Chapter 103

Three days later, we were at Charles de Gaulle Airport with fake names, real plans, and enough luggage to either film a fashion montage or smuggle a small militia.

“Why do I have to be Francesca again?” Jhing Jhing asked, flipping through her fresh passport with a perfectly manicured scowl. “I feel like a Francesca can’t stab someone. She makes cookies and has opinions about curtains.”

“You literally requested that name last time,” I replied, adjusting my oversized sunglasses. “Said it gave you ‘Italian trophy wife who hides cyanide in her lip gloss’ energy.”

She shrugged. “Okay, that was the vibe.”

Mylene emerged from duty-free with a tiny espresso in one hand and an even tinier designer bag in the other. “Why do rich people pay 700 euros for a bikini that’s basically two postage stamps and a prayer?”

“Because Italian beach clubs don’t allow peasant vibes,” I said, tossing a gold Amex onto the counter with a wink. “Also, if I’m going to assassinate a man, I want to do it in couture.”

Joe, ever the reluctant chaperone, followed behind us like a long-suffering bodyguard-slash-wet blanket, muttering things like, “You don’t need a fifth pair of heels,” and “How many bikinis do you think fit in a carry-on filled with weapons?”

The answer, for the record, is six. Plus two knives and a compact drone named Petty.

Outside, our private driver was arguing in Italian with a valet who tried to flirt with Mylene. She blew the man a kiss and then threatened to rearrange his jaw.

“I’m loving Italy already,” she declared.

Cut to: Tuscany.

We hadn’t even reached the plane when chaos hit like a luggage cart to the ankle.

“Passport, please,” the customs officer asked, eyeing Mylene’s ID with suspicion.

She batted her lashes. “Yes, darling. It’s under Myléna du Lac—accent on the drama.”

“Du Lac?” he repeated slowly.

Jhing Jhing leaned in, whispering too loudly, “It means ‘from the lake.’ Like a mermaid. A criminally hot one.”

Behind us, Joe groaned. “Can we please just act normal until we get past the border?”

I laughed as I unzipped my bag to pull out my second passport. “Joe. Sweetie. Normal is not in our carry-on.”

Security didn’t love that I had a satin robe labeled “Do Not Disturb Unless You're Bringing Champagne” or that Jhing Jhing’s curling iron was disguised as a taser.

We were this close to getting flagged, but then the airport announcement came on:

“Final boarding call for Flight 512 to Florence. Will the group dressed like a traveling bachelorette party with a weapons fetish please proceed to gate 7?”

That was us.

And yes, we walked down the terminal like it was a damn runway.

Boarding the plane.

It was a full flight. Crying toddlers. Businessmen with Bluetooth headsets. One suspicious man in a velvet tracksuit and white socks with sandals. We did not judge. Much.

“I booked economy to stay under the radar,” Joe explained, stuffing his giant tactical bag into the overhead bin like a dad with rage issues.

“I brought a neck pillow made of crushed velvet and secrets,” I said, claiming the window seat. “And I will not be judged for it.”

Jhing Jhing slid in next to me, already unwrapping snacks like she had smuggled a Costco aisle into her tote.

Mylene sat one row behind us next to a woman with three toddlers who immediately started crying. All of them.

“You’re so cute!” Mylene cooed, before whispering under her breath, “Why are they all leaking?”

Ten minutes into the flight:

Jhing Jhing started a passive-aggressive argument with a flight attendant about “what counts as ‘emotional support wine.’”

I “accidentally” spilled cranberry juice on the man in front of me after he asked me to smile.

Mylene joined the Mile High Nanny Club by bribing the toddlers with chocolate and teaching them to say “ciao bella” every time a flight attendant walked by.

Joe, meanwhile, had pulled his baseball cap over his eyes and was pretending not to know us.

He failed. Miserably.

Because the kid behind him kicked his seat.

Once. Twice. Then a third time, with conviction.

Joe turned slowly. “If your child kicks me one more time, I will file a restraining order from 36,000 feet.”

The mother blinked. “Excuse me?”

Jhing Jhing turned in her seat with a sweet smile. “He means that lovingly. In the same way I’d lovingly tase someone who spills lukewarm coffee on my $600 skirt.”

The turbulence hit mid-sentence. We bounced. Wine spilled. Jhing Jhing shrieked and grabbed my hand.

Mylene yelled from behind, “I KNEW I SHOULD’VE SEDATED MYSELF.”

A very tan, very flirtatious Italian man across the aisle smiled at me. “First time in Tuscany?”

I turned, hair tousled, lips smirking. “No. First time I’ve ruined someone’s life in Tuscany, though.”

He blinked. Adjusted his tie. Probably fell in love.

The plane finally landed with a screech and a collective groan of international exhaustion.

Customs in Italy was no better.

Jhing Jhing got randomly searched. She called it “profiling against women who look expensive.”

Mylene’s perfume set off the detector. Twice.

Joe’s tactical boots got flagged for “carrying too much main-character energy.”

I made it through, barely, after pretending to be an heiress who cried on command. It worked.

“Welcome to Italy,” the customs officer finally said.

I adjusted my sunglasses. “Darling, Italy’s not ready.”

We walked out into the golden Tuscan sunlight like a Gucci ad directed by Tarantino.

Ready to ruin lives, drink wine, and maybe stab someone under a lemon tree.