The Mafia Boss’s Flight

The massive Boeing 777 touched down on the rain-slicked runway of Fiumicino Airport with a heavy, shuddering roar, reversing its engines and sending plumes of misty spray slicing across the tarmac. Inside the cabin, the polite rustle of wealthy passengers gathering their designer luggage began, completely oblivious to the war zone waiting for them outside.

Clare hurried back to row nine, her heart pounding against her ribs like a sledgehammer. She found Maya just waking up, blinking sleepily and clutching her stuffed rabbit.

"Mommy? Are we in Italy?" Maya mumbled, rubbing her eyes.

"Almost, baby girl," Clare said, her voice breathless as she yanked Maya’s small backpack from the overhead bin and scooped the little girl into her arms. "We're going on a little adventure. Just hold onto Mommy's neck very tight, okay?"

"Okay," Maya whispered, burying her face in Clare’s shoulder.

Viktor was already waiting at the end of the aisle, his hand resting reassuringly near his jacket, his massive frame acting as a human shield against the curious stares of the first-class passengers.

"This way, Mrs. Jensen. Fast and quiet," Viktor instructed, leading them down the narrow service stairs toward the belly of the aircraft instead of the main boarding bridge.

The damp, chilly night air of Rome hit them the moment Viktor pushed open the emergency hydraulic hatch at the base of the plane. Below them, instead of the expected civilian shuttle bus, a sleek black matte Mercedes-Maybach idling with its high beams cut through the misty drizzle.

But surrounding the Maybach were three other vehicles — heavy, black Alfa Romeo SUVs with tinted windows and flashing blue lights that weren't police beacons, but private syndicate markers.

"Get in the back! Now!" Viktor barked, practically hoisting Clare and Maya through the open door of the Maybach.

Inside, the leather interior was pitch black, smelling of rich cigars and expensive cologne. Clare pulled Maya onto her lap, wrapping her arms around her daughter as Viktor slammed the heavy armored door shut, locking it from the outside.

Through the bulletproof tinted glass, Clare watched the horror unfold on the tarmac.

Dante Rossi emerged from the main aircraft stairs into the blinding glare of the floodlights. He carried little Leo tucked securely against his chest with one arm, his other hand free, resting casually near his waist.

Waiting at the foot of the stairs was an older man with silver hair slicked back, wearing a white trench coat and a sickeningly warm, grandfatherly smile. Flanking him were six men in identical dark suits, their hands resting ominously inside their coats.

"Ah, my dear nephew!" the silver-haired man called out over the roar of the idling jet engines, his voice carrying clearly across the wet concrete. "Welcome home to Rome! I see your trip to America was... productive."

Dante stopped three steps from the bottom of the ladder. He did not smile.

"Uncle Marco," Dante said, his voice carrying that lethal, arctic calm. "You shouldn't have braved the rain. You should be home counting your retirement fund."

Marco chuckled, stepping closer, though two of his armed guards immediately flanked him. "Family should always greet family at the gate, especially when an heir is involved. And especially when that heir's father has been playing fast and loose with our shipping routes in Chicago."

"The Chicago routes were audited and cleaned," Dante replied smoothly. "Just like the rat who was skimming from them."

Marco’s grandfatherly smile faltered for a fraction of a second. His eyes flicked toward the armored Maybach where Clare and Maya were sitting.

"Ah. And the American stray?" Marco purred, his eyes narrowing. "Did she nurse your boy, or did she nurse your ego, Dante? Either way, she’s a loose end. A civilian who knows too much about the Rossi family business."

Dante’s right hand moved with terrifying, blinding speed.

Before Marco’s guards could even twitch, Dante cleared his jacket, drawing a suppressed 9mm Walther pistol and snapping the barrel directly into the center of his uncle's forehead.