Hiding in plain sight

The walk was short and quiet, taking us only a few minutes to navigate the winding streets until we reached the familiar, weathered brick of Rob’s apartment building. Neither of us said much along the way, the silence between us thick with everything we weren't saying.

Once we reached his door, I reached into my jacket, pulled out my keyring, and used my key to let us in. The deadbolt slid back with a heavy, familiar click, and I pushed the door open, gesturing for him to go ahead of me.

Rob walked in, looking exhausted, his shoulders slumped as he glanced around the quiet living room. He ran a hand over his face and turned to me, his voice rough.

"I'm going to take a shower," he muttered, gesturing toward the back hallway.

"Take your time. I'll be right here," I said, nodding toward the bathroom.

As soon as the bathroom door clicked shut and the low, steady hiss of the shower began to echo through the apartment, I pulled out my phone. I needed someone reliable, and I needed them fast. I pulled up my contact list and found Vic’s contact.

Me: I have a job for you.

My phone buzzed almost immediately. Vic was never one to keep me waiting when I texted.

Vic: What kind of job?

Me: Babysitting, in a way. I need you to watch Rob and keep an eye on him until I can get some things done. I have some business to take care of, and I can't leave him unsupervised.

There was a brief pause, the little typing bubbles appearing and disappearing on my screen before his reply finally came through.

Vic: I can do that. What’s the address?

Me: The old brick apartment building near the National Museum of Capodimonte; top floor. Get here as fast as you can.

Vic: On my way.

I locked my phone and slipped it back into my pocket, listening to the drum of the shower down the hall. A few minutes later the shower stopped, and a few minutes after that, Rob popped out of his bedroom dressed in sweats.

“Where do we go from here?” he asked.

“Vic is going to stay with you for a bit,” I explained. “I went into Rome as Marie Alexandrovna Romanov and my Italian passport under Bianca Rossi was flagged when I bailed you out. I need to go into hiding for a bit.”

“Who is Vic?” he asked.

“Someone that I trust completely,” I said as I sighed. “Not only do I need to do something with my hair, but I need to do something about my face. A few tweaks.”

“A few tweaks?” he asked.

“Yes, a few tweaks,” I said. “Not enough to change my appearance but enough for when people I’ve come across recently don’t fully recognize me.”

“How many times have you had to do this?”

“More than I’d like to admit,” I said. “You’ve never noticed these tweaks because you’re so familiar with my face that you just don’t see it.”

“Such as?”

“My nose, lips and hairline,” I said. "And my tits."

Rob stared at me, studying my features for a quiet moment, before shaking his head.

"Honestly, I haven't noticed," he said.

"That's because it's been several years since we last saw each other," I mentioned. "Plus, for knowing someone as long as we've known each other, you wouldn't notice anyway. You just look at me and see me, not the details."

Before he could respond, a sharp knock sounded at the door.

I went to the door, unlocked it, and let Vic into the apartment.

"Hey," Vic said softly, a slight smile on his face.

Vic immediately leaned in to kiss me, but I stepped back, avoiding the gesture.

"Don't," I murmured, cutting my eyes toward the living room. "Not right now."

Vic cleared his throat, adjusting his jacket as he took in the room. "Right. Understood."

I closed the door behind Vic, then introduced my former lover to my dearest childhood friend.

"Vic, Rob," I said, gesturing between them. "Rob, Vic."

"Nice to meet you," Vic said, holding out a hand.

"Yeah," Rob replied flatly, reaching out to meet his grip. "Likewise."

They shook hands as they eyed each other warily.

I left them in the living room and went into the kitchen—which Thomas had stocked after I left his office—to grab us all a beer.

As I grabbed the bottles and started back, their voices carried clearly from the living room. I paused just outside the doorway.

"Honestly, she's the best I've ever had," Vic was saying, his voice low. "Just absolutely amazing."

"Tell me about it," Rob replied. "And so fucking tight."

"Like a fucking glove, man," Vic agreed.

I interrupted their conversation as I realized what they were talking about by stepping back into the room, holding the beers. I greeted them as if I didn’t hear them talk about me like that. I wanted to be embarrassed about the amount of men I’ve fucked as well as making a bad habit of introducing them but I wasn’t.

“Who am I babysitting? You?” Vic asked. “What information can you share with me?”

“You’re babysitting Rob. Vic, what you need to know, is going to be super limited as it’s a need to know,” I began. “Rob and I are both the head of the Mazarella Clan. He is the boss on paper due to the money that he and his biological family has. I am the brains of the clan. Rob had helped me get into working for different governments and different entities – which is how I’ve accumulated my wealth.”

“Oh, wow,” Vic said.

“Due to people knowing that I’m here, I have to go undercover a bit,” I said. “I came here as one person but that wasn’t a smart idea but my other identity here has been flagged when I bailed him out. I need to take care of a few things and get a new identity.”

“What will that entail, amore?” he asked.

“It’s one of those the less you know the better just in case the police connect you to Rob and I,” I said. “But you need to be here for a week or so. Thomas, Rob’s brother, will swing by where you’re staying to grab some clothes for you.”

“Ok,” Vic said. “How will I reach out to you?”

“You won’t,” I said. “For anything and everything you need, just reach out to Thomas and he’ll take care of it. And to answer your next question, after this, you won’t see me for a long time.”

“Why the fuck not?” Vic asked.

“It’s more for your safety and to give us space as a precautionary measure,” I explained. “Now that Rob is out of jail, he’s under extreme scrutiny. You are to follow him like you knew that I’d be here in Naples. He can’t have any contact with any person in the alleged crime family. If anyone wants to contact him, they will have to go through Thomas the first time. From then on, you will relay the messages. As for my return and your departure, only Thomas will know when I’ll be on my way back here. You will be given about twenty five minutes heads up to gather your things and leave before I arrive.”

“That’s a little harsh, Deppgrl,” he sighed.

“I know it is and that was my intention,” I said.

“What about everything that’s happened between us?”

“That’s now history, Papi,” I said. “You and I won’t see each other for a long time.”

He nodded. I headed to the guest room where I had my stuff put. When I rejoined my former lover and my dear friend, I looked at them both for a long moment.

“I’ll see you in about a week, amico,” I said to Rob then I turned to Vic. “I’ll see you in a few years, Papa.”

I then let myself out of the apartment and headed to the hospital of plastic surgery by foot. On my way there, I pulled out my phone and texted Thomas.

Me: It's time to get rid of my car.

A moment later, my phone buzzed with his reply.

Thomas: Consider it done. I'll take care of it right away.

When I received confirmation from him that he’d take care of my car, I knew that it was the right thing to do. Before even choosing this hospital, I had a background check on everyone. The staff may or may not know my true identity but they all had to sign an NDA before seeing each client; especially with me. It wouldn’t just prevent a leak but it was a big deterrent as Italy….not only would lawsuits happen but each person would lose their licensure in their specialty, have high fines and prison time for a minimum of three and a half years.

Thankfully, it was only a ten minute walk to the hospital of plastic surgery. I walked through the glass doors and approached the front desk.

"Good afternoon, signora," the receptionist greeted me with a polite, professional smile. "Do you have an appointment?"

"Yes, under Larissa Barlowe," I replied, keeping my voice soft and adopting a slight French-Canadian accent. "I have a private room booked as well."

