It's Just Business
~O~
She's different.
Gisele lifted a thin hand to her chest, settling her lanky frame against the metal railing of the balcony. Deep in thought, she was unbothered by the evening drizzle; its haziness mirrored her mood.
Her smile…? Gisele touched her necklace, its charm a faded denarius depicting the Roman goddess of joy, Lætitia. Uniquely warm and cheerful, her smile intrigued Gisele. The juxtaposition of its warmth and the coldness of the criminal underworld was meteoric.
Letty. Leticia. Lætitia. She exhaled slowly and nodded. Makes sense. She has a happy smile.
Despite knowing her fate, Gisele felt a strange urge to befriend Letty; it was more a vague inclination than an actual thought, and she recognized its foolishness.
"You're getting wet, chica."
Gisele glanced up and dropped the necklace to her chest, eyeing the hulking figure coolly. "…What is it?"
"Get inside, ahora, and report to Braga."
Only hours earlier, she had said the same thing to Letty. Congrats, you won the slot. Report to Braga when summoned. No warnings or chitchat, just the basic formal script. Now, picturing her happy grin, Gisele regretted her terseness; she wished she had offered Letty her number.
"Later," she answered shortly, and ambled past the man. "I'm going out."
"Not too far, chica." Braga preferred Gisele close by, designating Fenix her unofficial watchdog.
"…Just to the movies."
~O~
The movie theater was old, its paint yellowed and its billboard grimy, and only one film was playing: Litla Hafmeyjan, the Icelandic dub of The Little Mermaid. A bucket of popcorn in hand, Letty settled into her dilapidated seat; gingerly, she fingered its exposed stuffing, tossing tiny clumps of fluff onto the floor.
Bet you're bored without me around, huh, Dom? she asked inwardly, touching the silver cross at her chest.
She pursed her lips together, thinking of Mia. Keeping mum, huh? At Dom's request, Mia had refused to divulge his location or his digits to Letty. She wanted to keep her friend safe, so she had agreed to remain silent on the topic.
Mexico. Nicaragua. Chile. Where the hell are you, papá?
Glancing at her ring finger, Letty reminded herself that although Dom had left her, he had not abandoned her; regardless of their respective locations, their souls were stubbornly intertwined.
The lights suddenly dimmed, cloaking the willowy figure sauntering down the hallway.
"…May I sit here?"
Letty nodded distractedly, her eyes on the screen, and moved her popcorn bucket from the adjacent seat to her lap. As the woman took her seat, Litla Hafmeyjan began. They were the only people in the theater, adrift in a sea of empty spaces.
Gisele tilted her head slightly, watching Letty with a trained subtlety. Her discreetness was rewarded with the coveted smile as the girl reacted to a particular part of the film.
Demurely, Gisele returned the smile. Letty's different, she reconfirmed, although it was a peculiarity she could not put into words.
Gisele, too, was unusual. Noticeably disinterested in the individuals she regularly encountered, she had maintained an aloofness that had left her hauntingly alone in the illicit realm of drug lords and trophy girls. Now, she wanted a friend who, like herself, was also unusual.
"As a little girl, I watched this film in Hebrew," Gisele whispered to Letty, hoping to catch her attention. Not a moment later, she received the desired effect.
Letty faced her companion and paused, her eyebrows furrowed together in thought. She remembered Gisele slowly, first noting her towering thinness and then her accent, but eventually the recognition stuck.
"…What the hell do you want?"
"To watch to the film."
"Yeah, right. Who catches a movie at two a.m.?"
"You do, apparently."
Letty scoffed, shaking her head in disbelief; her distrust was practically odorous. "Are you following me?"
"Like I said, I'm just here to watch the film."
The picture suddenly lost sound, allowing Gisele to redirect the course of the conversation.
"…Are you attending the party tonight? Campos likes to learn the personalities of his drivers. For Braga, that is."
"Like I have a choice."
