Page 53 of The Slug Crystal

He moves through the pre-flight checklist with practiced efficiency, his hands confident on the controls, voice clear and professional as he communicates with the tower.

This Luca is different from the one I've come to know. He’s focused, and precise, with his playboy charm temporarily set aside in favor of competence. It's surprisingly attractive.

"Ready?" he asks me, his gray eyes meeting mine over the rim of his sunglasses.

I nod, suddenly unable to speak as the engines roar to life, vibrating through the floor and up into my body. The sensation is both exhilarating and terrifying. There’s so much power contained in such a small space, all of it under Luca's control.

Takeoff is smoother than I expected, the ground falling away beneath us as we climb into a perfectly blue Venetian sky.

The lagoon spreads out below like spilled mercury, catching the sunlight in blinding flashes.

Luca handles the controls with the same effortless grace he brings to everything.

Like dancing, baking, and navigating social situations.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" he says, nodding toward the view. "This is freedom. "

I understand what he means. Up here, the complications waiting in Milan, like finding Sarah, curing Alex's condition, and the web of feelings weaving between all of us, seem distant. More manageable. The sky holds no expectations, no past mistakes, no conflicted loyalties.

"How long until Milan?" Marco asks from behind us, always practical, always planning.

"About an hour, with good conditions," Luca replies, checking something on the instrument panel. "Which we should have, according to the?—"

He cuts off abruptly, frowning at something outside my field of vision. I follow his gaze to see dark clouds gathering to the north, directly in our flight path.

"That wasn't on the radar," he mutters, more to himself than to me. "Tower didn't mention any weather systems."

"Is it a problem?" I ask, tension creeping into my voice.

Luca's smile returns, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Nothing I can't handle. Might get a little bumpy, though."

As if on cue, the plane gives a slight shudder as we pass into the first wave of dark clouds. It feels like a warning. Like the first tremor of what's to come. I grip the edge of my seat, stomach lurching uncomfortably.

"Just some light turbulence," Luca assures me, his voice steady even as the plane dips suddenly, then rights itself. "Completely normal."

Behind us, Ben lets out a string of creative curses that would make a sailor blush. Jake murmurs something reassuring to Alex, as if the snail might be concerned about our flight conditions. Marco remains silent, though I hear the click of his seatbelt being double-checked.

The clouds engulf us with surprising speed, transforming the bright blue world outside into a gray nothingness that presses against the windows like fog.

Inside this nebulous realm, the turbulence intensifies.

It’s no longer a gentle rocking but sharp, unpredictable jolts that make the entire aircraft shudder.

A particularly violent drop makes me gasp, my stomach seemingly left behind as the plane plummets several feet before stabilizing. The cabin fills with noise. Light sounds of the water hitting the plane outside compete with the sound of the engines working harder.

"It's okay," Luca says, his voice tight with concentration. "Just a summer storm. We'll be through it soon."

Another jolt rocks the plane, hard enough that my teeth click together painfully.

My knuckles turn white on the armrest, fear rising in my throat like bile.

The rational part of my brain knows that planes are designed to handle turbulence, that Luca is a skilled pilot, and that thousands of aircraft weather similar conditions daily.

The primitive part of my brain, however, is screaming that humans aren't meant to be in metal tubes thousands of feet above the earth during what feels increasingly like a typhoon.

"Here," Luca says suddenly, reaching for my right hand. "Help me with this."

Before I can protest, he guides my hand to the co-pilot's control yoke, placing my fingers alongside his. The metal is cool beneath my touch, vibrating with the strain of fighting the turbulent air.

"Feel that?" he asks, his voice close to my ear as the plane bucks beneath us. "That's the aircraft talking to us. She tells us what she needs."

Another violent drop makes my stomach lurch, but my hand remains steady on the controls, anchored by Luca's confident grip.

"Pull back, just slightly," he instructs, guiding my movement. "Like this. Feel how she responds?"

To my surprise, I do feel it. There’s a subtle shift in the aircraft's attitude. I register the way it seems to settle briefly before the next buffet of wind hits. Luca's hand remains over mine, warm and steady, as we navigate through the invisible currents that toss us like a leaf in a stream.

"Good," he praises as I anticipate a dip and help him adjust. "You're a natural."

A particularly violent jolt sends something behind us, someone's bag, perhaps, crashing to the floor. Ben lets out another creative expletive, followed by a strangled laugh that sounds more like fear than humor.

"Are you two losing it up there?" Jake calls, his steady voice tinged with concern.

"Sorry about that," Luca calls over his shoulder, his voice deliberately light. "Just showing Emma some advanced maneuvers."

"I will end you, Bianchi," Ben replies through clenched teeth. "If we survive this, I'm going to kill you myself."

The absurdity of the threat, as if Luca has personally offended Ben by flying through turbulence, strikes me as hilarious.

A bubble of laughter escapes me, high and slightly hysterical.

Luca glances at me, surprise momentarily replacing concentration before he too releases a deep chuckle.

As soon as we stop laughing, a new, anxious thought bubbles up in my mind.

“That crash wasn’t Alex, right?” I ask tentatively.

“No, Alex is buckled in safely. But maybe you could let Luca fly the plane,” Jake suggests.

My hands fly off the yoke like they’ve been burned. “Maybe you should take control back,” I agree.

"Just enjoy the ride," Luca responds, winking at me even as he makes another adjustment to our course. His hands are now fixed on his own yoke. His gaze is focused on the glowing instruments in front of us.

The longer I watch him, the more at ease I feel. Luca’s confidence is infectious, and I become more confident in him too. Each violent shake of the aircraft becomes almost a game, a challenge we face together, as Luca masters the controls and we ride out the storm.

"Almost through," he promises as a particularly sharp drop makes my stomach lurch into my throat again, a small noise escaping without my permission. "See that brightness ahead?"

I squint through the cockpit window, and there it is, a lightening in the gray soup surrounding us, a promise of clear air beyond the turbulence.

The plane gives one final, violent shudder, and then we're bursting through the cloud layer into blindingly bright sunshine, the blue sky opening above us like a benediction.

"There," Luca says, satisfaction evident in his voice. "What did I tell you? Nothing to worry about."

The sudden absence of turbulence feels almost unnatural, the smooth flight now almost boring in comparison to the rollercoaster we've just survived.

I become aware that I'm gripping Luca's forearm with my free hand, my nails having left small crescent marks in his tanned skin.

I release him quickly, flexing my fingers to relieve the stiffness.

"Sorry," I mutter, embarrassed by the evidence of my fear.

Luca glances at the marks, then back at me, something darkening in his eyes that has nothing to do with the storm we've just navigated.

"Don't be," he says, voice dropping to ensure our conversation remains private despite the small cabin.

"I don’t mind a few small marks on my skin from such a beautiful woman. "

The double meaning isn't lost on me, nor is the way his gaze lingers on my lips for a fraction too long before returning to the controls.

The adrenaline from the turbulence hasn't fully dissipated, making every sensation more intense.

It amplifies the brush of his sleeve against mine, the lingering warmth on my palm from holding his arm, and the subtle scent of his cologne mixing with leather seats and aircraft fuel .

"Milan, twenty minutes," he announces to the cabin at large, professional once more. But beneath the announcement, he leans closer to me, his voice for my ears alone. "I'd say we make a good team, Emma Hartley."

The words send a shiver through me that has nothing to do with turbulence and everything to do with possibility.

Below us, Milan sprawls into view, our destination and all its complications waiting. But for these few minutes of clear air and blue sky, I allow myself to enjoy the simple pleasure of flying with a handsome, capable man who looks at me like I'm the most interesting view from his cockpit.