"Ah, yes. Madame Barlowe," the receptionist said, checking her screen. "Welcome. Before we take you up to your suite, we just need you to approve the NDA that you sent over for us to sign."

“Why wasn’t this signed when I sent it over? How do I know that you nor your staff haven’t gone around saying that I’d be here?” I was livid. “There was a reason why I sent it over prior to my arrival – my attorney and I went over this several times. Of course I approved it before it was sent over.”

“My apologies,” the woman said. “I’ll call everyone on staff to sign their copies now.”

“Even the ones who have a day off today?” I asked without hesitation.

“Yes,” she said nervously.

“I sent this a week ago and this should’ve been taken care of prior to now. Because of your lack of concern of my safety, my confidence in you and the staff has significantly decreased. I don’t trust anyone now.”

“I’ll gladly call other plastic surgery hospitals for you,” she said.

“No. Call your staff and tell them it’s an emergency that they get here to sign this NDA. This is now going to take longer than it should be. Since you failed at your job as the manager, I will now have to call your employer.”

She paled then started calling the staff who had days off and paging the staff working to come immediately to reception. I called Sera as she is the owner of this particular plastic surgery hospital. Let me tell you….Sera was NOT thrilled to hear this. I pulled out my phone to make the call.

“Hi, this is Larissa Barlowe. Is this Seraphina?” I said when I called my former lover.

“Yes, it is,” Sera said confused as all hell. “How can I help you?”

“I’m calling from your plastic surgery hospital in Naples. I’d scheduled to be here for a week as of today and sent over an NDA for the staff to sign about a week ago however, not only is it not signed, your receptionist slash manager will now delay my schedule by who knows how long because she’s now getting everyone to sign the NDA due to her assumption that I didn’t pre-approve the NDA with my attorney prior to sending it over. I wouldn’t have sent it over if I hadn’t approved it.”

“Marie, I am so sorry,” Sera said. “I’ll call her now and give her shit. You know what? I’ll call her and tell her that this is her last day.”

“Thank you, Sera,” I said.

We hung up and seconds later, the receptionist’s phone rang and when she saw who was calling, she blanched. She answered her phone and stepped away from the counter to take the call. A few minutes later, she came back and was crying. She profusely apologized to me and told me that she was fired due to this.

“Had you done your job, this wouldn’t have happened. You still need to sign your NDA as you’re still here until the end of business today,” I said coldly.

“Yes, ma’am,” she said.

She signed her NDA and thanks to the call I made to Sera, the entire staff – even the ones who had a day off – all rushed to sign it. Once completed, security came by to escort the receptionist off the premises after she gathered her things.

Once the paperwork was settled, a nurse stepped forward to guide me.

"Right this way, please," the nurse said, opening the door to a hallway and led me to my room that I chose. "Whenever you are ready, the salon is just down the corridor."

"Thank you," I said.

I changed into the comfortable clothing and made my way down to their salon. My hair had grown so much since Russia and Paulina  – it was way past my shoulders again – and the black dye was fading. It would take several sessions to get my hair back to my normal hair color and thought it would be best to get started now and then as I was healing, continue coming here to get my hair to where I wanted it to be.

I sat in a salon chair, and the stylist smiled as she combed through a section of my hair.

"Welcome! I am Sofia," the stylist said. "What are we looking for today, Miss Barlowe?"

"I want to go to either red or a strawberry blonde," I explained, meeting her eyes in the mirror. "But I trust your judgment with color."

"Oh, red!" Sofia said, her eyes lighting up. "Trust me, I will turn you into the most fabulous redhead that you've ever meet."

I laughed and leaned back in the chair. "Go ahead. You can do whatever you want to my hair."

With a big grin on her face, she began sectioning my hair. "Excellent. Not only will you be a fabulous redhead, but I think we must do a sleek bob. Something about three inches above your shoulders."

"Have at it," I told her, nodding. "But I understand that it could take a few sessions to lift this dark dye."

"Grazie! Thank you for understanding," she replied warmly.

She wet my hair, grabbed a comb, and got to working on my knotty hair. Within a few minutes, the knots were gone.

"Now, for the magic," Sofia murmured as she lifted her shears and started snipping away.

Twenty minutes later, my haircut was perfect.

Sofia stepped back, looking at her work with approval. "Perfect. Now, I will go to the back to mix some things together in order to at least bleach your hair somewhat. I will be right back."

Once she left, I looked at my reflection in the mirror, speaking quietly to the empty room. I desperately wanted to be at my apartment in Naples... but this is best for my safety. I shook my head and sighed. Charlie was right. I came here too boldly and wasn't discreet because it was personal. If this had been business, I would've been in and out of Italy without any fuss.

While waiting for Sofia, I pulled out my phone and pulled up Thomas’s contact information and started typing a text to him.

Me: I made it to the plastic surgery hospital ok. The NDA was signed, though there was a small hiccup but Sera took care of it.

I followed with another text immediately after.

Me: Make sure Vic is kept on a short leash. He is not allowed to find me at all. If he does, it risks everything it took to get Rob out.

My phone buzzed almost instantly as Thomas replied.

Thomas: I am happy to hear you are taking care of your appearances—both pun intended and unintended. Don't worry, I will make sure Lover Boy stays out of trouble.

“I’m back, Miss Harlowe,” Sofia said as she came back with a bowl and a few brushes. “I’m sorry for the delay.”

“You can call me Larissa, Sofia,” I said. “Don’t worry about it as I had to reply to a few texts. Depending on how this goes, do you think that we can continue in two days?

“Thanks, Larissa. I appreciate that,” she said. “I don’t see why not. What’s on your schedule tomorrow?”

“Eye and breast lift, minor lip fillers, tummy tuck,” I said. “Depending on how everything works with my hair – which I’m sure it will – I doubt I’ll have my hairline touched up.”

“That’s a ton of work to be done in one day,” she replied. “What’s the rush?”

“It is but when I leave at the end of the week, I don’t want much bruising to show,” I said. “Plus, everything is just a tweak, not a full surgery.”

“Oh, that makes sense,” she said.

“The rush is that I’m a bit vain about my appearances and when I show my face to the rest of the city at the end of the week, I want minimal bruising as people would know.”

Sofia nodded and got to work with whatever concoction she made in her mixing bowl. Within thirty five minutes, she put whatever goop she made in my hair, made small sections and put foils in my hair. I then went under a dryer to activate the process. I fell asleep under the dryer as I was exhausted from fucking Charlie, Thomas and Rob. I’m not sure how much time had passed when Sofia woke me up.

“Alrighty, let’s get you to the bowl for a wash,” she said as she took the dryer hood thing away from my head.

I followed her and sat down. She and another stylist took the foils off of my hair then I slid down in the seat so my hair could be washed. It didn’t take her long to wash my hair twice and condition my hair three times with different conditioners. We went back to her station for her to dry and examine my hair. Not even five minutes later, my hair was dried, styled and Sofia was examining my hair.

“Your hair looks great and I think we should plan for two days from now,” Sofia said as she ran her fingers through my hair. “Before we start though, I’ll check your hair again to see if it’s still healthy feeling and looking. Does that sound ok?”

“Sounds great,” I said as I got out of her chair. “Thanks so much, Sofia. See ya in two days.”

I left and headed to the dining hall of the hospital to grab dinner.

The road to Naples

The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife. Charlie stood by the window, his expression grim as he turned to face me.

"They’ve got him in Naples," Charlie said, his voice dropping to a low tone.