Letty shifted uncomfortably and turned away from Gisele, unsure of her motives. When she had first encountered the woman, her initial thought was a single word: skank. To Letty, nothing spotlighted her as special or different; recognition like that was something Gisele would have to earn.
"Do whatever you want. It's just business, after all."
Abruptly, the picture shut off, followed by the lights in the lobby.
"Screw this." Grabbing her bucket of popcorn, Letty hastily left her seat and exited the building.
Alone in the darkness of the theater, Gisele considered returning to Braga; she was, after all, attempting to befriend a corpse. An unwise exploit, she admitted sensibly. Longing overpowered logic, however, and Gisele decided to pursue Letty again.
Outside of the theater, Letty stood motionless in the yawning emptiness of the street. As Gisele approached the girl, she noted her rigid posture and clenched fists; something was amiss.
"…Are you alright?"
"It's gone," she uttered slowly, livid and slightly embarrassed. "My '70 Plymouth." Dom's car, she added regretfully.
Gisele nodded and narrowed her eyes, scrutinizing the item Letty held in her hand. "A Buddhist charm? Did you find it near where you parked your car?"
"Yeah. Racers in Little Saigon wear them for good luck." Johnny Tran and his team did, anyway.
Standing there in the drizzle, Letty suddenly grew heavy with loneliness. The unexpected disappearance of her Plymouth had evoked unsettling memories of loss; she missed her family and regretted its abrupt dissolution, and she hoped someday she could reconstruct it.
"I'll drive you to Little Saigon. If a racer stole your Plymouth, then you'll need my Porsche to get it back."
Again, Letty scoffed and eyed Gisele, her stare unwavering. A pretty girl offering her help? Dom, you'd jump on this one, wouldn't you? Although she distrusted Gisele, Letty acknowledged the truthfulness of her logic: she needed a fast car to retrieve a fast car.
Gisele smiled softly, hoping to put Letty at ease; she did not put her at ease. Keeping aware but remaining distant, Letty reluctantly followed Gisele to her car.
~O~
Nighttime in Little Saigon was markedly eerie, its stillness a bleak reflection of fear. Empty streets and flickering lampposts added to the macabre picture, and in faded Vietnamese an old sign read, Outsiders Beware.
Years earlier, Dom had warned Letty about Little Saigon, advising her not to visit it. Although Dom did not speak Vietnamese, he knew enough of it to read basic signposts and billboards; as a precautionary measure, he had taught Letty to read them, too. As Gisele navigated the twists and turns of the area, Letty spotted the foreboding signpost and thought uneasily, I know, I know. I shouldn't be here, Dom.
"Did you win it? Your '70 Plymouth?" Gisele inquired as she scanned the streets for the car.
"…My husband won it."
Her response surprised Gisele. She had expected an honest reply, but not an informative one. Had she wrongly presumed Letty's solitude, Gisele wondered, and if so, where was her husband?
"But he left it for me."
Left it? "He isn't with you?"
Shaking her head, Letty mumbled bitterly, "I don't know where he is."
So, I was right. She is alone. Her answer relieved Gisele, as it ensured a potential friendship between the girls. But still, the woman berated herself for her selfishness, inwardly admitting that she was unaccustomed to thinking of others.
Tilting her head to the side, Letty suddenly said, "Listen. Is that music?"
Gisele nodded and smirked. "Seems we found our guys."
Turning a corner, the girls abruptly reached their destination: an illicit hodgepodge of import and muscle cars, drivers and groupies. Eyeing the colorful crowd, Letty thought sourly, They stole my Road Runner but left her Cayman? Figures.
Carefully, the girls located an empty parking space and exited the car. They ambled through the crowd cautiously, smothered by its collective gaze. Gisele was used to the attention; Letty was not, as Dom usually absorbed the stares.
"Just ignore them," Gisele advised her companion.
Aesthetics aside, Letty and Gisele pulled glances their way because they lacked male counterparts. Their independence was loud, and to some, obnoxious.
Scrutinizing the sea of polished cars, Letty muttered, "Shit, if it's not here…"
"It'll be here."
