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Rafaele interrupts, a sly grin spreading across his face. "Ah, but that's where you're wrong, Serafina. You see, I’m not here for you. I believe these two have something quite valuable that I need."
My breath catches in my throat, and I glance at my father. What could we possibly have that he wants? He looks equally perplexed back at me.
"Rafaele," Serafina warns firmly. “They have nothing to offer you. Romola, take your father and leave,” she tells me, her tone icy.
I inch forward, aiming for the exit, but the armed men take a step forward as if they are one huge being blocking my path. I stop, feeling weak in the knees.
“As I said, Romola,” Rafaele turns to look at me, his neck craning in my direction while his body stands facing Serafina. “Stay.”
"Look here, we aren’t looking for no trouble," Agostino demands, his voice strained but defiant. He walks closer and places a protective hand on my shoulder, trying to reassure me. His ashen face gave away his own unease.
"Who said I’m looking for trouble?" Rafaele replies, amusement flashing in his eyes. “All I seek are your services.”
I exchanged a worried glance with my father, and neither of us quite understood what was going on here. There’s no doubt this man is dangerous, surrounded by these armed men – what could he possibly want with two circus actors?
I watch as Serafina and Rafaele stare each other down, their eyes locked in a silent power struggle. A bead of sweat rolls down the side of my face. I wipe it away with the back of my hand, and immediately, one of the guards points his weapon at me.
“Services?” Serafina asks, her eyes darting toward me and my father. She implores us to remain calm and tries to de-escalate the situation.
“For days now, I’ve had my men search all of Italy for people who display…shall we say, peculiar talents. Just last night, Serafina, I heard of a father-daughter duo at the circus, showing incredible skills of trickery or, as some may call it, magic. This father-daughter duo is just what I need.”
"Need for what, exactly?" my father speaks up, his suspicion obvious.
"Ah, yes," Rafaele muses, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. If you don't mind, I'd like to keep that under wraps for the time being. But trust me when I say your cooperation will be greatly rewarded."
"Rewarded?" I echo, unable to mask my own skepticism.
“Yes. Quite handsomely once you pass the test.”
“How handsomely?” I inquire, the numbers already tallying in my head.
“Does half a million euros do the trick?” he replies icily.
My father's grip tightens on my shoulder, and I feel a rush of blood to my head. For this kind of money, I’m willing to see what this test entails.
Chapter 7
Rafaele Bressan
I watch as Romola's eyes widen at the amount I just stated, the silver-gray irises reflecting her curiosity as she approaches me.
"Rafaele," she says calmly. "You mentioned a test? What do you want us to do?"
I was right to guess that for the right amount, I could pique her interest. Truth is, for the task I have in mind, I would willingly part with millions. As things stand now, we’re both benefiting.
So I chose to give her a sly smile, reaching into my jacket pocket to produce a small locked box. It's not much to look at—just an ordinary wooden container with a brass lock on the front—yet it’s anything but ordinary. It was made to lock without a key and, as far as I know, is impenetrable unless one breaks it.
"Coniglietteo - little rabbit," I say, handing her the box. "I’ve heard from my men of your exceptional skills at, how to say it politely, ‘retrieving things that belong to others.’”
As I expected, she hesitated only for a moment, looking at me with something like defiance, and then her attention turned to studying the box with those piercing gray eyes. She did not deny the less-than-subtle play at their thieving skills. Clever girl.
“Open this box without breaking the lock or the box, and the payment inside will be yours." I can see the gears turning in her head as she contemplates the challenge I've presented her with. I can feel Agostino's gaze burning into my back, questioning my motives. But this is a crucial moment for us all.
"Alright," Romola finally agrees, her slender fingers tracing the edges of the box before she begins to work.
Romola's long, dark eyelashes cast shadows on her cheeks as she leans in to examine the lock. There was deathly silence in the tent as everyone concentrated on her. I watch her nimble fingers deftly manipulate a lock pick she's produced from a clip on her hair. She is like a sculptor working with fine clay, her touch gentle but precise.
"Interesting," Romola murmurs, tilting her head to study the lock from a different angle. Her actions are fluid and elegant, and I find myself entranced by the sight.