The words hit me like a physical blow. Naples. Before I could even process the shock, the fear, or the sheer adrenaline coursing through my veins, something inside both of us snapped. The danger and the sudden urgency translated instantly into raw, desperate heat. We locked eyes, and without a word, we lunged at each other.

"Charlie," I gasped against his mouth as our lips crashed together.

Our hands flew wildly, grabbing fabric, tearing seams, and ripping our clothes off in a frantic frenzy. Within a matter of mere minutes, the garments were scattered across the floor like autumn leaves. Charlie grabbed me, his grip firm and commanding, and threw me onto my back on my bed. He parted my thighs, stretching my legs wide to fully expose my pussy to him.

"You're so ready for me," he growled, looking down at me.

"Don't make me wait," I said, arching my back.

Without another second of delay, Charlie mounted my waiting pussy with his fat dick. He plunged inside me, bottoming out instantly. He rode me hard and fast, the bed creaking violently against the wall. For hours, the world outside ceased to exist. There was only the sound of our heavy breathing, the slap of our skin colliding, and the relentless, driving rhythm of his thrusts. He worked himself into a frenzy, pumping me completely full of his hot, thick cum before finally collapsing against me.

But we weren't done. Over the next few days, the migration began from my apartment building. Rumors had been circulating about structural integrity, and one by one, the residents of the building began packing up and leaving their apartments to where they were told that they would have fully furnished apartments in a new building closer to the center of Rome. As each unit emptied, we found ourselves drawn to the vacated spaces, turning the entire building into our private playground.

We entered into the abandoned rooms, carrying nothing but our insatiable desire. We moved from one apartment to the next, fucking in every empty space we entered.

"Look at this place," Charlie whispered, nudging open the door to a vacant third-floor unit. "No one's here to stop us."

"Show me," I whispered back, pulling him inside.

Charlie fucked me well in apartment. There wasn't an available space in any of those apartments that we didn't claim. I was pressed and fucked hard against cold kitchen walls, bent over marble counters, sprawled across fabric couches, and pinned down on the bare hardwood floors.

Eventually, we returned to my own apartment. I glanced at the calendar and then at my watch, realizing the clock was ticking down.

"I only have about thirty hours left on my lease," I told Charlie, wrapping my arms around his neck.

"Neither do I," he said, though his body was visibly exhausted from the days of non-stop fucking. "But I don't know if I can keep up."

"I have a solution for that,” I told him.

We showered, put on our pajamas and went to bed for the next twelve hours

After sleeping, we woke up and ordered take out. I let Charlie be in charge of that as I’d order something he can’t eat as he’s a vegetarian. As we waited, we cleaned up my apartment though there was no need to. When the food eventually arrived, we ate in silence.

I decided to do my laundry before leaving so that way, I’d have clean clothes when arriving in Naples. Once my laundry was done, folded and packed. Before we parted ways and headed our separate directions, Charlie looked at me with a lingering hunger.

"Just one more," he whispered, pulling me close.

"One more," I agreed.

We fucked once more, a passionate, urgent goodbye that left us both breathless. Then, I finally got into my car that I stored off site and began the drive toward Naples.

As I was an hour away from the center of Naples, driving down the highway with the radio playing softly, when a breaking news bulletin interrupted the music. The announcer’s voice was urgent. The apartment building I had just vacated had suffered a catastrophic structural failure and collapsed. I knew that it was purposely being knocked down but I still had a shiver go down my spine then I focused on the road and pushed the pedal down. My priority was Rob.

Upon arriving near Naples, I immediately got in touch with Rob’s brother, Thomas. He told me to meet him at his office. When I arrived, Thomas greeted me warmly and gladly accepted me into his workplace, ushering me quickly past the main lobby.

"It's good to see you," Thomas said, his eyes scanning my face, then slowly traveling down my body. "You look incredible."

"I've missed you, Thomas," I said, the tension of the drive as the familiar spike of desire went between us.

Before he could even lock the office door behind us, my hands were already reaching for his trousers, finding the outline of his massive dick. I pulled it free, marveling at his size. Thomas groaned, locking the deadbolt with a swift click. Seconds later, he grabbed my hips and bent me over his desk. I reached back to bunch my skirt up around my waist, exposing my pussy.

Thomas didn't hesitate. He aligned himself and drove himself deep inside me. The sensation of his thick dick entering my already sensitive pussy was overwhelming. He came instantly, his entire body shuddering as he released his first load inside me.

But he didn't stop. He pulled out for just a second, letting me catch my breath, and then pushed his dick right back into my wet pussy. He fucked me like this for about an hour, his endurance staggering as he repeatedly came inside me, filling me to the brim.

Finally, he pulled out, breathing heavily, and sat down in his leather office chair to recuperate. I wasn't finished. I walked over to him, straddled his lap, and guided his ginormous dick back inside me. I rode him with a slow, deliberate rhythm, shifting my weight and tilting my hips until he was completely drained of his cum.

Satiated and dripping, I finally climbed off of him, smoothing down my skirt.

"Where is Rob?" I asked, my voice returning to business.

Thomas leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. "He’s being held in the basement of the police department."

I nodded, adjusting my purse on my shoulder. "Alright. I'm going to send my bags over to my apartment first, and then I'm heading straight to the police station."

Thomas stood up, grabbing his keys. "I’ll go with you. It might be safer."

I shook my head, declining his offer. "No, thank you, Thomas. I should handle this alone."

Leaving his office, I made the quick trip to the police department by foot as I texted the administration office of my apartment building asking them to send someone to grab my car and my bags. Within a few minutes, I was walking through the front doors of the police department. Because of my connections and the urgency of the situation, I bypassed through the usual red tape and immediately escorted down into the secure basement level, right to Rob's holding cell.

The guards unlocked the heavy metal door, letting Rob out. They directed us into a private, windowless room nearby, typically reserved for attorneys and their clients to consult in private.

As soon as the heavy door clicked shut behind us, I reached over and turned the lock, securing our privacy.

Rob, who had been looking at the floor in exhaustion, looked up. His eyes widened as he finally realized it was me standing there in the dim light.

"Thank fuck!" Rob gasped, his voice cracking with emotion. He rushed toward me, wrapping his arms tight around my waist. "Not only do I need to get out of here, but I’m in desperate need of a good fuck!"

"Then let's not waste time," I whispered.

We quickly stripped off our clothes, letting them fall in a heap on the floor. I walked over to the sturdy consultation table, leaned forward, and spread my legs wide. Rob came up behind me, his hands gripping my hips as he mounted my sensitive pussy.

The friction was intense, but the pleasure was overwhelming. As he fucked me, his thrusts deep and desperate, he couldn't stop filling me with his cum, pouring himself into me again and again. We moved together in the quiet room for about forty minutes before he finally delivered his final thrust and pulled out.

We stood there, catch our breath, and quickly dressed ourselves before the guards could be bothered to check in on us.

Rob tucked in his shirt, looking at me with a mix of relief and curiosity. "What took you so long to get to me?" he asked. “I’ve been here for just over a year.”

I looked at him gently, wanting him to understand the chaos of my life.

"When you were first arrested, I was in so deep with my own work that I didn't hear anything about those I care about,” I explained.  “I didn’t hear about your arrest until recently. From there, it's been a whirlwind. I've been working all over the world with different governments and other entities.”

“I sent word through so many contacts!” he said sounding exasperated.