But as she scanned the area, Gisele silently hoped the Plymouth was elsewhere, subconsciously sabotaging her own efforts to locate the car—she wanted to prolong her time with Letty, as she had not yet truly befriended the girl.
As if to counteract her selfishness, however, Gisele immediately spotted the classic ride. "…There it is," she announced coolly, pointing to an adjacent crowd of onlookers.
Surrounded by a group of glittering girls was the Plymouth, largely unharmed and oddly driverless; an unexpected twist, its owner was noticeably absent.
"…Letty Ortiz? Or Letty Toretto, maybe?" a voice suddenly asked from behind.
Letty froze. The familiarity of the voice was distant and barely there, coated thick with haziness. But its vagueness did not render it entirely opaque, and eventually her mind pieced together the face behind the voice.
Incredulously, Letty turned to face the figure. "…Wendy Tran?"
Chuckling happily, the woman said, "Glad you remember me. What has it been, five years?"
"That sounds about right."
And then, Letty smiled. Her grin was soft but visible, and considering their undesirable situation, its existence surprised Gisele. She had not expected Letty to greet anyone warmly in Little Saigon, and with curiosity she watched their interaction.
Wendy Tran was an enduringly optimistic and amiable individual, and she liked everyone and could befriend anyone, regardless of their particularities. Because of this, Letty had always disconnected Wendy from her brother, Johnny, and she had enjoyed her friendship with the woman. Wendy also, however, possessed a peculiar indifference to the cruelty of the underworld, so much so that she seemed not to recognize its existence. This had made Letty very uneasy during their friendship.
Gisele sensed this in Wendy and partly identified with it; she was also a desensitized individual.
Casually, Wendy stretched her long, slender arms above her head, her soft curls tumbling freely at her waist. Her eyes roved curiously from Letty to Gisele, vaguely pondering their partnership—in a place like Little Saigon, they were an unconventional pair.
Taking hold of her hand, Wendy asked Letty, "So, are you just stopping by, or do you have time to reminisce with an old friend?"
A lamppost suddenly flickered, spotlighting Gisele, and Letty watched her for a moment before speaking again.
Gesturing to the car, Letty shook her head and said, "We'll talk later. Look, some jackass racer hijacked my '70 Plymouth and I want it back."
"Oh, the hijacker was hijacked?"
"Yeah, funny."
Still grasping her hand, Wendy guided Letty to the stolen vehicle, effortlessly parting the crowd as she walked to the car. "It's a hulking thing, isn't it? It suits Dom better than it suits you."
Letty snapped her eyes shut; his name rang so loudly in her ears. "Well, it should. He won it."
"Oh? Care to win it back?" Wendy wondered aloud, gripping a dark, curled lock between her fingers. "Just about an hour ago, I raced for it and won. Now, you can do the same. It'll be fun."
"Oh, c'mon. You won't just give it to me?"
"Nope. And afterwards, we can grab drinks and talk." Unexpectedly, the woman faced Gisele. "You're welcome to join us, too. Well, how about it?"
Discarding her role as the silent observer, Gisele produced the pink slip to her '07 Cayman and uttered, "My Porsche for her Plymouth. One race."
Letty eyed Gisele sharply, taken aback by the magnanimity of her offer, and also by its magnitude. If she lost, then so did Gisele.
Wendy liked the stakes and excitedly she exclaimed, "Now you're talking! Let's do it!"
Without another option to offer, Letty nodded and started for the Porsche; irritation bubbled inside of her. Gisele trailed her quietly, thinking enviously of Wendy and her openness with the girl. Her casual airiness.
Back at the car, Gisele inquired curiously, "How did you meet Wendy?"
Letty shot Gisele a long glance as she considered whether or not she wanted to discuss the topic. But memories flooded her mind, and at their rapid pace she was unable to suppress them.
"…At eighteen, she had a fling with my husband; he was twenty. And me? I was thirteen and resentful like hell of her."
As a little girl pining for a young man, the frustration Letty had felt was unbearable at times—the loneliness, too.
