The Italian

“Because….” He stands, suddenly angered. “You’re more trouble than you’re worth.”

What?

My face falls and my eyes fill with tears, I blink to try and hide them. That was the last thing I expected to come out of his mouth.

Without another word, he rushes from the room, and the door slams hard shut behind him. I hear the lock click as he locks me in.

What the hell was that?

I can’t hold it anymore. I can’t act brave for one minute longer. I screw up my face and cry.

* * *

Seven hours later

I lie on the cold, hard bed of the jail cell.

It’s dark and eerie in here, and I’m scared.

I keep thinking back to all the international drug trafficking cases over the years and how I haven’t really paid much attention to them or followed up on what the outcome has been. Drug traffickers in other countries get forgotten. Nobody even questions if they are guilty. It’s just assumed that they are.

It’s ironic really. I’m one of the people who forgot them. Will they forget me?

The door opens and the light flicks on. A policeman escorts a man in a suit into the room.

“Hello.” He smiles. He’s older, handsome, and from the look of his suit, loaded.

I scramble to my feet and pull my shirt down. I feel so exposed and vulnerable in here.

“My name is Mario Botecci. I am a solicitor, and I represent Ferrara Industries.”

He shakes my hand.

“Hi.” I force a smile as I try not to get my hopes up.

“I have secured your release.”

My eyes flick between him and the officer. “Really?”

“Yes, but there are conditions. I will be escorting you to the airport, and you will leave Italy immediately.”

“Oh.” I frown. “I-I missed my flight,” I stammer.

“You’ll be flying on the Ferrara jet. I will be accompanying you back to Australia.”

“That’s not necessary.” I don’t want to go on Enrico’s father’s fucking plane. That’s the last place I want to be. “I’ll book a commercial flight. I don’t want to put anyone out.”

Mario’s eyes hold mine. “That is the condition of your release. It’s unnegotiable.”

I stare at him as the lump in my throat begins to close over. Enrico would know this, and he has chosen to not be the one who accompanies me home.

I nod, unable to push any coherent words past my lips.

The policeman gestures toward the door. “This way. We have some paperwork for you to sign, and then you can go.”

Relief begins to flood through me, and I force a smile despite my tears. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

8