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"Roberto," she purrs, her voice smooth as silk. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure of making your acquaintance."
I meet her gaze with cool composure. "That's right," I reply smoothly, inclining my head slightly.
“Friends with my brother?” she asks.
“Your brother?”
“Isabella Cremaschi,” she extends a hand. I take it, gripping it loosely, like an underconfident man. She looks down at it and up at me again, and I know what she’s thinking: Is this man worth my time?
I need to convince her I’m not.
“What brings you here?” she asks.
“A friend brought me…us,” I sidetrack, pointing at Romola and Agostino, “along. A client of mine.”
“Name?”
“Tony,” I say without hesitation.
“Tony…” she questions.
Just then, Agostino pretends to sit on his stool and loses his balance, dropping his drink to the floor as he waves his hands to find support on the bar. Onlookers move aside, and some people begin to whisper.
“Oh dear,” he mutters. “I’m such a klutz! What’s an old man to do?”
“You better get that cleaned up,” Isabella says, barely giving us another look, before walking away to greet some other guests.
The staff comes to pick up the glass, and the three of us walk towards a quiet grazing table.
“That was close,” Romola says, her voice hitching.
“You did well,” I tell Agostino, calculatingly looking around the space. “You gave us enough time not to make us look suspicious, yet caused the distraction when we needed it most.”
"Now, see those men over there?" I gesture discreetly to a group of well-dressed individuals standing near the far wall. "They're Fiero's men. They're the ones we need to be especially cautious around."
Romola's gaze follows my movements, taking in their body language, their tense posture and watchful eyes scanning the crowd.
“And when do we –?” Romola begins, but I stop hearing her as my eyes lock on a passing figure.
“Shh. Look there,” I tell them, pointing discreetly with my glass.
I hear Romola’s breath hitch in her chest.
“Handsome, isn’t he?” I remark out of curiosity to see if I’m right to have guessed the reason behind her reaction.
“Who is he?” she asks, side-tracking my question. Smart.
“That, my dear,” I reply as we all keep the man surrounded by guards in view. “Is Fiero Cremaschi.”
“By the gods,” Romola exhales. I can almost feel the heat radiating from her body.
As if Agostino starts coughing on cue – whether naturally or on purpose – either way, I’m grateful. Romola’s focus turns to her father.
“I’m okay,” he waves off her concern and says with a cunning smile, “Let the games begin.
I can’t help my broad smile – a kindred spirit indeed!
Chapter 15
