Chapter 10 - THIRTY-FIVE THOUSAND FEET
Vincent Moretti stood in the center of the locked first-class cabin, a monumental figure of dark leather, silk, tattoos, and absolute authority.
He looked down at Baby Luca, who was now sleeping soundly against his chest, his tiny breathing even and peaceful. He looked at Maya, sleeping innocently in the plush cream seat, clutching the hidden secret of her missing mother against her pink dress. And he looked at Leah—ten years old, standing straight, protective, observant, and completely unbroken by the nightmare unfolding around her.
Vincent turned his head toward Marco.
"Put Frankie in the back rest facility," Vincent ordered, his voice cold, flat, and final. "Tie him to the frame. If he makes a sound before we touch down in London, throw him out the service door."
"Yes, Mr. Moretti," Marco grunted. He yanked Frankie off the wall, shoving the crying, terrified man down the narrow service aisle toward the rear crew quarters, locking the heavy door behind them with a sharp metallic clack.
The third bodyguard stepped up to the front, standing guard at the locked curtain, his firearm drawn and kept low behind his leg, out of sight of the children.
Vincent walked over to the empty cream leather seat beside Leah. He sat down heavily, the thick leather groaning under his weight. He looked at the ten-year-old girl standing beside his knee.
"Sit down, Leah," Vincent said gently.
Leah didn't hesitate. She climbed up onto the wide cream seat beside him, her small black shoes dangling inches above the plush carpet. She sat straight, her long light-brown hair falling over her cardigan, her light-gray eyes fixed on the clouds drifting past the oval window outside.
Vincent reached into his black shirt pocket. He pulled out the tiny black disc, held it between his broad thumb and forefinger, and crushed it with a single, brutal squeeze of his hand. The internal micro-circuits snapped with a quiet, metallic crunch, and he dropped the dead fragments into his empty crystal whiskey glass on the mahogany side table.
He looked down at Leah.
"Your mother isn't dead," Vincent said, his deep baritone filling the space between them with a solid, unshakeable promise. "She was smart. She hid the key with you because she knew you were strong enough to keep your sister safe."
Leah turned her head, looking into the dark, shadowed eyes of the powerful crime boss sitting beside her.
"Are you going to help us find her?" Leah asked softly.
Vincent looked down at his sleeping son in his left arm, then across the aisle at Maya clutching her stuffed rabbit, and finally back to the brave, quiet girl sitting beside him thirty-five thousand feet in the sky.
A dark, dangerous smile touched the corner of Vincent’s lips—a smile that promised total destruction to whoever had threatened his family and touched these children.
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"No, Leah," Vincent whispered, his voice dark and heavy as stone. "We're going to go get her back. And anyone who stands between us and your mother is going to wish they had stayed on the ground."
The jet engines roared continuously outside as the plane cut through the bright afternoon daylight, carrying the mob boss, the missing mother's secret, and two young sisters toward an unknown horizon over the Atlantic.