“Many of our contacts didn’t know where I was nor what name I was using at any given time,” I said. “Trying to save the world as a person working alone all while trying to stay alive with limited resources.”

“I understand,” he said.

“We’ll talk as we walk,” I sighed as I pounded on the door to alert the guards.

We were let out of the room, Rob was brought to his cell and I headed to the office to pay his bail. Rob was well aware that he may have to wait for me to get to him and I understand his frustration – I had also been held without bail many times prior when working for different governments and entities. As I was paying, I realized that his bail was rather excessive and though I could pay it, I had to say something.

“Excuse me,” I said as I pulled out my Italian passport to show identification and slid it across the counter. “His bail seems rather excessive.”

“Perdon, ma’am,” the clerk said sounding as confused as I was as he was looking at my passport and Rob’s bail. “Yes, I see it. You are correct. It was submitted incorrectly. Let me go grab my supervisor to override this for you.”

Within a matter of ninety seconds, the clerk and his supervisor came back. After a minute or two to finagle the documentation of the bail, they were able to correct the amount. I thanked them for their time and efforts. I paid Rob’s bail and waited for him outside near the prisoner exit. I didn’t have to wait long and Rob exited the building.

“That was super quick, Marie!” he said.

“For now, I’m Bianca Rossi,” I whispered as we headed to his apartment a few blocks over. Rob nodded.

Shadows of the city center

I had spent the entire night prowling the shadows of the city center, talking to the unhoused, the forgotten, and the desperate. Every time a jagged voice offered a scrap of information—no matter how useless it seemed—I reached into my pocket and paid them in crumpled euros. My hands were stained with the city and the euros, and my mind was heavy. I’d spoken to so many of the unhoused that I’d almost lost my voice.

"I’m looking for Mazzarella," I snapped, the exhaustion finally starting to grate on my nerves as I asked the last unhoused person I saw. "Just tell me if you've seen his relatives or know where he’s being held."

"You're looking for a ghost, signorina. No one here has seen him or his family in a while,” one old man had wheezed as he tucked a twenty-euro note into his rags. “Thanks for the money.”

Despite the all-nighter and the large fortune I’d handed out, I wasn't a single step closer to finding where Rob was being held. The trail was ice-cold. The neon lights of the historic center flickered and died as dawn threatened the horizon. As the first grey streaks of sunlight began to bleed into the sky, illuminating the ancient cobblestones, I decided to give up for the morning and head back to my apartment.

I was halfway back toward the outskirts, my boots echoing hollowly against the stone and gravel, when a voice sliced through the morning mist.

"Marie!"

I froze. Not just any name. My real name. In this world of aliases and shadows, it was a sound that made my heart skip. I spun around, hand instinctively hovering near my IDs, only to find a familiar, rugged face watching me.

It was Charlie. He was one of my best friends here in Italy—the only person who truly knew the woman behind the mission.

"You look like hell," he said softly, walking toward me.

"I've been working," I replied, a tired smile finally breaking through. I looked at him, feeling the sudden, sharp ache of loneliness. "Come back to my apartment with me."

Charlie didn’t hesitate. He simply nodded, falling into step beside me as we navigated the long trek away from the heart of the city. We walked in a companionable silence, the kind only earned through years of shared secrets and close calls. The city was beginning to groan back to life behind us; the scent of espressos faded, replaced by the industrial, damp smell of the Roman outskirts.

My apartment was tucked away in a building that seemed to lean against its neighbors for support, a third-floor walk-up with a heavy wooden door that groaned on its hinges. As I fumbled with the iron key, my hands shook—just a fraction—but enough for Charlie to notice. He didn’t reach out to take the keys from me; he knew better than to bruise my pride. He just stood there, a steady, silent anchor in the fading grey light.

Inside, the air was cool and smelled of the lemon oil I used to keep the dust at bay. I didn't turn on the lights, letting the dim morning seep through the thin curtains. I dropped my jacket on the sofa, the weight of the night finally, fully settling into my bones.

“How did you know where I was?” I asked Charlie.

“A few of the unhoused called Rob’s family to let them know someone that they didn’t recognize was looking for him,” he said. “It didn’t take too much digging for me to find that it was you looking for him.”

I looked at him before I asked.

“Do you know where he is?” 

Charlie walked over to the small kitchen, put the teapot under the tap, filled it up and started the burner then placed the teapot on the burner. The blue flame hissed to life, a small, violent spark in the dim room.

"I do know but you need to promise me that you’ll stop doing this covert work. When it comes to you doing it professionally, you’re amazing and no one can figure out who’s who but now that it’s personal, you’re off your game."

I closed my eyes and sighed. The kettle whistled as Charlie was digging around for tea bags….the noise was bothersome so I got up and took the kettle off the stove and turned the burner off.

“I promise,” I sighed.

“Do you really promise, amica?” Charlie asked.

“Yeah,” I said.

The Camorra connection explained

Robert Mazarella was allegedly involved in aggravated homicide, is allegedly the head of the “Mazarella Clan” and allegedly on the run prior to his arrest – which took place in April 2025. That is the story the authorities in Rome have pieced together, the one they will tell the judges and the press. It’s a clean narrative, easy for the public to swallow.

The truth is much quieter. I sat in my apartment, looking out over the Roman skyline as the sun dipped behind the ancient domes, thinking about how easily people are fooled by a loud voice and a heavy hand.

I’ve known Rob since I was seven years old and he was far from the mastermind of the Camorra family. We grew up in the shadow of the same stone walls, but while he was busy proving he could throw the hardest punch, I was learning how to count the money. He was the muscles; I was the brain. He was always the one craving the spotlight, the one who wanted his name whispered in the cafes along the Via Veneto.

I remember the night I sat him down to explain how the world was going to work. We were in the kitchen of his apartment, the city lights flickering like dying embers outside and not even twenty years old. The air smelled of expensive espresso and the damp scent of a Roman evening.

"They're looking for a leader, Rob," I had told him, sliding a glass of whiskey toward him. I watched the way his eyes lit up at the word 'leader.'

"And they'll find one," he said, always eager for the spotlight. "I'm ready. I’ve earned it."

I looked at him, seeing the boy who used to hide behind my father’s garden gates whenever the sirens got too close. In reality, the head of the Camorra family was me but because the Italian mafia wouldn’t let a woman be in charge, we needed a puppet who enjoyed the strings.

"It’s not about being ready for the glory," I said, my voice dropping. "It’s about being ready for the cage. If a name gets shouted in court, it won't be mine."

He paused, the glass halfway to his lips, a flicker of something crossing his face before his vanity smothered it. "You're the one with the ideas. You're the one who they’ll fear."

"They fear what they can see, and they won't see me." My father’s name is a ghost that follows me through these streets, but the old men in the dark rooms—the ones who make the rules—they won’t bow to a woman. They need a chin they can look at. They need a target. Due to my bloodline that I was aware of at such a young age, I couldn’t risk being the head of a crime family.  "They need you, Rob."

I watched him weigh the cost against the vanity. I knew which one would win. It always did with him. I elected Rob to be the one on paper to be the head of the family.

"Sign the ledgers, Rob," I commanded, pushing the documents across the marble counter. "Take the meetings. Wear the suits. I’ll do the rest."

"And if things go south?" he asked, his voice cracking just slightly.

"Then you play the part you were born for," I replied. “I’ll always get you out of prison. I don’t how I’ll do it but I will.”

