The Canary Who Learned To Fly

Seraphina Vitiello POV

The plane plummeted fifty feet in a single second.

My stomach lurched into my throat, a violent upheaval that tasted of bile.

The cabin lights flickered and died for a terrifying heartbeat.

Someone in the row behind me screamed.

I didn't scream.

I gripped the armrests until my knuckles turned bone white, my fingernails digging into the leather. My breathing was shallow, ragged gasps, each one sending a fresh jolt of pain through my still-healing ribs and the ache in my re-injured leg. I had taken extra pain medication before boarding, but the turbulence ripped through the dulling fog.

I wasn't on a plane anymore.

I was back in the SUV.

I was upside down.

I smelled the acrid stench of leaking gasoline.

I saw the fire eating the metal, curling around the frame like a hungry beast.

I saw Dante sprinting past my window without a single backward glance.

The plane shook again, violently this time, rattling my teeth.

My vision blurred.

Black spots danced at the edges of my sight, threatening to pull me under.

I couldn't breathe.

My ribs, the ones that were still healing, felt like a cage shrinking around my lungs, squeezing the life out of me.

A hand touched my arm.

I flinched.

I expected a blow.

I expected Dante's rough grip or my father's heavy, punishing hand.

But the touch was gentle.

Warm.

Solid.

I looked up.

The man in the seat next to me was watching me.

He had dark hair and eyes the color of aged whiskey.

He wasn't looking at me like I was a spare part or a nuisance to be dealt with.

He was looking at me like I was a person in distress.

"Breathe," he said softly.

His voice was deep, a rumble in his chest, but it lacked the sharp edge of command I was used to.

I tried to inhale.

The air in the cabin was stale.

It smelled of recycled oxygen and collective fear.

"Here," he said.

He reached into his bag and pulled out a blanket.

It was cashmere. Charcoal grey and impossibly soft.

He draped it over my shaking shoulders.

It smelled like sandalwood and expensive soap.

It didn't smell like blood.

It didn't smell like gunpowder.

"Focus on the fabric," he said, his tone low and grounding. "Feel how soft it is. You are safe."

I buried my nose in the blanket.

I focused on the sandalwood.

I counted the threads in my mind.

One. Two. Three.

The plane stabilized.

The pilot came over the intercom, his voice crackling as he apologized for the turbulence.

My heart rate began to slow, the thunder in my ears fading to a dull thrum.

I looked at the man.

"Thank you," I whispered.

He smiled.

It was a genuine smile. It reached his eyes, crinkling the corners.

"I'm Luca," he said.

I hesitated.

Seraphina Vitiello was dead. She died in the wreckage in Chicago.

"I am... Sarah," I lied.

"Nice to meet you, Sarah," Luca said. "First time flying?"

"No," I said. "Just the first time escaping."

The words slipped out before I could stop them.

He didn't pry.

He just nodded, as if escaping was the most natural thing in the world.

We landed in Sydney fourteen hours later.

The sun was blinding.

It wasn't the grey, oppressive light of Chicago.

It was gold. It was alive.

I walked through customs with my heart in my throat. Every step was a careful calculation, my leg protesting the journey, but my resolve hardened with each unchallenged moment.

I expected a hand on my shoulder.

I expected Marco or Dante to drag me back to the basement, to the darkness.

But no one stopped me.

The stamp in my passport hit the paper with a dull, final thud.

"Welcome to Australia," the officer said.

I walked out into the arrivals hall, my legs trembling.

I found a taxi rank.

The driver was an older man with faded tattoos on his forearms.

"Where to, love?" he asked.

I looked at the skyline.

"Anywhere," I said. "Just drive."

He chuckled, a gravelly sound.

"Running from something or running to something?"

"Both," I said.

He put the car in gear.

"Well, you came to the right place," he said, glancing in the rearview mirror. "Sydney is a city of second chances. Even for old convicts like me."

I leaned my head against the cool glass of the window.

A convict and a mafia princess.

We were both criminals in our own way.

I watched the city blur past.

For the first time in my life, the road ahead wasn't paved with someone else's expectations.

It was just a road.