"And?"
She shrugged. "The fling ended and we became friends."
Part of the story Letty had clearly left unsaid, and because of its incompleteness it seemed untrue. Gisele noticed this, but chose not to call her on it.
"…Look, I don't get why you're helping me, but thanks," Letty suddenly uttered, and the sincerity in her voice warmed Gisele.
But Gisele did not deserve appreciation, and she knew this. By retrieving the Plymouth, she was ensuring the death of her new companion: with a car, Letty would traffic drugs for Braga and meet her end. Fenix.
Having switched seats, Letty maneuvered the Porsche to the starting point. Wendy was already there, corralled by an electric, energized crowd.
"Ready, Mrs. Toretto?" Wendy asked playfully, honking the horn of the Plymouth.
Letty revved her engine in response and grinned.
"Good luck," Gisele told Letty, smirking. "Hand her ass to her."
Although Wendy was a talented racer and the streets were sleek from the drizzle, Letty won the race. Her chest was an excited riot of heavy beats, reverberating across her slight, heated build. She relished the sense of freedom provided by the sport and wanted to race again.
Off in the distance, an old bell chimed the weary hour of the very early morning.
As Letty started the Plymouth, she said to Gisele, "At the party tonight, how about a round of drinks? My treat."
"I'd like that," Gisele agreed, although at the parties Braga hosted, the drinks were always complimentary.
Soft and silent, the drizzle returned as Letty left Little Saigon with Wendy. They disappeared into the crisp darkness of the morning, off to the only bar in town open at four a.m.
Alone again in the drizzle, Gisele noted that the weather no longer mirrored her mood. Her thoughts were clear and definite. She had done it; she had made a friend, and she was not about to lose her. I'll tell Letty what's in store for her, Gisele decided. At the party tonight.
Starting her Porsche, she silently bid farewell to Little Saigon.
~O~
Her eyes searched wistfully for Letty.
The chambers and hallways were swollen with swaying bodies and unfamiliar faces, and the air smelled of liquor and sweat. Gisele pushed through the crowd casually, ignoring the glances and catcalls of rowdy, drunk guests, until she reached the bar.
There, Letty downed the rest of her beer, thinking of Dom. Cheers, papá. You'll be home soon, she thought tiredly.
"You look like you could use another drink."
Letty glanced up and smirked, running a finger along the rim of her empty bottle. "Hell, yeah. Any suggestions?"
"Vodka." Gisele signaled for a large, unopened bottle of the liquor and two shot glasses. "Let's go upstairs and drink. Campos is abroad at the moment, so he won't be joining us."
"…What about Braga? Is he here?"
Gisele shook her head and answered aloofly, "He's also abroad. Mexico."
Letty nodded slowly, considering the deteriorating state of her undercover career and the course of her next move.
"Let's go upstairs. My bedroom's on the third floor."
Letty loosened up after the first shot of vodka, lounging limply on the bed near Gisele, who sat upright with her legs crossed. Dimness, soft and thick, clung to the corners and alcoves of the bedroom, tinted orange from the burning fireplace; the girls seemed to float in its low light.
"You were following me last night, weren't you?" Letty asked lazily, her dark eyes tracing the angled contours of the ceiling. "Don't bullshit me."
Gisele shifted her glance from the glass in her hand to the bottle of vodka on the table and considered taking a second shot before answering.
"…I overheard you mention the movies while you were on the phone."
Letty nodded, noting her stoicism and nonchalance; the question had not rattled her at all.
"But I wasn't trailing you. You left Braga hours before I did, and I didn't know what film or theater you had in mind. I just picked one and hoped you'd be there. And you were."
The theater Gisele had chosen, however, was not just any theater. Open only at night, it was a place for lonely people with things to bury, and she was a regular there. Who catches a movie at two a.m.? she silently wondered, recalling the question Letty had asked the previous night. Unsettled souls.
"But why?"
Grabbing the bottle of vodka, Gisele answered simply, "Because I want to be your friend." A curious seriousness emanated from her voice; she sounded too calculated, as if she had practiced saying the words before.