He nodded his head in appreciation

Now, reflecting on his arrest in the quiet of my home, the plan has reached its natural conclusion. In the eyes of Rome, he is the monster. To me, he is just a childhood memory that served its purpose. It’s now time to get him out of prison. I couldn’t play the lives that I’d been living; Deppgirl Smith, Laura Beck, Maria Rizzoli and all the others I’ve had over the years. It was time that Italy and the rest of the world knew who I am….Marie Alexandrovna Romanov. It was political suicide and I knew it. My Romanov relatives will either accept me or disown me but I will be fine either way…I had my ways of going into hiding. If this plan failed, I would go so deep into hiding, even Sera couldn’t find me.

I picked up my phone and texted her.

“Sera, I am going to get Rob out of prison but I am going as Marie Romanov. I’m hoping it goes well but if it goes poorly, you won’t be able to find me for years to come. Let Bob know what’s going on and let him know that I love him – I’ll get to him when I’m safe. I’ve loved you the moment we met for the first time, Sera, and I haven’t stopped.”

I turned my phone off, got dressed and went to the alleys where the homeless lived and spent their days. I knew that this was the best way I could get information on where Rob was being imprisoned.

The Camorra Connection

The sun had already begun its languid descent behind the terracotta rooftops of Rome by the time I finally dragged myself awake. I had slept for the better part of the day—a heavy, dreamless slumber that left me feeling more leaden than rested. As I sat up, the sheets felt damp against my skin. Even with the shutters drawn tight, the Roman heat had permeated the room, and I remained coated in a fine sheen of sweat—a visceral reminder of last night and the excesses that had likely seeped out of my pores while I was dead to the world.

"Enough of that," I muttered to the empty, high-ceilinged room.

I shuffled to the bathroom and took another shower, letting the water run as cold as I could endure. The chill helped snap the lingering fog from my brain. I moved through the motions of a second morning with a clinical sort of slowness. I dried off thoroughly, the towel feeling coarse against my skin, and brushed my teeth until the minty sting finally replaced the stale residue of last night's indulgence. After pulling on a fresh set of clothes that felt crisp and clean, I finally felt like a functional human being again.

An insistent, hollow ache settled in my stomach—a blunt demand for food that I couldn't ignore. I required something to ground me, yet the prospect of a decadent carbonara or a rich ragu felt entirely too taxing for my current state. I pulled up a delivery app on my phone, scrolling past dozens of local trattorias and pizzerias. My thumb hovered over a place called Great Wall Express.

"I know, I know," I whispered, glancing toward the window as if the city itself could sense my betrayal. "I’m in Rome. I should be seeking out the finest pasta in the world."

But the heart—and the hangover—demanded its own particular salvation. Italian food simply held no appeal after a night out. I needed salt, soy sauce, and the familiar, unpretentious comfort of a cardboard oyster pail. I placed the order and waited.

Twenty minutes later, the buzzer rang. I headed down to the street level to meet the driver. A young man on a Vespa, wearing a bright yellow thermal backpack, pulled up to the curb.

"Buonasera! Ordine per...?" he asked, checking the receipt before looking at me and then spoke in English. "Good evening! Order for...?"

"For me," I said, stepping forward.

He handed over the bag, the aroma of ginger and fried rice immediately wafting through the steam. He paused, looking at the restaurant's logo and then up at the ancient architecture surrounding us. He gave a small, amused huff.

"Cinese? A Roma?" he asked, his eyebrows arching in playful judgment. "Chinese? In Rome?"

I offered a sheepish shrug, clutching the warm bag to my chest. "I know. It's a crime, right?"

"Per me? No. Ma il mio nonno? Lui ti butterebbe nel Tevere. Buon appetito,” he said with a smile. "For me? No. But my grandfather? He would throw you in the Tiber. Enjoy your meal!"

"Grazie," I called out as he sped off into the Roman twilight.

I headed back up to my apartment, the weight of the greasy bag feeling like a hard-won victory. I sat by the window, watching the golden hour light hit the cobblestones below, and dug into the lo mein and fried rice. I thoroughly enjoyed every bite, following it up with the fried dumplings, the crisp crunch of several egg rolls, and the savory sweetness of the sesame chicken.

It wasn't Italian, but it was exactly the grounding I needed. As the salt and grease began to settle my nerves, my thoughts drifted to the reason I was here alone. I had escaped my brother, though I knew the reprieve was only temporary. He would eventually find it in himself to forgive me, but I knew that he was hurt; the sting of my departure would be sharp once Santi and Marlon broke the news that I was gone.

After cleaning up the remnants of dinner, I poured myself a large glass of water. As much as I’d enjoyed the cold sodas with the meal, they wouldn’t do much to hydrate a body that had spent the last twenty-four hours dancing, partying, and sleeping through most of the day.

I picked up my phone and sent a quick text to Sera. Landed yesterday but you already knew that. I’m safe. Tell Vic I don't need a babysitter.

Her reply arrived almost instantly, written in her typical, blunt shorthand. Safe is a reach. You have a documented history of chaos and mayhem within forty-eight hours of touchdown. Stay low. No stunts like the ones you pulled in Corfu a year ago.

I knew she just wanted me safe, especially now that I had finally left Russia and the shadow of government work behind. I laughed quietly to myself and typed out a response. Italy is different.

I know it is, she shot back. It’s your connection to the Camorra family by blood. You can’t pick them and the government, friend. It’s one or the other.

Agreed, Sera, I messaged. That’s why I’m here and why I tossed the tracker you put in my stuff. I came here quietly for that reason….I need to end my work with the government here so I can help my family.

Why are you trying to kill me? she replied. I could care less about the damn tracker but I was hoping you’d stick with the government.

No, I’m not trying to kill you, I wrote. Your heart is in your throat because you’re too close to me on this. It’s why I got rid of the tracker and why I sent Vic away. I love you and I don’t want you to get hurt.

Vic can protect you while you’re there, she insisted.

Not while I’m dealing with my family. They don’t take well to outsiders.

But they could hurt you.

They won’t risk hurting me, Sera.

How do you know this?

They know who I am. They won’t risk hurting royalty….or extended members of royalty.

The response was immediate, sharp with the reality of our past. "You know better than anyone that the throne is gone, Marie. Survival doesn't make you a princess anymore."

I’m well aware of that, I typed, staring out at the Roman twilight. Russia is in a dictatorship and Italy isn’t. Look, I need to go. I need to spend another night making some connections before I see my family tomorrow.

Ok, be safe.

Thanks, I will.

I tossed the phone onto the bed. It was time to start working on the plan. Last night hadn't just been about the partying; I had managed to copy Mario’s phone and the phones of his friends as they moved through the crowd near me. The data was already beginning to paint a map of their movements. I decided that the best way to move tonight was to blend in with the unhoused population I had passed earlier.

I chugged more water to head off a brewing headache, then went to my bedroom to get dressed. I raided my closet and found well-worn clothes that had a few rips and just enough grime to pass inspection. I stripped out of my sweats and started layering the worn clothes, pulling on the heavy boots I’d been breaking in lately. In the bathroom, I added gel to my hair and tied it back into a tight, severe low ponytail.

I grabbed my phone, my Italian passport, and my Italian driver's license. When in Italy, I’d rather be a ghost of who I really am. Sure, I was born and raised here for most of my life and connected to the Camorra family in more than one way. You could say that they were family in two different ways. I was related to Robert Mazzarella by blood and I was raised in the lifestyle.

