he whispered, almost to himself. It wasn't just a command for the passengers; it was a reminder to himself. He had to be the pilot now, more than he had ever been in thirty years of flying. The Impact

Silence followed the roar. Then, the hiss of the inflatable slides.

"We can’t reach Rome," the co-pilot yelled. "We have to ditch."

Moretti looked at the radar. A small, private airstrip on the coast of Elba was their only hope—but it was short, built for Cessnas, not a wide-body jet. It was a suicide mission or a miracle. He keyed the mic one last time.

"Seatbelt, signore! Now!" she commanded, her voice trembling. The Choice