Chapter 4 - Arrival in Rome
The wheels of the Boeing 777 slammed onto the tarmac at Leonardo da Vinci–Fiumicino Airport with a heavy thud, signaling our arrival in Italy. The cabin lights brightened, instantly waking tired travelers.
My palms were sweating. Customs and passport control were next. I had our genuine passports—our mother had thankfully kept them updated before she disappeared—but two unescorted minors passing through international border control was a recipe for disaster. I needed to blend into the thickest crowd possible and vanish before anyone asked questions.
"Maya, put your coat on," I whispered, zipping up her pink jacket and fastening her small backpack. "Hold my hand tight. Do not let go, no matter what happens."
Maya nodded solemnly, clutching her rabbit tightly under her arm.
As soon as the seatbelt sign turned off, passengers flooded the aisle, pulling down overhead luggage. I grabbed our single, beaten-up navy suitcase, held Maya’s tiny hand in mine, and moved toward the exit as quickly as the jammed aisle allowed.
As we stepped out of the boarding bridge into the bustling terminal, I glanced back. Arthur Vance was stepping off the plane, holding little Leo securely against his chest while Marcus walked beside him, surrounded by two local airport security officers who were clearing a path for them. Arthur turned his head, his sharp gray eyes scanning the crowd. He spotted me.
He raised a hand, signaling for me to wait, and whispered something to Marcus. Marcus immediately started pushing through the sea of passengers toward us.
"Run," I whispered to Maya, pulling her into a swift jog.
"Elena, my legs are tired!" Maya whimpered, but she kept up as best as she could.
We wove through the crowded terminal, dodging tourists, flight crews, and luggage carts. We followed the signs toward Passport Control, but the line for non-EU citizens was impossibly long, manned by stern-looking Italian border officers. If I stood in that line, Marcus would catch up to us in less than two minutes.
Desperate, I looked around. To the right was a large group of energetic Italian schoolchildren wearing matching yellow hats, led by three frazzled teachers moving toward a group entry lane.
Without hesitating, I grabbed a discarded yellow souvenir cap from a trash bin top, placed it on Maya's head, pulled my hair into a tight bun, and seamlessly blended our tiny family into the back of the school tour group. We walked rapidly with them, hiding behind the taller children.
The border officer barely blinked as he stamped the tour leader's bulk paperwork and waved the chaotic group through the automated gates. We were through.
We burst out into the public arrivals hall of Fiumicino Airport. The air was warm, smelling faintly of espresso, aviation fuel, and exhaust fumes. Thousands of people were greeting loved ones, holding signs, and shouting in Italian.
I pulled Maya behind a thick marble pillar and peeked back. Marcus was standing near the exit of the border zone, his eyes scanning the terminal with cool, professional intensity. He was holding a phone to his ear, clearly reporting to Arthur Vance.
May you like
"We made it, Maya," I breathed out, leaning against the cold pillar, my chest heaving. "We're in Rome."
I pulled out the crumpled piece of paper Aunt Beatrice had sent us years ago. Written on it was an address in the Trastevere district and a local phone number. I took out my remaining money, counted out a few euros, and looked for a public payphone. We were safe for now—or so I believed.