I’m sure you’re wondering who Robert Mazzarella is and I can tell you what he’s allegedly known for but not right now.

A night out

I couldn’t believe that Vic was here in Italy—and at the airport, of all places, to pick me up. He looked entirely out of step with the hurried travelers and the stern airport security, leaning against a sleek sedan with that same effortless, irritating confidence he carried everywhere. It was a confidence that felt like a physical weight in the air, anchoring him while everyone else was in a frantic rush to be somewhere else. He was still a sexy motherfucker no matter what country he was in and no matter what language he spoke, and the worst part was that he knew it.

"Close your mouth, La Duquesa. You’ll catch a Vespa," Vic said, a crooked smirk playing on his lips as he pushed off the car. He didn't move with any urgency; he moved like he owned the very pavement he stood on, each step measured and deliberate.

"What are you doing here?" I finally choked out. My brain was still trying to process the logistics of him crossing borders this quickly, or why he’d even bother. "Last time I saw you, I told you to go home to your wife and that I wanted nothing more to do with you.”

He took a step toward me, the shadow of his sunglasses hiding his eyes, though I could feel the intensity of his gaze right through the dark lenses. "Change of plans, darling. Before you say anything else, let me explain why I’m here.”

“I don’t want to know nor do I care to know,” I snapped, turning away as I adjusted the heavy strap of my duffle bag. My eyes were already scanning the line of vehicles for a sign of escape, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I was ready to whistle for a cab and disappear into the winding, ancient streets of the city before he could utter another syllable.

“Sera knew I was in France for the nude beaches," he said with a half-smile that didn't reach his eyes. "She’d been tracking your flight path after you told her your flight plan. Apparently, she didn’t trust you to navigate the arrivals terminal without starting an international incident. Again."

I just glared at him, my blood beginning to simmer. "Sera needs to mind her own business and stay out of my GPS."

Determined to end this, I stuck two fingers in my mouth and whistled loudly. The sharp, piercing sound cut through the cacophony of shouting travelers, the roar of departing planes, and the low, rhythmic thrum of idling engines. A sedan acting as a private hire began to peel away from the curb down from us and came toward me.

"She texted me," he said, unfazed by my dismissal. "She told me to go to Italy and make sure that you behave for the next forty-eight hours. She seems to think you’re a magnet for trouble the second you step off a plane."

I scoffed, smoothing my clothes as the sedan pulled to a stop. "I am perfectly capable of staying out of trouble for two days. And since when does Sera coordinate with you of all people?"

To be honest, I was surprised. Sera had never been subtle about her opinions; in the past, she had been incredibly clear when she stated that Vic wasn't good enough for me. She had listed his faults like a grocery list—too reckless, too rude, and too tethered to a life that didn't involve me. And the worst part? I agreed with every word. It didn't matter how perfect his dick was, how much he made me cum, or how easily he could read the thoughts I try so hard to hide.

"She’s desperate to keep you safe, I guess," Vic said, shrugging his shoulders. "Or maybe she just knows I’m the only one who can keep up with you when you decide to go rogue."

“I’m not on a mission, Papa,” I told him, my voice sharp and final, cutting through the humid Italian air. “Those days are behind me.”

Vic stepped closer, the scent of his expensive cologne and lingering cigarette smoke invading my space. He reached out as if to touch my arm, but I flinled back, the movement sharp and defensive.

"Don't," I hissed.

"You're shaking," he noted, his voice dropping to that low, gravelly register that used to make my knees weak. "Is it the jet lag, or are you actually happy to see me?"

"It’s the urge to commit multiple felonies in front of Interpol," I retorted. "Get out of my way, Vic."

"You always were a terrible liar," he murmured, leaning in just enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him. "I'll give you your space for now but don't think for a second you're actually getting away. I know your moves better than you do."

I looked at him one last time against the backdrop of the vehicle he’d rented and the sprawling skyline. He was a ghost from my past and a current complication I didn't need, especially not now. Yet, here he was, acting as my self-appointed shadow, looking like he had all the time in the world.

"Forty-eight hours, Vic," I warned. I didn't wait for the driver to help; I grabbed my own bags and threw them into the car myself before sliding into the back seat, the leather hot against my skin. "That’s how long you have to find me. If not, that’s on you. After that, you're back to France, and I'm back to being invisible!”

I slammed the door before he could respond, but through the glass, I saw that smirk widen into something predatory.

"Whatever you say, La Duquesa," he replied, his voice loud enough to penetrate the window as the driver pulls away. “I’ll find you. You know that I always do.”

Vic was going to find me. Eventually.

That thought was a rhythmic drumbeat in the back of my skull, steady and inevitable. He always did. He had this way of using our mutual connections – usually my brother, Bob. But this time, Sera was the leak, the soft spot in my perimeter. The love was still there between us, but she was currently nursing a martini in a different time zone with her wife, playing puppet master.

As the car accelerated, I didn't just sit back. I performed a standard sweep of my person. Sera was clever, but she had a signature style—she liked to hide trackers in the lining of things. I felt the slight, rigid abnormality in the seam of my duffel. I didn't pull it out yet; that would alert her that I’d found it. Instead, I waited until we crossed a bridge over a massive storm drain. I palmed the small, adhesive disc, rolled the window down two inches, and flicked it into the darkness.

"Step on it," I told the driver. I needed distance between my current position and the last ping on Sera’s screen.

I settled deeper into the back seat of the sedan, the interior smelling faintly of pine freshener and old, stale tobacco. The driver, a man with tired eyes that had seen too many late-night runners and desperate tourists, didn't look back as I rattled off an address of a hotel that was so far off of government employees’ radar on the far side of the city.

"How fast can you get here?" I asked, my voice sounding more tired than I wanted it to. “I know it's about a thirty-five minute drive without traffic.”

He glanced at me through the rearview mirror. "Traffic’s fairly light at this time of day. Maybe forty minutes, signora."

"I’ll double the fare if you do it in twenty," I said, my pulse still racing. "And I'm not looking for a scenic tour. I need to get somewhere away far from my past.”

The driver shifted gears, a glint of recognition appearing in the rearview mirror. I could tell by the way his posture straightened that he was a tsarist who knew exactly who I was. "Twenty minutes it is, ma’am. Hold on to your bags."

He drove like a man possessed. He treated red lights as mere suggestions and took corners with a screeching, centrifugal force that would’ve thrown me against the door if I hadn’t worn my seatbelt. Every time we jerked through an intersection, I checked the rear window. No sight of Vic's sedan. I made him take three hard lefts and a U-turn—a basic SDR (Surveillance Detection Route). If Vic was back there, he’d have to break cover to keep up. The road behind us remained empty.

We hit the curb of the address I gave him—a decoy hotel—in exactly nineteen minutes. I handed a stack of bills over the center console—a few more bills than double. "Stay here for five minutes with the engine running, then leave," I instructed.

I waited until he was idling, then slipped out the side door and into the shadows of a nearby piazza. I didn't go inside the hotel. Instead, I shouldered my bag and headed a block west, cutting through a narrow alleyway slick with debris. I performed a "cleaning" run—walking through a high-end department store with multiple exits, checking my reflection in the glass to see who was following. Clean.

