“You’ve had me fully vetted,” I say, glancing at Rook, who nods. Then I look back at Ramirez. “I’d like the same courtesy. Mutual trust. That’s how my business works. I know nothing of Earl Edmond.”
Ramirez watches me for a long second and then smiles, slow and satisfied, like I just passed a test I didn’t know I was taking. “I appreciate your instinct, which is why I know you’re the right man for the job. You can trust Edmond. Just like with you, Rook’s made sure we won’t have any issues there.” He flicks his eyes to his lawyer. “Right?”
Rook smiles. “We won’t have any issues from Earl or Sebastian Edmond.”
Not sure I like the way that sounds. I keep my voice level. “So they’ll be joining us in Italy?”
“Yes.”
“Hope he brings that assistant of his,” Sammy says with a smile.
My spine locks. I don’t know if it’s the way he says it or the way Rook smirks beside him, but every alarm in my head goes off. Cybil. It’s her sass, her smarts, her looks—she draws attention like a match draws oxygen. And attention, in this world, is a problem.
My hand tightens around my knee. Any chance I had of getting Edmond out of this deal evaporates. So does the chance of getting Cybil out clean.
Ramirez slips a pair of sunglasses over his eyes, the meeting apparently finished. This time Rook doesn’t open the door for me. I let myself out of the car. “I’ll see you in Italy.”
There’s a reason why Ramirez hasn’t been caught. If anything in his plan goes south, he knows how to protect himself. Just like Katherine said, he’ll disappear. The FBI has contingencies in place to protect me—makemedisappear so it looks like I’m sitting on a beach somewhere without an extradition agreement. But what about Cybil? Who’s going to have her back? Who is going to protect her?
My sixth-grade teacher said there’s no such thing as a dumb question, but that’s not true. The only thing dumber than asking who’s going to protect her is pretending the answer isn’t me.
Chapter 11
Cybil
Dallas, Texas
Wednesday morning
I slap my hand down on the alarm clock before it goes off. Not like I needed it. Sleep and I broke up somewhere around four in the morning. Probably because my brain won’t shut up. I still haven’t heard back from Athena. I’ve left two messages—one about the gala and another about the unexpected Ben-shaped complication. But nothing. And now before I can even recover from the emotional whiplash, I get to add jet lag to the list.
When I got back to the office yesterday, Mr. Edmond informed me I’d be accompanying him and Sebastian to Italy. Meetings with suppliers, he said. Routine. Nothing I haven’t sat through before—except this time, Ramirez’s name came up. Briefly. Casually. Just long enough to let me know this trip is important.
Mr. Edmond and Sebastian were locked in meetings the rest of the afternoon, which left me with too much time to spiral. If Ramirez is involved, then it’s possible Ben is too. Which means there’s a very real possibility I’m not just walking into a tense business trip. I’m walking into a distraction in a tailored suit.
“CraigfreakingMiller.” I glare at the water stain on the ceiling over my bed. It’s starting to morph into something between a sloth and myemotional stability. I close my dry eyes and exhale all the breath from my lungs. “This cannot be happening.”
I need chocolate. And caffeine.
I kick at the sheets tangled around my legs, roll to my side, and squint toward the kitchen. The hum of the refrigerator calls to me like a beacon of hope.Chocolate cake.Dragging myself out of bed, I pad barefoot toward the fridge.
Last night after work, Joy insisted we go out for dinner. I think it was her attempt at redemption for abandoning me in my hour of need—aka getting trapped in the revolving door like a malfunctioning Roomba.
When I finally made it back to the car, still trying to unmelt my brain, she took one look at me and wordlessly handed over a bag of M&M’s from my glove compartment emergency stash. She at least had the courtesy to look apologetic... in between the hysterical laughter.
My bank account wasn’t exactly on board with eating out, but Joy declared the day officially worthy of chocolate cake. And who am I to argue against chocolate? We splurged at a steak house where everything is à la carte. It’s not the kind of place I’d ever drop sixty-five dollars for a piece of meat, much less eighteen dollars for mashed potatoes, no matter how deliciously creamy they claim to be. It is, however, the place I’d allow Joy to order a fifteen-dollar piece of chocolate cake that melts in your mouth and makes all your problems disappear.
Unless your best friend insists on bringing them up. Again.
“What are you going to do if Ben goes to Italy too?” she asked as casually as someone commenting on the weather and completely unaware of the emotional earthquake she’d just triggered.
I didn’t have an answer. And because nothing pairs with chocolate like unresolved teenage drama, I didn’t finish my cake.Tragic.
Italy. With Ben?
Only it’s not Ben. It’sCraig Miller.
“‘A forgettable name for a forgettable person,’” I mutter in a mocking tone as I yank open the fridge door. “‘You were way too good for Craig Miller.’”
