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How long will I be here? Where will I stay? Long enough for the sharp edges of memory to dull, for the ghosts of the past to fade into shadows. For the killers to be caught.
Or so I hope.
Sitting here listening to the bustle of activity beyond the plane, the crisp accent of the announcements echoing through the cabin, the hint of exhaust and pretzels in the recycled air was too much.
I grip the armrests of my seat, knuckles whitening, and take a deep breath to calm my nerves.
The door of the plane opens with a hiss. My gaze jerks toward the front, and my heart leaps into my throat.
Two men in dark suits stride through the doorway, scanning the aisles with hard, watchful eyes. FBI agents. I'd recognize them anywhere.
A ripple of unease spreads through the cabin. These men mean business; whatever they're here for isn't good.
My fingers dig into the armrests as they draw closer, an icy fist of dread clenching in my gut. They're not here for me. They can't be here for me. Is there a criminal on this flight? What if they know who I am? What if they're in touch with my father's killers?
But then one of the agents meets my gaze, and I know with sinking certainty. They're coming for me.
My heart pounds wildly as the agents stride down the aisle straight toward me. This can't be happening. Has something happened? Did someone harm my empire? Am I in danger?
I glance at Stefano, but his eyes are fixed on the agents approaching us. His jaw is tense, hands curled into fists in his lap.
The agents stop in front of my seat, looming over me. The taller one gives me a grim smile. "Isabella Torres, you're under arrest for possession of illegal narcotics with intent to distribute."
"What?" The word bursts from my lips in a gasp. "No, that's impossible!"
"Torres?" mutters Stefano, looking at me with new light. Of course. He must have put two and two together. He now knows who I am. Fuck. I shouldn't have had all that Torres tequila.
"I'm afraid it's very possible, Ms. Torres." The agent's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "When we searched your luggage, we found three kilos of cocaine. Quite a lot for personal use, wouldn't you say?"
My mouth falls open. My mind spins in circles, unable to process his words. Cocaine? In my luggage? That's insane. I don't do drugs—I would never—
"There's been a mistake," I choke out. "I don't know how that could have gotten in my bag, but it wasn't me!"
"That's not what the evidence says." The agent grabs my arm, wrenching me up from my seat. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law."
"No, please!" I struggle against his grip, panic flooding my senses. They can't do this. I'm innocent!
But it's no use. As the agents start to drag me off the plane, I stare at Stefano, silently pleading for help. His face is pale with shock, and I see uncertainty in his eyes for the first time since I've met him.
“Listen, officers,” I plead. “Please, trust me. I swear to god I have no idea what you’re talking about. I made a mistake and the only mistake I’ve made is not locking my luggage. Look, you must have CCTV footage from the airport we flew in from. Just look at it! This happens all the time on TV,” I plead. “Someone must have framed me.”
I stand and begin to open my carry-on bag. Stefano is still staring at me, and then the FBI agents, mute. “Look, look,” I say, throwing my things everywhere. “Nothing here.”
I pass the things to them. “Check for fingerprints. Please. I swear, if there are any prints on the cocaine, it won’t be mine. It can’t.”
I begin to sob. I have no idea what’s going on. I know no one in New York. If I’m sent to prison, I don’t even know who to call. I won’t survive jail. I just won’t.
I look at Stefano and take his hands in mine, as the FBI agents try to grab my hands from behind. “Please, Stefano. I’m all alone. Help me. I’m innocent.”
Suddenly, something shifts behind his eyes, as though he had blanked out for a brief couple of seconds and has now returned, fully present. He gets on his feet, and whispers. “I believe you.”
The officers try to grab my arms. One pulls out handcuffs.
“Stop right there,” says Stefano sternly. The agents stare at him, stunned. There’s something in Stefano’s voice that is not to be trifled with. “Before you arrest her, give her a chance to prove her innocence. Investigate her things right now. Show us something, anything to link her to the crime. I don’t know if you know who I am, but I have powerful friends in high places, including the chief of police in New York. Including the head of Interpol. Including the ex-boss at the FBI. Now, follow protocol because from what I see, you’re not.”
The men look at each other like they know they've skipped protocol. My heart pounds as the agent's rifle through my clothes, unzip every pocket, and shake out each article of clothing in front of the other airline passengers. Gloved hands touch everything, tainting it all with suspicion.
I want to scream at them to stop, to leave my things alone - but I know that will only make me seem more guilty. So I stand by helplessly, my nails biting into my palms, as they systematically invade my privacy.