My real destination was a third-floor walk-up that didn't exist on any public registry. The building was a "dead" asset, registered to a shell company in the Caymans that hadn't seen a tax return in a decade.

I used my fingerprint to gain entry, and the heavy security door immediately shut and locked itself behind me with a reassuring mechanical thud. The air in the hallway was stale, smelling of floor wax and silence. Despite how drained I was, I climbed the three flights. I didn't take the elevator; elevators were boxes that could be remotely disabled.

I reached the door of the apartment and checked the hair I’d left across the frame six months ago. It was still there, undisturbed. My fingers hovered over the digital pin pad. I punched in the eight-digit code—a sequence that rotated based on the date.

Click.

The door swung open to a vacuum of perfect order. My contact knew my neuroses. The air was chilled to exactly sixty-three degrees—optimal for keeping the server stack in the closet from overheating. There wasn't a speck of dust on the charcoal-grey sofa.

I let my duffel bag hit the floor, but I didn't relax. I went straight to the window and check the street from behind the reinforced blinds.

I stripped off my clothes in the middle of the living room, leaving a trail of "the old me" on the hardwood. I checked my body for any new marks, any bugs Vic might have planted during our "near-touch" at the airport. Nothing.

I stepped into the shower and turned the handle until the water was scalding. As the steam filled the room, obscuring the mirror and the world outside, I leaned my forehead against the tile and let the heat wash away the city, the sedan, and the lingering scent of Vic. For tonight, I was invisible.

As I was showering, I used my burner phone to access a localized dark-web forum for the Roman underground. I wasn't looking for news; I was looking for the "color of the night." I needed to know which clubs were being raided and which were safe for a "ghost" to haunt. The consensus was "neo-grunge"—a look that allowed for loose layers, perfect for concealing a small blade or a secondary burner.

I went to the closet and pulled out the gear I had cached. I found jeans that fit my waist perfectly but were baggy and strategically ripped throughout. I put on a pair of neon green thongs, slid on the ripped jeans, and applied pasties to my nipples. I followed that with a neon green mesh shirt—the kind that confused low-res security cameras with its high-contrast pattern. I layered a hunter green and black plaid flannel shirt over the top.

Since my hair was still damp, I worked in some mousse, blow-dried it for volume, and styled it into messy waves. I reached into my jeans and adjusted the straps of my thong, pulling them up high over my hips to be seen at the top of my waistband, creating a sharp “Y” to mimic a whale’s tail. It was the perfect distraction; most men would be looking at the neon string rather than my face.

I searched the hidden compartment in the desk for my passport and driver’s license. I checked the holograms under a UV light. Still good. I grabbed a signal-blocking pouch for my phone and slipped out.

I moved through the streets using "gray man" tactics—staying in the shadows, leaning into the crowd, never looking directly at a camera lens. I reached the first club, an unmarked steel door. Before entering, I tied the flannel shirt around my waist, just below the neon whale tail.

The bouncer took one look at me—the mesh, the thong, the sheer audacity of my presence—and simply stepped aside.

"Welcome back, Duquesa," he muttered. I threw him a look.

“Keep it down, dude,” I hissed. I didn't pay. In this world, the Duchess was currency enough.

When I entered, the bass hit me like a physical blow. I didn't go to the bar. I went to the back, found a corner with a clear view of the entrance and the fire exit, and waited for my eyes to adjust. Only then did I let Mario approach me. He was young, loud, and the perfect human shield.

Mario and I spent the hours drinking and dancing. I used him to move through the floor, always keeping him between me and anyone who looked too closely. But eventually, the kid ran out of steam. I kissed his cheek, checked my watch, and slipped away.

I exited through the front, passing the bouncer. "Forget that I was here tonight," I told him, my voice low and commanding.

He looked at me for a long beat. "I'll forget that you were here," he replied slowly. "But I won't ever forget who you are. I was born near the Ipatiev House, Duchess. I know a Romanov when I see one."

I didn't answer. I just headed to the next club. This time, I used the back entrance, moving through the kitchen. I traded a pack of cigarettes for a clean exit path later.

I entered the main area of the second club, a deep crimson cavern. I dove into the crowd, using the strobe lights to mask my movements. Luca and Matteo caught me—two locals who were clearly looking for a thrill. I let them flank me at the bar. They were handsy, but I kept my "work" hand free.

"Home is wherever the music is loud enough to drown out the silence," I told Matteo. He leaned in for a kiss, and I used the moment to check his pockets—nothing but a wallet and a lighter. No wire, no badge. I let myself go then, the three of us a blurred knot of motion. I flirted, I drank, but I never once stopped scanning the room for a tall man with a smirk and a hidden agenda.

I stayed on the floor until 6 AM, when the music died and the house lights stripped away the glamour. I walked out into the dawn, my flannel shirt back on, my posture shifting back to that of a nondescript tourist. I had survived the first twelve hours. Only thirty-six to go.

Opus

The hum of the airplane engines had become a low, rhythmic lullaby that finally pulled me under, but sleep was a fleeting luxury. When I woke up from the few hours of sleep that I had, the cabin lights were dimmed, casting a soft, blue hue over the rows of passengers. My neck was stiff, a familiar consequence of transcontinental travel, but as I blinked away the fog of exhaustion, I noticed something new resting on the empty tray table beside me.

There was a book titled “Opus: The Cult of Dark Money, Human Trafficking, and Right-Wing Conspiracy inside the Catholic Church” authored by Gareth Gore. It was a heavy, daunting book, the kind that demanded attention. A small, yellow adhesive note was attached to the cover, the ink slightly smudged as if written in haste.

I picked up the note, reading the elegant cursive. “I finished this on my last long haul flight and found it gripping. Given your work and thoughts of the systemic rot of Catholicism, I thought you’d enjoy the loaner. Safe travels.”

As I was looking at the book, a flight attendant—a tall man with a kind face and a neatly pressed uniform—passed by and paused. He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice so as not to disturb the sleeping passenger across the aisle.

"I hope you don't mind the intrusion," he whispered with a small, knowing smile. "You're Lara Beck, right? The author?"

I felt a sudden heat rise to my cheeks. "I am. Are you the one that dropped off the book?”

“Yes, I am,” he said. “I was pretty sure of who you were but we all look differently crossing time zones in awful lighting.”

“Thank you for loaning the book. That's very kind of you."

"You’re very welcome. I've followed your work for a while," he continued, his expression turning more serious. "I’ve also seen you at a few TedTalks. What I appreciate most is that you aren't just 'anti-Catholic' for the sake of being provocative. You treat it like a cult because you have the legit proof to back it up because you lived it first hand and witnessed some awful stuff. It’s rare to find that kind of intellectual honesty."

"I try to let the evidence speak for itself," I replied, feeling a genuine spark of pride. I was kind of flattered that I was recognized so far from home, and by someone who truly understood the nuance of my writing. It wasn't about hate; it was about exposure.

"Well, Gore is a bit of a kindred spirit, I think," the attendant said, nodding toward the book. "Let me know what you think if I'm still on shift when you finish. Can I get you anything before you dive into the book?"

"Just some ice water, please," I said. “Maybe something stronger as well?”

He returned a moment later with a cold bottle of water, a cup of ice and four of the tiny TSA approved bottles of vodka. Before opening up the book, I had some of my water and started eating the last of my bagels, chewing slowly as I stared at the aggressive subtitle on the cover. Dark money. Human trafficking. It felt like I was about to stare into a mirror of the very world I had escaped. I was thankful that the flight attendant brought some vodka…it was going to be a heavy read.

