PART 4 – The Message from the Cockpit
The sharp, electronic tone of the intercom echoed through the cabin, followed by the voice of the duty captain—a sharp, businesslike voice that stood in stark contrast to the intimacy of the moment between me and Luca.
"Ladies and gentlemen, this is the co-pilot speaking. As you may have noticed, we have just experienced heavy turbulence. For safety reasons, we will have to adjust our course slightly and expect to land at Rome Fiumicino airport in forty minutes. Apologies for the inconvenience."
The spell was broken. Luca slowly pulled his hand back, though his gaze lingered on my lips before turning his face toward the window. A deep sigh escaped his chest.
"Time to return to reality," he muttered bitterly.
But reality didn't take long to arrive. While the passengers around us folded up their tray tables and straightened their seats for the descent, I saw movement in the corner of my eye at row fourteen. Marco Moretti, the paparazzo, had grabbed his camera again. This time he didn't keep it secretly hidden, but was about to stand up and walk toward our row. His face looked ominous: he clearly realized we had shared an intimate moment, and for someone of his kind, that was worth gold.
"Luca," I whispered urgently, pointing backward. "That man is coming our way."
Luca turned around. His eyes narrowed into slits. Without a word, he abruptly stood up from his seat. His height and impressive stature immediately forced the man to hesitate in the aisle.
"What do you think you're doing, Moretti?" Luca said with a voice cold enough to freeze liquid oxygen.
Moretti smiled hypocritically, his cheap sunglasses firmly on his nose. "Just taking some pictures for the press, Captain Ferri. Word has it that aviation's big hero is having a very cozy ride with a young divorced mother. That will sell brilliantly on the front page of the tabloids tomorrow. Don't you think?"
The anger flaring up in Luca was almost palpable. Before Moretti could utter another word, Luca stepped forward and with a swift, controlled movement knocked the phone out of the journalist's hand. The device crashed hard onto the cabin floor and slid beneath the seats a row further back.
"Hey! Are you out of your mind? That's destruction of property!" Moretti shouted, his face turning red with rage.
The flight attendant walking down the aisle hurried forward. "Sir, sir! Please sit down immediately! We're landing shortly and seatbelts must be fastened!"
Luca completely ignored the flight attendant. He grabbed Moretti by the collar of his shirt, pulled him close, and whispered something in his ear so terrifying that the color instantly drained from the journalist's face. Whatever he said, it worked immediately: Moretti nodded fearfully, dropped his head, and pressed himself back into his seat without producing another sound.
When Luca returned to seat 12A and slumped next to me, he was breathing heavily. His hands were shaking slightly from the adrenaline.
"That... might not have been very smart," I said, though I could barely hide the admiration in my own voice.
"Sometimes you have to show people they've gone too far," Luca replied curtly. He looked at Vittoria, who was now sleeping peacefully in my arms again, completely unaware of the confrontation. "We're almost in Rome, Elena. What are you going to do there?"
"Visit my sister," I answered softly. "And start over. Without Stefano. Without all those lies."
Luca nodded slowly. He reached into the inside pocket of his pilot's jacket and pulled out a small, dark blue business card with only a handwritten phone number and his first name. He discreetly slipped the card into the palm of my hand.
"If you ever talk to someone who wants to hear the truth... or if you just need a shoulder that doesn't move during turbulence... call me," he said with an intensity that caught in my throat.
The plane made a hard thud on the Fiumicino runway. The brakes screeched, and the engines roared at full power to bring the aircraft to a halt.
