Tarnished Tyrant - A Mafia Romance

This airport is an insane asylum. Crazy idiots zooming inevery direction with no regard for human life or socialdecency. I squeeze my little sister’s wrist even tighter as we navigatearound a couple sharing a very public, very graphic goodbyekiss. “You don’t have to hold onto me,” Elise complains, yankingher arm away. “I just don’t want us to get separated. Remember Silver DollarCity?” “I was six,” Elise groans. “And on a leash,” I remind her. “Yet you still escaped likefricking Houdini. I don’t want a repeat of that. We’re alreadyrunning late.” I check the boarding pass for the millionth time. We have lessthan ninety minutes until our flight boards, and we haven’teven been through security yet. “We’re not late. It’s the Oklahoma City airport, Belle. NotAtlanta. We’ll be fine.” “When have you ever been at the Atlanta airport?” Elise rolls her eyes, the fourteen-year-old’s Bat Signal for eventhe most minor inconvenience, slight, or annoyance. I’ve seenit countless times since she moved in with me two months ago, but I can’t seem to build up any immunity. It irks me everytime. “You know about the Eiffel Tower and you’ve never been toParis, right?” she snarks. I let out an anguished sigh. “Just stick close to me, okay? Idon’t have time to look for you. I have to keep an eye out forRoger.” I keep walking for a few seconds before I glance back andrealize Elise isn’t with me anymore. She’s screeched to a haltin the middle of the airport, blocking a businessman in a suitand tie from getting by. I whirl around and tug her out of the way, apologizing to theman as we go. He grumbles something bitter about “kids thesedays” and stomps past us. “Maybe we should rethink that leash,” I mutter. “Come on,Elise. We just talked about—” “We’re flying with Roger?” she asks, her top lip curling indisgust. “Roger, as in the guy who made you work late andthen tried to slide his hand up your skirt?” I inhale sharply. “How do you know—” “The walls at your place are thin,” she says dismissively. “Iheard you talking to Georgia.” I drag a hand down my face. “I should have had coffee thismorning.” Flying makes me nervous, so I didn’t figure my body neededthe extra caffeine-induced anxiety on top of the flying anxiety.But after a night of shitty sleep and now, the threat that myhalf-sister will say something damning in front of myadmittedly super pervy boss… safe to say I need the world’slargest latte. Or maybe an IV of espresso, I’m not sure. “I don’t want to travel with that creep,” she says with finality. “Me neither. That’s why I’m being paid to do it.” Elise’s eyes bug out of her head. “He’s paying you to travelwith him?!” “Yes. Because it’s my job. He’s my boss.” “Oh. Right.” Elise frowns and then shakes her head. “Still, Iwouldn’t have come with you if I knew he was going to behere. You should really report him to… someone. I don’tknow. That’s s****l harassment.” I gawk at Elise, wondering when she got old enough to saythings like “s****l harassment.” When I left home, she wasnine years old and into mermaids. Lots has changed since then. “You’re coming with me because there’s no way I’m leavingyou alone in the apartment for a week,” I tell her. “I’m prettysure it’s illegal.” “I can take care of myself!” “Not according to the law. So you’re coming with me andyou’re going to be nice to Roger and you’re going to—” Elise isn’t quite yelling, but her voice is raised and people aretaking notice. If I was her mom, I’d grab her hand and drag herafter me, kicking and screaming. No one would give us asecond look. But she’s right—I’m not her mom. I’m her sister. Yet I’m theone here dealing with her angst. As if I don’t have enough ofmy own. I take a deep breath and open my mouth, a whole host ofregrettable things sitting on the tip of my tongue, when myphone rings. I glance down and see Roger’s stupid face smiling back at me.He looks so professional in his company headshot. Nothinglike the red-faced mouth breather with tentacle-like arms thatthe rest of the women in the office have long since learned toavoid. “Hey, Roger,” I answer, turning away from Elise. “Sorry we’relate. We aren’t through security yet, but—” “What?” he yells. There’s aggressive music thumping in thebackground. It sounds like he’s