I grabbed the book, got a bit more situated in my comfortable seat, and proceeded to open the book. The spine cracked satisfyingly. Based on the weight of it and the praise from the attendant, I knew it was going to be an interesting book.

As I was reading the forward by the author, Gareth Gore, I felt a surge of professional respect. I learned that he is also an investigative journalist who was sent to cover the sudden collapse of Banco Popular in 2017. Initially, he thought he was chasing a standard story of corporate greed—the kind of dry, financial reporting that fills the back pages of the Wall Street Journal.

Instead, the text described how Gore stumbled into a massive conspiracy orchestrated by Opus Dei, an ultra-conservative Catholic sect. I felt a chill run down my spine as I read his account. His investigation revealed how members of the group had secretly stolen billions of money from a major bank to fund a radical global expansion.

The details were harrowing. From the recruitment of children to the quiet bankrolling of major political shifts in the U.S., it was a narrative of absolute power and zero accountability. It was certainly a chilling look at how a secret religious order used a super large bank to pull the strings of power from the shadows. I found myself highlighting passages, my mind racing as I compared his findings to my own experiences.

The cabin remained quiet, the only sound the occasional rustle of a page or the distant chime of a call button. I lost track of the altitude, the time zones, and the miles. It took me two and a half hours to read the book, my eyes darting across the pages until I reached the final acknowledgments.

I closed the cover and let out a long, shaky breath. It was definitely an intense but interesting read. I leaned my head back against the headrest, staring up at the overhead compartments. As someone who is a former Catholic Cult member and trying to unearth the truth to share with those deep in the “church,” the weight of the book felt like a weapon I hadn't known I was missing.

I looked at the note the flight attendant had left. He was right - Gore had captured the systemic rot with surgical precision. I clutched the book to my chest, a singular, recurring thought echoing in my mind: I wish that this book was given to those in and considering becoming Catholic. If they could see the ledger—the literal cost in lives and dollars—perhaps the spell would finally break.

After closing the final page of the book, I glanced at my watch. There were still a few hours left of the flight, stretching out before me like an empty highway. I stared at my phone for a moment but tucked it back into my pocket; I didn’t want to use it and risk messing up the technology in the plane. With no other books to read and the cabin falling into a dull silence, my options were limited. I knew for a fact I wouldn't be fucking Xander while he was in the cockpit nor while he was on the clock—professionalism had its place, even if my body felt otherwise.

The only thing left to do was lean my head back against the seat, close my eyes, and let my mind drift. I decided to think back on my former partners—both the romantic and the sexual ones.

My mind first wandered to Vince. A small, involuntary smirk touched my lips as I remembered the way he worked. He certainly made me cum with his tongue and dick for days on end. I remembered when we were first together; we were a literal force of nature. We couldn't stop fucking. Headboards would splinter and break under the force of our rhythm, and the neighbors complained so frequently it became a running joke, all because I couldn't stop screaming in pleasure. The man has a magical tongue and ick

"God, Vince," I whispered to the empty cabin, the memory of his weight on me feeling almost real.

I recalled one specific winter vacation before he retired where we were snowed in for an additional three days. It turned a eight day trip that turned into a sex marathon. We fucked nonstop for those eight days, the heat from our bodies the only thing keeping the chill at bay.

Then, my thoughts drifted to K. I thought about the few times that we fucked. The dude definitely knew how to work his dick; he had a precision that was hard to forget. But thinking about Boris? That made my panties wet instantly. He had a massive dick in all the best ways. He always made sure I came as he destroyed my pussy and rearranged my guts.

I can still feel him stretching me, I thought, shifting uncomfortably in my seat. The amount of cum that Boris produced was incredible even when he was drained

Then I remembered C. A different kind of thrill. He loved fucking me while I was unconscious, and he had my full permission to do so. There was something about waking up to the sensation of him already deep inside me that hit a different nerve. The dude not only fucked me like the sex addict that I am, he ate my pussy so intensely that I nearly drowned him on multiple occasions.

"You're going to kill me one of these days," he’d gasp, coming up for air, only for me to pull him back down. He always returned the favor by flooding my pussy with his cum until I felt like I was overflowing.

Finally, I thought back on Vic. Vic was a contradiction. Not only was he passionate as we fucked, he was rough as well. He certainly fucked me like the side piece that I was to him—with a certain kind of reclaimed hunger that left bruises and memories. I loved how much cum he consistently shot in my pussy, no matter how tired he was. Once, due to bad weather, we were stuck in a hotel together for thirty-six hours. It was a fever dream of sweat and friction. He barely pulled out of my filled pussy the entire time, keeping me claimed and soaked until the weather cleared.

By the time I was done thinking back on these men, the plane’s descent had begun. The vibration of the wheels hitting the tarmac snapped me back to the present. I took a deep breath, smoothing my hair and calming my pulse. I grabbed my stuff, my hands fumbling slightly as I checked for all three of my passports. I left my seat and left the book on the table.

I knew that my ticket would match my Lichtenstein passport, but I wasn't worried about the discrepancy. I knew Sera had called the airport customs ahead of my arrival to let them know who I truly was. The transition had to be seamless.

When I finally reached the customs hall, the air was thick with the scent of espresso and jet fuel. I scanned the lines, but the decision was made for me. The lead agent, a tall man with sharp eyes, called out over the crowd: “The lady with the navy blue duffel bag. Come through this line.”

I did as he asked, my boots clicking against the polished floor. When I got to his station, he held out a hand. “Ticket and passports, please.”

I handed all three passports and my ticket over. He flicked through the pages with practiced ease, his expression neutral for the benefit of the cameras and the crowd. Then, he leaned in just an inch.

“Welcome to Italy, Grand Duchess,” he whispered as he stamped my Lichtenstein passport, using my preferred title. The corner of his mouth twitched into a respectful half-smile. “Glad to have you back in our country.”

“Thank you,” I replied, keeping my voice low. I glanced back at the growing queue of travelers watching us. “If you need to keep up with the false spectacle of pulling me to your line, you can search me. I understand the optics.”

He nodded, appreciating the cooperation. “I need a female agent for a quick search!” he hollered, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. He looked back at me. “I believe you’ve done this before.”

“More times than I can count,” I said with a slight nod.

A female agent made her way over to us, looking bored and efficient. She gestured toward a designated area just off to the side.

“Step aside, stretch your arms out and spread your legs a bit,” she huffed, not unkindly, just doing her job. She snapped on a pair of latex gloves. “Do you have anything sharp on you or any weapons on you that I should know about?”

“No,” I said firmly.

“I’m going to perform a pat search now, ok, ma’am?”

“Ok,” I replied.

I stood still as her hands moved over my frame, checking my waistband, legs, and torso. The search took less than two minutes. Once she was satisfied, she stepped back and nodded to the lead agent.

“You’re clear,” she said.

The lead agent handed back my documents. “Enjoy your stay.”

I grabbed my stuff, slung the navy blue bag over my shoulder, and walked through the final gates. It was time to get lost in Italy but things were about to change. The second I stepped outside of the airport, onto the cement sidewalk and there was Vic standing out like a sore thumb. Tight black jeans, tight black t-shirt and navy blue cowboy boots.

“La Duquesa Marie,” he said in his sexy voice.

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” I said as I put my face in my palm.