I pull it open. Inside is a letter with a few short words.

You are going to my relatives in Sicily. They know nothing about my business. Treat them with respect.

S.

I trace the letters with the tip of my finger as the plane moves faster and faster, the acceleration feeling as if it sucks the stomach out of my body. We bounce once, then we fly. The buildings beneath us turn into little pieces of neatly organized Legos while my mind spins with the sudden turn of events.

Sicily?