"…Really."
"Yes, really."
Letty's lips suddenly unfolded, releasing a laugh of disbelief, and became a grin. Driving to Little Saigon. Betting her Porsche. Dom, you'd believe her, huh? she thought, rubbing the glass in her hand. "Okay, fine. Let's be friends."
They toasted and downed a second round of shots.
As they drank, Gisele began to fantasize. Of a life with Letty. Of no more lonely evenings at the theater. Of happy nights and that bright smile, just for her. But behind these images, thoughts of the border and an armed man with a sneer loomed darkly.
"In Haifa, it rains like this during the winter," Gisele uttered, lighting a cigarette. "My hometown in Israel." She took a long, steady drag and then handed the thing to Letty.
Outside, the rainfall was erratic, alternating between heavy showers and light drizzles.
"…Could your husband be there?"
Putting the cigarette to her lips, Letty shook her head and said, "Doubt it. He sticks to Latin America." Then, she added bitterly, "Life's become a fucking Where's Waldo? picture book."
"Give it time." With a steady hand, Gisele refilled their glasses. "You'll find him."
After the third shot, Gisele lit another cigarette and left the bed, no longer wanting to drink. The liquor was amplifying the absurdity of her daydreams; lying there, she had actually imagined sharing an apartment with Letty.
"Do you miss it? Israel?"
Shrugging, the woman replied, "Sometimes. The beaches and harbors, especially. Haifa is a seaport."
She opened the door to the balcony, airing out the bedroom.
"Can't go back, though, so it doesn't matter."
"An expatriate, huh? Me too."
"That's putting it lightly."
"If I asked why, you couldn't tell me, could you?" Letty wondered, running a clumsy hand through her dark, wavy hair.
"Not tonight."
Dangling from a hook above the balcony, a set of chimes clanked together, a sopping, tangled mess emitting an ominous clamor not unnoticed by Gisele.
As she finished her cigarette, Gisele told Letty, "…You know, I first noticed you because of your smile." Yawning, she settled herself into an overstuffed armchair. "At the slot qualifiers."
"Oh, yeah?"
She nodded. "Something surprised you, and then you smiled. What was it?"
Letty exhaled slowly, watching the smoke rise above her flaccid frame in soft, willowy curls, and then snuffed out the cigarette. "A polished '68 Super Bee. It made me think of my husband. I'm rebuilding his '70 Charger R/T."
"Makes sense. You seemed so happy."
Shrugging, the girl said, "Yeah, well, I'm just rebuilding it so I can run him over with it when he finally comes home."
Gisele stood up and ambled over to the bed, gently resting her lanky build by Letty; she melted into the girl, the dimness obscuring the soft contours of their respective forms. Cell in hand, she said, "Take a picture with me."
They smiled, and as the cell clicked, Gisele thought, Tell her now.
"…You're the only one who knows I'm married," Letty suddenly admitted, placing an arm across her eyes. "The only fucking one."
Gisele ignored her confession, although she was oddly flattered by it, and vaguely wondered if Letty had meant to admit it to her. She watched the clock cautiously, scrutinizing its short, shaky movements. It was nearly four in the morning, and the hour tugged heavily at her eyelids.
"…Letty, don't drive for Braga tonight," Gisele uttered at once, closing her eyes. "It's a ruse. Fenix is going to kill you."
Would Letty leave her now, she wondered, and if so, how could she convince the girl to maintain their friendship? She waited for a reply, but only silence filled the whole of the bedroom.
"Letty?"
Sitting upright, Gisele turned and faced her companion. Except for the soft seesawing of her chest, Letty was still.
She's asleep, the woman noted, touching her shoulder. Fine. I'll tell her later.
Fumbling for a heavy blanket, Gisele relaxed by Letty and placed her head near the crook of the girl's neck. She listened to her breathe and gripped her hand; she wanted to be close to Letty, as she rarely slept well. What she saw when she slept always left dark, troublesome feelings inside of her—a phantasmal aftertaste. What was worse, she often asked herself, unconsciousness and the nightmares, or consciousness and the feelings that lingered?
