Kidnapped in Italy by the mafia

Mia DeLuca02 June 2025

“Bye, Mom,” I say as I slide into the backseat of the car.

She smiles, lifts her hand, and waves until the door shuts. Only then do I allow myself to breathe.

Relief settles in my chest the moment the car begins to move.

I am the daughter of a Capo of the Chicago crime family, and freedom has always been a foreign concept to me. My life is guarded, measured, controlled. I have grown up behind gates and tinted windows, watched by men with guns and silent eyes. My father, Giovanni DeLuca, is powerful and old school. He believes in discipline, tradition, and protection. He keeps me far from violence and closer to obedience, shaping me into the kind of daughter he can one day marry into a strategic alliance.

But today, I am leaving.

For the first time in my life, I am traveling without bodyguards. It takes weeks of pleading, promises, and careful words before my father finally agrees. Just one week, he says. One week of freedom.

It feels unreal.

It is Sofia’s birthday. She is turning twenty three, and we are going to Italy. Just four girls. Sofia, her cousins Bridget and Aria, and me. No guards. No rules. No suffocating eyes from Chicago.

We plan this trip for wine, sun, beaches, history, and escape.

The car pulls up at the airport. My driver steps out immediately and takes my pink suitcase from the trunk. I clutch my Chanel bag in one hand and scan the crowd.

“Mia!”

Sofia’s voice cuts through the noise. I turn and see her running toward me, her dark blue eyes bright with excitement. Her almost blonde hair flows freely down her back. She wears black comfortable pants, a jacket, and white Nike shoes. She looks effortless and beautiful, like a living Barbie doll.

I roll my suitcase toward her and she wraps her arms around me.

“I am so excited for this trip,” she says as she pulls back.

“Yes. Freedom for a week,” I reply with a wide grin.

Bridget and Aria join us. Aria is a brunette like me, slim and graceful, with deep brown eyes. Bridget has long black hair, thick lashes, and a perfectly symmetrical face, like she stepped out of a fashion magazine.

We hug all at once, laughing, unable to contain our excitement.

“This is the trip we always talked about,” Aria says. “Finally, we are going.”

“Once we get on the flight, then I will feel fine,” Sofia says, fanning herself dramatically.

“Why are you nervous?” Bridget chuckles. “Don’t worry. This trip will be the most memorable trip of our lives.”

I beam and reach into my handbag. “That’s why I bought an instant camera.”

I pull out a small pink camera and hold it up. “Come on, let’s take an airport snap.”

We gather close, posing and laughing as I click the button. The flash goes off. The film slides out slowly, and we wait for the image to appear.

I gasp. “Oh wow.”

I show them the picture.

“This will be great for memories,” Sofia says.

I nod and slide it carefully into my bag. “I am keeping it.”

After security and boarding, we finally settle into our seats. We are supposed to travel business class, but we choose economy instead so we can spend the extra money on shopping and partying. Girl math.

Sofia takes the window seat. Bridget and Aria sit behind us. It is a long flight, nearly nine hours, and we promise to swap seats later.

As the plane takes off, I put on my headphones and open a magazine filled with pictures of Italy. Words jump out at me. Ciao bella. Amore. Pasta. Pizza. Limoncello.

Rome. Amalfi Coast. Sicily.

Our plan is simple. One day in Rome. One day in Amalfi. The rest in Sicily, where we rent a beachfront villa and live like queens.

I have never been to Italy, even though my ancestors come from there. Sicilians. It feels strange and poetic, stepping onto land that belongs to my blood.

Eleven hours later, we stand in front of our hotel in Rome. It is eight in the evening.

“We better get inside for dinner,” Aria says.

The butlers take our luggage, and the hostess leads us into a lavish restaurant overlooking the swimming pool. Amber lights reflect on cool blue water. The air smells different here, rich with oregano and basil, something fresh and ancient at the same time.

For my first course, I order perch ravioli filled with fish, white butter, sage, and walnuts.

The taste makes my eyes widen. This is nothing like what my mother cooks at home. This is the original recipe. This is Italy.

For the main course, I choose duck breast with Belgian endive and red berry sauce.

“This is the yummiest food I have ever had in my life,” I say after the first bite.

“The Italian food our parents feed us at home is nothing like this,” Aria says sarcastically.

“They have been fooling us all this time,” Sofia laughs.

“Maybe they don’t even know how real Italian food tastes,” Bridget adds.

I shake my head with a grin. “My mom has been to Italy many times. She knows how it tastes. She just never cooks like this.”

“We had to leave Chicago to find the truth,” Sofia says.

For dessert, I order soft chocolate cake and sip the finest red wine. After dinner, we walk near the pool, taking in the beauty of the hotel. The girls chatter endlessly, their laughter floating through the warm night air.

I listen, smile, and sip my wine. Jet lag presses heavily against my body. My thoughts feel slow, dreamy.

Then I feel it.

A presence.

Like eyes on my skin. Like someone has been watching me a while now.

I shake my head and lift my glass again, telling myself it is only exhaustion. The laughter of my friends drifts around me, light and careless, but the feeling does not fade. It clings to my skin like a whisper I cannot hear. I scan the shadows beyond the pool lights once more and find nothing, only darkness stretching deeper into the night.

Somewhere past the line where light surrenders to shadow, an unseen gaze lingers on me, cold and patient, as if fate itself has finally found me.