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“Natalia,” the person says before they make it to my spot in the line. It’s said in a hushed tone, but loud enough for me to hear him.
That voice.
That slightly leaning gait.
I squint my eyes to try to make out his face in spite of the glare. My hands clutch my bag a little tighter, a subconscious reaction to the sudden shift in my reality.
“Marco?” I whisper to the man who has to be the trusted member of my father's western region business operations, stations in Arizona. His sudden appearance is both startling and unbelievably reassuring. Marco had always been a loyal associate of my father, an unconditionally available presence in his organization, a constant in the turbulent world I came to know.
"Thank God," he says, his voice carrying a flood of relief. He walks into the light and I notice is how little he has changed. He steps closer, and I notice the faint lines around his eyes, perhaps the only sign of the time that has passed since I last saw him. His gaze is searching, assessing my state, both physical and emotional. He's dressed in his usual attire – a neat, dark jacket over a crisp shirt, his hair impeccably combed back, and those piercing eyes that give away his thoughts every time. And that leaning gait caused by the bullet still lodged in one thigh after he was shot by a rival. I remember the story clearly because it was shared countless times at various gatherings of the famiglia. It’s been a couple of years since I’ve seen him but I remember. He has always had an air of quiet confidence about him, a constant calmness. Seeing him now, in the midst of my turmoil, is both jarring and comforting.
"We've been looking for you for a long time, dear," he adds.
I'm fixed in place in the bus line, still beyond shocked. I don’t even know what to make of it. I’ve been surviving on my own for so long I forget what’s normal for us. There’s a moment that I look at him and my mind is still intent on sticking to the plan to escape on the bus, although the walls around the idea begin to slowly crumble.
"But how…how did you f-find me?" I stammer out.
He smiles gently, his eye seeming to soften. "Your father has always had his ways. It wasn't easy, but we knew it was important to bring you back to safety. He's been so worried about you."
"But how would he know where to find me? I've been so careful," I press, needing a bit more, after all I’ve been through, to make sense of it all. The dim light from the streetlight above us flickers across Marco's face, casting a momentary shadow.
"We have our resources," Marco replies calmly. "Your father has a wide network, and when he gives an order to find someone, we use every tool at our disposal. It wasn't easy, but we knew it was important to bring you back to safety."
His answers, though vague, are enough to quell my immediate suspicions. The relief I feel is overwhelming, yet there’s an underlying uneasiness in me, from being found so easily. So randomly.
My mind is racing with thoughts of my father. I picture him – stern, commanding, yet always with a softness when it came to how much he cares for everyone in his family. I realize that in his own way, he's come to my rescue, not in person but in all the ways that really matter. A silent thanks forms in my mind, directed towards him. Despite the distance, the time that’s passed, he's still looking out for me.
And still, I have a moment of hesitation. The bus I was planning to take is pulling into the station, but the sight of Marco, a link to my former life, shifts something inside me. The exhaustion and solitude I've been feeling these past weeks, the constant fear and running – it's all been wearing me down.
Marco sees my indecision. "Come, Natalia. Come with me. You're not safe on your own."
I study his face, looking for any sign of deceit or inauthenticity, but find none. Marco has always been genuine, straightforward, traits that I've come to respect over the years.
His concern is evident, and it's clear that he's here out of loyalty to my father and to me. The wave of nostalgia and gratitude overcomes me.
Marco represents a piece of stability, a connection to an aspect of my past that I thought I had lost.
"Thank you, Marco," I say, finally allowing the tension in my shoulders to ease. "I... I don't know what to say."
In that moment, I make my decision. The sense of relief at not being alone anymore is overwhelming. Marco represents a piece of my old life, a life filled with its own dangers, but also with protection and familiarity. I trust him, more than I've trusted anyone since I started running.
"There's nothing to say, Natalia. Let's get you out of here," he says, nodding towards his car.
"Yes. I'll come with you," I say, a sense of finality in my voice.
I am safe now.
19
Antonio
I positionmyself on a worn concrete stoop half a block away, carefully observing the ebb and flow of people entering and exiting the community center. I’m on edge knowing that Natalia could make an appearance at any moment. I've been tracking her movements for so long in hopes of finding her, and this self-defense class may finally give me an opportunity.
I keep a low profile by wearing a dark baseball cap, a dark gray hoodie, and faded jeans. Each person who enters or exits the center is scrutinized for any possible connection to Natalia.
But she never shows up.
We wait around in case she’s late, then decide we’ll stick around to ask about her. As the class comes to an end, I pay close attention as participants begin to leave. Suddenly, my focus is drawn to an elderly woman struggling with multiple overflowing bags from a bake sale inside. Sensing an opening, I leave my car and approach her.