Used to restless, tumultuous nights, the woman was reluctant to slumber. Once asleep, however, she dreamed only of the rainfall in a quiet, empty place, and this was not a nightmare.
~O~
Gisele woke up alone.
Scanning the cold, airy bedroom, she noted the empty bed and the dormant fireplace. The area felt bleak and forgotten, its dreariness amplified by the absence of her friend. Six a.m., she thought groggily, eyeing her watch. Letty must've just left.
As Gisele slipped out of bed, she spotted Letty's necklace, gleaming demurely amidst the rumpled sheets and wrinkled pillows. She touched it, surprised by its weight; its cross was heavy, unlike her thin, delicate denarius.
It's too bulky for Letty. Must belong to her husband, she conjectured.
Pocketing the necklace, Gisele rummaged through the tousled sheets for her cell, itching for a glimpse of the snapshot she had taken of Letty just hours earlier. Nestled underneath her pillow, the cell was off, concealing a dreadful secret from its unsuspecting owner.
Turning the phone on, Gisele instantly froze, a sickly numbness spreading from her chest to her limbs. Five short, basic messages awaited her:
Report to Warehouse C.
Report to Warehouse C, ASAP.
Report to Braga.
Report to Braga, ASAP.
Relieved of Duties. Substitute Found.
Gaping at the screen, her mind was a tumult of confused, fragmented thoughts, but her hands were steady as she gripped the phone. She eyed the corner of the screen, where the dismal hour resided.
It was six p.m.
I've slept all day, the woman realized at once, slumping against the edge of her armoire. Letty's halfway to Mexico by now.
But Gisele was all intelligence and research, a Mossad agent at heart: she knew every route and shortcut to Mexico. A little luck, coupled with a heavy foot, was all she needed to reach the border before the drivers did. Pocketing her keys and holstering a gun, Gisele bolted from the compound and beelined for her Porsche.
Reaching the freeway was simple; utilizing the road itself, however, was not, as lane upon lane of revealed a tangled, stagnant mess of vehicles. Dark, narrowed eyes watched the endless stream of cars, the drivers reduced to faceless shadows by the rainfall.
Gisele waited.
The noiseless quiescence of the cars gnawed at the woman, at the nape of her neck and at the small of her back; she felt trapped in an eerie stasis, and only the billowing exhaust from the cars ahead—a sign of activity—quelled the sharp, inchoate panic slowly building inside of her.
Her daydreams returned, aiding the passing of the hours.
She imagined Letty and herself in Haifa, watching the boats from the shoreline. Wet from the coastal drizzle, barefoot in the water. Conversing in Hebrew, or maybe in Spanish, waving at the boats setting sail and the cruise ships drifting by. Smiling, always smiling. But these daydreams, she admitted soberly, were nonsensical. Foolish, even. Privately, she chided herself, and had she had an audience, it would have considered her condemnatory thoughts appropriate and deserved.
Suddenly, her cell buzzed, interrupting her daydreams.
"…What it is?" she asked, her eyes on the car in front of her.
It was Fenix. The shipment was safe, he explained, and the drivers were dead. "And by the way, you're in big trouble, chica." Then, he hung up.
Gisele was silent for a moment, her mind trying to process the gravity of his report. Up head was an exit, and as soon as the line of cars began to move, the woman left the freeway. She followed a dirt road to a dilapidated barn, encircled by a field of grass; she parked and, for a short time, was motionless. She listened quietly to the melancholic hum of the raindrops against the rooftop of her car. Her eyes were still and they watched the downpour blankly; she could comprehend nothing but her own impotence and failure.
Letty was dead.
It's just business, Gisele thought mechanically, but in her mind the words seemed hollow and untrue. The leaden heaviness of loss curled her shoulders forward, and as she sat limp and unmoving, she felt her thin build grow numb.
