Chapter 1 JFK Airport 1989
THE WIDOW’S GAME
Chapter one
JFK Airport, 1989
The bathroom mirror at Gate 58 was unforgiving.
Eighteen-year-old Isabel Serafini from Tupelo, Mississippi stared at her reflection, refusing to blink. One stubborn strand of dark hair kept falling slightly off-center from where it needed to be. She pinned it again. Tighter this time.
The small airline cap sat perched on her head like it belonged there.
Because today, it did.
She ran through her mental checklist like a prayer.
Hair brushed? Check.
Toothbrush packed? Check.
Makeup perfect? Check.
Uniform pressed? Check.
She took a slow breath.
“You can do this,” she whispered to the girl in the mirror. “You can do this, Isabel.”
The scared little girl from Tupelo was about to walk through that bathroom door and become someone new.
Professional.
Composed.
Graceful.
Untouchable.
When she stepped out, that girl stayed behind.
Her heels clicked sharply against the terminal floor as she rushed toward the gate, rolling luggage behind her.
Two minutes.
She had two minutes to spare.
By the time she boarded the plane, her heart was hammering so hard she thought the passengers might hear it. She ducked into the galley and gripped the edge of the counter for balance.
Third flight.
This was only her third flight.
She closed her eyes, straightened her uniform, and painted on the professional smile she’d practiced in the mirror a hundred times.
Then she stepped into the cabin.
And felt it immediately.
A stare.
Heavy. Intentional. Locked directly onto her.
Seat 1A.
A young man in a tailored business suit sat leaned back comfortably, one arm draped over the armrest. Maybe twenty-five. Dark hair. Sharp jaw. Expensive watch. Business companions around him mid-conversation.
But his eyes never left her face.
“Miss,” he called smoothly, “I need a screwdriver and your phone number.”
The men around him erupted laughing.
“Nick, you’re crazy,” one of them barked.
But Nick only grinned wider, perfectly comfortable being the center of attention.
“Watch and learn, boys.”
He leaned forward slightly.
“Seriously though, sweetheart. A screwdriver. And your number.”
Isabel kept her composure intact, though she could feel warmth rising into her cheeks.
“Sir,” she replied sweetly, “I’d be happy to get you the drink. But my phone number isn’t on the menu.”
His friends hollered louder.
Nick laughed too, but there was something dangerous in the way he looked at her. Not cruel. Certain.
“Well then,” he said calmly, “I suppose I’ll just have to order off menu.”
One of the men beside him shook his head laughing.
“Sweetheart, he’s not as tough as he acts.”
But Nick never looked away from her.
Not once.
Isabel turned and walked back toward the galley with her professional composure perfectly intact.
Only her trembling hands betrayed her.
The senior stewardess looked up while restocking glasses.
“You alright, honey?”
Isabel lowered her voice.
“I need a favor.”
The older woman raised an eyebrow.
“Can you make me a screwdriver?” Isabel asked softly. “A really good one. The best one you’ve ever made.”
The stewardess smiled slowly.
“Oh, sugar,” she laughed. “You got it bad already.”
“I do not.”
“Honey, I’ve been flying twenty years. That man hasn’t blinked since you walked into that cabin.”
She expertly mixed the drink and slid it across the counter.
“There. That’ll knock his socks off.”
Isabel carefully placed the crystal-clear drink onto a silver tray beside a pristine white napkin.
Then she paused.
“Do I look okay?”
The older woman looked her over slowly.
“Okay? Sweetheart, you look like a runway model. Now go get your man.”
Isabel’s cheeks burned crimson.
She steadied the tray and stepped back into the cabin.
Nick watched her approach like she was the only person on the plane.
She placed the drink carefully in front of him.
“It looks perfect,” he said softly.
Then his eyes lifted to hers.
“Just like you.”
Her stomach flipped violently.
Professional. Composed. Untouchable.
“Will there be anything else, sir?”
“Not right now.”
But his eyes never left her face.
For the remainder of the flight, Isabel could feel his attention on her like sunlight through glass.
Every time she glanced his way, he was already watching.
When the plane finally landed, she gathered her things and stepped through the gate into the busy terminal.
And there he was.
Waiting.
His suit jacket hung casually over one shoulder, one hand hooked through the handle of his luggage. His business friends were gone now.
It was just him.
Waiting for her like he knew she’d come.
“I didn’t even get your name,” he said.
Isabel smiled despite herself.
“It’s Isabel.”
That slow grin spread across his face again, softer this time.
More certain.
“Well,” he said, stepping closer, “I needed to know my wife’s first name.”
And before she could stop herself, the schoolgirl giggle escaped.
Real.
Honest.
His.
