The Lion's Den(15)

It’s midday when we land at the small private airport on the Ligurian coast. As we step off the plane into the unrelenting Mediterranean sun, we’re greeted by a hot breeze and a sweeping view of the sea. I pause to enjoy it, until Brittani bumps into me, also entranced.

“Holy shit!” she exclaims. “It is so fucking pretty here!”

My ears ringing, I bound down the steps to the tarmac, fishing in my canvas carryall for my passport. Summer stops next to me, rummaging in her giant Louis Vuitton.

“I like your bag,” I say, hoping to keep up the camaraderie we shared on the plane.

“I got it to match the rest of my luggage, but it’s way too big—I can’t ever find anything in it. You can have it when we get back.”

Once inside the small stone-and-glass building, we hand over our passports to the lone Italian customs agent, who stamps them without ceremony and hands them back to us. Amythest eyes her stamp with admiration.

“First stamp?” I ask.

“First time I’ve left the States since I came over from the Philippines. When I was six,” she admits.

“You were born in the Philippines?” I ask. She nods. “I’ve never been there, but I hear it’s beautiful.”

“Ha. Tell that to my mom. She gave up everything to get away from there.”

I want to ask her more, but we’ve joined the others waiting in the airy lobby for the baggage handlers to bring out our bags. Summer is holding court, thumbing through her passport. “Almost full.” She displays her stamps. “We’ve been to so many places, I’m gonna have to get a new one soon.”

I point out a Bahamas stamp. “I remember that one,” I say with a conspiratorial smile.

“That’s from a trip I took with my mom to Atlantis,” she says lightly.

I laugh. “No. It’s from when I was shooting that movie there and you and Wendy came down to visit.” I open my passport to show her my identical stamp, but her voice stops me cold.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her green eyes lock on mine, making sure I’m aware of the minefield I’m walking across. “I’ve only ever been to the Bahamas with my mother and with John.”

“Right. Got it.”

Good thing they don’t stamp your passport when you’re driving into Mexico, because––

“What are you girls looking at?” John approaches and places his hand on Summer’s shoulder.

“Oh, I was just showing them my stamps from all the places we’ve been,” Summer says a hair too quickly.

In a split second I see him recognize that’s not the whole truth, consider it, and decide not to engage. “I have a meeting in town.” He throws a smile at the rest of us. “Welcome to the Riviera, girls. I’ll see you all on the boat later.”

Before anyone can respond, he’s halfway across the lobby, Vinny trailing after him. The older goon, whose name I can’t remember, rounds us up. “Ladies, your passports.”

The other girls hand over their passports to him without a second thought, but I hesitate. One of the first rules of international travel is never to part with your passport.

He holds out his hand to me expectantly. “For safekeeping.”

“I can just hold on to it,” I say, trying to sound casual. “I’m careful.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Summer says. “It’s just the way John does things. Believe me, it’s easier if we all just go along.”

“I’d rather just hold on to it,” I repeat, my heart hammering in my chest.

“Belle, please don’t be a problem,” Summer implores.

I can’t think fast enough to come up with an excuse, and clearly they’re not going to make an exception for me. But I don’t like this one bit. After another few awkward seconds, I reluctantly acquiesce. He slips our passports into his jacket pocket, and we follow him out into the sweltering day, where two black Suburbans wait under the portico, engines running. The goon climbs into the first one. “Summer, Brittani, and Mrs. Brown, you’re with me.”

“Mrs. Brown?” Rhonda balks. “Please. Call me Rhonda.”

He nods without cracking a smile. “Okay, Rhonda.”

“What about Amythest?” Brittani asks, hip-checking Amythest. “I wanna be with my girrrl.”

“Quit your bitching. You’re in Italy!” Rhonda says.

“Whoooooo! It-a-ly!” Brittani croons.

I dive into the second Suburban, thankful for a break from that voice. Wendy, Claire, and Amythest pile in behind me. We all take in the view as we wind down the mountain, past picturesque homes built into the hillside facing the sea. “I can’t believe we’re finally here,” Claire says.

“I can’t believe we had to turn over our passports,” I grouse.

“Planning on going somewhere without the rest of us?” Wendy teases.

“It’s the principle,” I say. “Besides, it’s weird. I mean, why do they need my passport? Unlike Summer, I don’t enjoy being kept on a leash.”

Wendy sneaks a glance at the driver. “John does seem pretty controlling,” she agrees in a whisper.

“Yeah.” Claire matches her whisper. “The NDA was a little weird.”