Chapter 4 - Terminal Encounters
The cavernous arrival hall of Fiumicino Airport buzzed with the chaotic energy of international travelers, crying children, and frantic tour guides waving neon signs.
As we stepped off the jet bridge, Marcus Vance’s security detail moved into immediate formation. Miller flanked the senator's left side, clearing a seamless path through the dense crowd, while another burly operative named Vance—yes, an unfortunate coincidence of names—walked just behind me, shielding Maya and me from stray luggage carts and rushing businessmen.
Maya was awake now, rubbing her sleepy eyes with one hand while clutching her stuffed rabbit, Mr. Fluff, in the other. She peered up at the towering men in dark suits with wide, solemn eyes, instinctively pressing her small body closer to my hip.
"You're safe, sweet girl," I whispered, adjusting the strap of my heavy canvas bag over my shoulder. Leo was strapped securely into a lightweight designer car seat that Miller had miraculously materialized from first class, though the baby had fussed the moment I handed him back to his father, reaching his little arms out toward me until Marcus promised to walk right beside me.
As we neared the VIP customs exit, a flash of bright light cut through the dim terminal lighting.
"Senator Vance! Senator Vance over here! Is it true you're meeting with the Italian Prime Minister off the record?"
A photographer burst out from behind a concrete pillar, his motorized camera lens clicking furiously as a second reporter shoved a microphone toward Marcus’s face. Within seconds, the protective bubble around us fractured. Flashbulbs strobed like lightning, blinding in the sterile airport corridor.
Marcus didn't flinch. In a fraction of a second, his body shifted, using his broad frame to physically block the cameras from capturing Maya or me.
"No comment, Larson," Marcus barked, his voice carrying the full weight of political authority. "Turn the flash off or my security team will confiscate your equipment under international aviation security protocols."
The reporter hesitated, his eyes darting past Marcus’s shoulder to land squarely on me—a disheveled young woman in a faded jacket holding a sleepy toddler, flanked by America's most eligible and notoriously private political powerhouse.
"Who's the woman, Senator? Is this the rumored European delegation or a personal matter?" Larson pressed, taking a aggressive step forward.
Panic surged through my chest. If my face ended up splashed across US tabloids or digital news feeds, Richard would find us within forty-eight hours. He monitored the news religiously; he would recognize my jacket, my posture, the way I held Maya. My flight to freedom would turn into a trap.
Before I could turn and bolt toward the restrooms, Marcus moved with decisive speed. He reached back, his large hand firmly wrapping around my elbow, pulling me directly into the protective shelter of his side as he pushed forward.
"Step back, Larson," Miller growled, physically blocking the reporter's path with a heavy forearm while Vance the bodyguard ushered us through the automated glass doors toward the curb.
Waiting idling at the private VIP pickup lane was a sleek, matte-black Mercedes-Benz Maybach with tinted bulletproof windows and diplomatic plates. The driver, a sharp-suited man with an earpiece, popped the trunk and rear doors instantly.
May you like
"Get in," Marcus ordered, gently guiding Maya and me into the plush leather interior of the backseat before sliding in beside us. Leo was already being settled into a secure rear-facing car seat by his nanny, who had arrived on a separate diplomatic transport and met us at the tarmac.
The heavy doors thumped shut, sealing out the noise of the airport, the flashing lights, and the terrifying possibility of Richard’s world catching up to us.