in some kind of club. “Sorry, Ican’t hear you. This club is really loud.” “Since when does the airport have a club?” He laughs. “They don’t. I’m not at the airport. I’m in Aruba!” “Aruba? What are you talking about?” I shake my head, tryingto decide if I’m still sleeping. If so, this is a weird anxietydream. “We’re leaving for New York in eighty minutes.Zhukova Incorporated? The audit?” “I didn’t forget,” he says, way too cheekily. “You’re going onyour own. You don’t need me, right? Isn’t that what you said?” Memories of that traumatic late night at the office butt theirway into my already-panicked thoughts. “If you want to move up in this company, you’ll need arecommendation,” Roger had told me, his hand sliding up mythigh. “I can be an asset for you.” I’d swiveled away from his touch. “I don’t need you.” Those words are coming back to haunt me now. “I’ve never done an audit on my own before,” I mumble. I hate how inexperienced I sound. I’ve been a fighter mywhole life. God knows I’ve overcome plenty. But this feelscruel and unusual. Roger laughs cruelly. “First time for everything. Good luck!” He hangs up. I stare at my phone, trying to decide if I shouldcall back and beg him to come with me. Then Elise sidles up next to me. “Was that Roger?” I run through the facts in my head real quick. I need to watch Elise. Roger isn’t coming with us anymore. In one way—at the very most—this is a blessing. Georgia isalways telling me I need to focus more on the positive. Maybetoday is the day to start. “Roger isn’t coming with us anymore. We’re on our own.” Ipivot and start walking towards security. “Keep up.” Today was the wrong day to start thinking positively. Becausenow, I’m positive this plane is going to crash. I was sleeping. Or resting, at least. Trying to close my eyesand calm the twist of anxiety in my gut. It was almostworking, too, which is obviously when the turbulence started. Take-off and landings are always the worst part. Once theplane is in the air, I can usually relax. But now, the screen infront of me is flickering along with the cabin lights as theplane shakes and trembles. “Of course, the one time I fly first class is the one thatcrashes,” I mutter to myself. Elise is in the row behind me, sothere’s no hand to hold. I just white-knuckle the armrests andsqueeze my eyes closed. When we were boarding, the flight attendant saw Elise and Iwere about to be seated directly in the middle of a rowdybachelor party and upgraded us to two empty seats in firstclass. “Thanks so much,” I’d said, embarrassingly close to tears ofgratitude. “I’m on a work trip and things aren’t going the wayI thought they would. I just… I really needed this.” Elise was so embarrassed by my emotions that she pretendedshe didn’t know me. But the flight attendant patted my back and whispered in myear, “Us ladies have to stick together.” Everyone around me in first class looks like they belong. Thewoman next to me has on a velvet sweatsuit with a satin eye mask. Everything from her fur slippers to her noise-cancelingheadphones screams luxury. The man sitting diagonally across the aisle is snarlingsomething in Russian in flagrant disregard of the “No cellphones” rule the rest of us peasants have to obey. I don’t seeanything beyond a broad shoulder and stubbled square jaw, butI’m glad I’m not in the shoes of whatever poor soul is on theother end of his rebuke. If the plane splits apart Lost-style and the first two rows areforced to fend for ourselves on some desert island, then it’ll beElise, me, Velvet Tracksuit Woman, and Russian Guy. Suddenly, I’m not sure if the attendant did me a favor or not.Russian Guy doesn’t look like he plays well with others. Just as the seatbelt light dings on, my stomach flipsdangerously. I’m immediately positive I’m going to throw up. My eyes fly open and I reach for a vomit bag, but there isnothing. The seat back in front of me is empty. No in-flightmagazine, no blanket wrapped in plastic, and definitely novomit bag. Can I hold it in? Mind over matter. Mind over matter. But then my stomach contracts and my mind is no longer first-in-command. It isn’t even second. My stomach is in chargeand my feet are taking orders without question. Before I can stop myself, I stand up and rush towards thebathroom.