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That flicker of a different perspective begins to take hold. Natalia managed to keep out of sight for so long, and maybe she left with someone she knew, someone she trusted.
I grab my phone and dial my guy this time instead of texting. “Tell me everything you saw again," I say. "Was she resisting the person she left with? Did she look like she was putting up a fight, or did she appeared drugged?”
“No, nothing like that,” he responds quickly. “They walked together, seemed... normal, as if she was okay with leaving.”
That's somewhat reassuring, yet it raises more questions. I press further, needing every detail. “How sure are you that it was her?”
There's no hesitation in his voice. “I'm a hundred percent sure. You know I've worked for the famiglia for years. I know her. It was definitely her.”
His certainty is a small comfort in the sea of uncertainty. If she left willingly, it changes the complexity of the situation. Perhaps she isn't in immediate danger. Maybe she's with someone from her past, someone who can keep her safe.
That doesn't ease my sense of failure, but it shifts it. My failure wasn't in protecting her from immediate harm; it was in not being there when she might have needed me, in not being the person she chose to leave with.
I end the call and feel there’s hope.
She’s still alive.
That has to count for something.
She made it this far, maybe she’ll weather the next storm.
In the meantime, I can't give up.
I fucking won't.
20
Natalia
My first stepout of the bus line is the hardest. It’s as though my legs turned to rubber. We walk to the car, and I notice his protective glances as we navigate the dimly lit street. His movements are measured and deliberate, always aware of our surroundings.
The car is a reflection of Marco – unassuming but large, late model, and black with dark tinted windows. He opens the back passenger door for me, and as I slide into the back seat of the sedan, I'm immediately struck by the presence of two other men in the vehicle, both of whom I recognize. The sight of them, familiar faces from my past, brings an unexpected wave of relief, loosening the knot of tension that has been tightening in my chest.
The driver, Carlos, turns to give me a brief nod of acknowledgment. Carlos has always been more than just a driver; he's an integral part of my father's western logistics operations, known for his discretion. His appearance hasn't changed much over the years – he still sports the same closely cropped hair, now peppered with gray, and his eyes, a deep brown, still carry that same watchful, alert expression I remember. Dressed in a black suit that’s neatly tailored to his broad shoulders, Carlos exudes a quiet strength. His hands, resting on the steering wheel, are large and look capable, the hands of a man who's used to taking control.
Luis is in the seat next to him. Luis's presence has always been reassuring – he's a man of few words, but his competence and loyalty have never been in question. He's a bit younger than Carlos, with a lean, athletic build. His dark hair is shaved close to his scalp, and there's a small scar above his left eyebrow. His sharp, hawk-like gaze scans the surroundings even as he sits in the car.
Seeing Carlos and Luis, two people who were a constant in the background of my life growing up, eases a tension I’ve been carrying. They’re a connection to safety.
As we drive away from the bus station, and Taos begins to fade into the distance, I find myself relaxing into the seat. The weight of everything eases from my shoulders slightly. the familiarity of being with someone from my old life is soothing. Marco, sitting behind the driver, doesn't press me for details of my time in Taos, giving me the space to process the whirlwind of emotions.
I glance at him from time to time, taking in the familiar profile, the set of his jaw, the occasional furrow of his brow as he concentrates on the road. His presence is a steadying force in the unpredictable storm that has become my life.
I start to wonder about my father. What he must be thinking. Does he know about the kidnapping? About what those men did to me? About what I've been through? The idea that he might know about my being taken, the mistreatment, the neglect, the trauma – it churns so much emotion in me.
If he knows, I can just picture his reaction when he first learned the details – how I was left dirty, ragged, isolated, locked up, and starved by my captors. The fury that must have ignited in him, a man who, despite his stern demeanor and ruthless reputation, has always had a fierce protective streak for his family. I can almost see the cold fire in his eyes, the set of his jaw tightening, the barely restrained anger at the thought of his daughter being subjected to such cruelty.
In my mind, I hear his voice, low and menacing, promising payback. My father has never been a man to cross, and the idea that he's out there, potentially unleashing his wrath, sends a shiver down my spine. If he's managed to track me down to Taos, then he must know at least a little bit about what happened to me. And knowing my father, that knowledge would light lighting a fuse to an explosion of revenge.
His reaction would not just be about family honor or the mafia code; it would be personal. I picture him, pacing in an office somewhere, his mind plotting, planning, strategizing. The men who took me, who hurt me, they wouldn't just have my father to fear; they'd have the full force of his wrath to contend with.
Despite the turmoil, a part of me feels a twisted sense of satisfaction knowing that those men to made me suffer will eventually face my father's retribution. They deserve whatever is coming to them. But alongside that, there's a twinge of guilt, an unease at the violence and bloodshed that might ensue because of me.
As we drive through the night, I start to grow apprehensive about what my father's actions will mean for all of us. My thoughts drift to Antonio. Where is he right now? What has become of him since I left? The memories of our time together, both sweet and painful, swirl in my head, mingling with the fear and uncertainty of what’s coming next.
"Marco," I say, breaking the silence that has enveloped the car. My voice sounds small, even to my own ears. "Do you know what happened to Antonio? And the shooting at the airport? I’m worried about my father’s remaining men."
Marco glances over at me, his expression unreadable in the dim light. "I don't have much information about Antonio or the others," he replies, his voice neutral.