"It's just business," she repeated aloud, her voice muffled by the rainfall. "It's just business."
Everything was quiet. Hours passed by unnoticed, and soon the black somber sky became a dreary gray. An emotional force, the downpour persisted and intensified, obscuring its sodden surroundings of dirt and grass.
Again, Gisele pictured Letty. Her happy grin. Her casual gait. Her dead body. Images of Haifa faded into the depths of her mind.
"It's just business," she uttered one last time. Jarringly unsettled, she started her car and began the long—and pointless, she decided—drive home.
~O~
Gisele trekked up the street, its hilly curves sopped in sunlight, to a house with an old '69 Camaro parked out front. She ambled past the car, heading to the opened garage. Its sole inhabitant was a rotting, disassembled car, naked in its incompleteness. Once inside, she hovered over the vehicle, settling her hand atop what remained of its hood. Most of the car was exposed, its innards sticking out this way and that; it was also unpainted and two of its tires were gone.
The '70 Charger R/T. Letty's unfinished project. "Looks like a semi hit it," she admitted aloud.
"A semi did hit it."
Gisele turned around, taken aback by the presence of another person—a young woman. She studied her silently, noting her long, straight locks and her Mediterranean tan; in a tattered pair of jeans her legs seemed lanky, and she was barefoot.
"Who are you? What do you want?" Mia inquired, her voice coarse and low.
She's drunk, Gisele realized, her eyes roving from the girl's tearstained face to the bottle of tequila in her hand. "…I'm a friend of Letty's."
Mia shrugged.
"She's dead. Died two days ago. But the funeral isn't for a couple of weeks."
Gisele was surprised by her curtness, and slowly nodded.
"God, she was only twenty-six. Twenty-six." Mia lifted a boney hand to her face, rubbing her eyes. "Look, do whatever you're here to do. Look around, reminisce. But if I were you, I wouldn't touch that car again. It's cursed."
Then, she turned on her heel and wobbled back inside the house.
Alone again with her thoughts, Gisele retrieved the cross of silver from her pocket; it reflected the orange glow from the sunset, signaling an end to things.
Vaya con Dios, Letty, she thought sadly, slipping the necklace around the rear-view mirror of the car. Her farewells said, she left the garage and returned to Braga.
Gisele kept the snapshot of Letty with her, always; in her pocket during the day, underneath her pillow at night. At her loneliest, she sometimes talked to Letty, just as the girl had done with Dom. This isn't happiness, she often admitted to her friend. She dreamed of Letty, too, but these dreams were not nightmares; they were signs, and they were trying to tell Gisele something:
Letty was alive, and in just over a year, she and Gisele would meet again.
-Fin
Author's Notes (PLEASE READ):
First of all, I know this story leaves a lot to be desired; it's full of holes the size of canyons, everything happens too quickly, and maybe the plot's a little silly, too. But I wanted to explore the theme of loneliness, and I imagine Gisele and Letty to be very lonesome individuals (for their own reasons, of course). They're also very unique women in TFATF franchise, as they are largely treated as equals by the men of the series.
I portrayed Gisele as a lonely, unhappy—and ultimately, selfish—expatriate (from Israel; she worked for the Mossad, so I'm assuming she's from Israel), and this story is largely from her POV; she wants a friend who understands the criminal underworld like she does, but who is also not consumed by it. For the story, that's Letty, and Gisele clings to her because of this. Also, the title of the story is the explanation Gisele gives Dom after he survives the ambush ("It's just business", which I think totally sums up her personality).
As for Letty, I depicted her loneliness by having her talk to Dom in her head; she constantly asks him for advice, even though he isn't there with her. I mean, she nearly (yay!) dies for him; I imagine he was on her mind quite a bit. Also, Dom and Letty are married in this story, as I felt like marriage was the natural progression of their relationship; after all, haven't they been together since Letty was sixteen? :)
Finally, Gisele's interest in Letty is not romantic; if it came off that way, it was completely unintentional. Anyway, thanks for giving this weird, little story a chance. =)