stop myself, remembering my dad’s emphatic command. Keep your fucking mouth shut.
I mumble a noncommittal response. “Mmm-hmm.”
“Are you here to study abroad? Oh my God, you’ll have so much fun! I did that when I was in college, too. Had the time of my life.” She wiggles her full eyebrows at me, tilting sideways at her hips to whisper, as if I’m in on her secret. “I still have fond memories of Marcello from a weekend in Portugal when I was twenty-something.”
The woman runs a finger across her pouty bottom lip, her thoughts taking her far away from the custom’s line. I look her over surreptitiously, noting the fine lines around her eyes and mouth, conspicuously hidden by Botox and brightener.
If I had to guess, I’d say she was in her late 30’s, maybe early 40’s. Her outfit is fancy, bling and baubles, expensive handbag and shoes. Definitely a socialite or a woman of wealth and money.
She flutters a hand over her face, as if she’s overheating from the memories, and then darts a hand out in front of her looking for me to accept it.
“My name’s Dorian, by the way. And yours, darling?”
Oh shit. Do I give her my real name? I hadn’t considered the possibility that I’d have to engage in conversation with anyone aside from the taxi driver who would take me to my destination. In fact, I was sure everyone would be speaking a different language, leaving it impossible to converse.
No such luck.
In the second or two that it takes for me to decide on what information I should share with her, her interest diverts to the sound of incoming messages on her phone she clasps in her hand. She holds it up to read, tapping out a response, as we slowly inch forward another few steps in line.
My mind wanders, and I wonder if she’s here for business or pleasure. Maybe she’s here for a week-long conference. Or maybe she’s meeting a man she’s having a torrid love affair with, and they are running away together.
I may have lived a sheltered life thus far, never leaving my home of Jersey, except for some trips here and there to New York City, but my imagination can run wild, dreaming up very vivid and crazy notions.
Wondering what I would do if I was free to travel the world to learn about new cultures and people and to move away from the noise and havoc of Jersey. Out from under my father’s cruel thumb and my brother’s brutal torment.
The backpack suddenly feels like it weighs a thousand pounds, the contents inside worth more to me than just a profit. It holds the key to my future. And the irony is not lost on me that in order to buy my freedom and cut the ties that bind me to my dad and brother, leaving behind a life of crime, I have to sell a stolen diamond. A crime, in and of itself.
I never wanted to be in this business with my dad and brother. And for a long time, Mudd kept me out of it. But there came when I grew old enough that Mudd figured out that a pretty teenage girl would be useful in their trade. So, he trained me and put me to work.
And not in the same way he focused his energies on my older brother, Johno. A man who at the age of twenty-four, is considered the prince of the family. The next in line to the Phillips empire.
But with Johno now incarcerated in a federal penitentiary in upstate New York, and Mudd in fairly poor health and under house arrest, I was promoted from lackey to mule. Lucky me.
The timing of this deal and the factors leaving me the only one who could handle it for Mudd, gave me the leverage I needed to cut my own deal. I made my father promise me that once I returned, I'd be able to leave and walk away from the conning and thieving, the petty crimes I'd been tasked with for years - and he wouldn't stop me.
To get the hell away from this family and lead my own life.
At twenty, there’s so much I want to do. Maybe go to art school to become an artist. Or move to L.A. to act or Bora Bora and make handmade bracelets for beach vacationers. I don’t care where I go or what I do, as long as I can create something. But it won’t happen