Katherine leans back, folding her arms, eyes steady. “Good. Because if she’s the one who exposes you—even by accident—we lose everything.”
Chapter 13
Cybil
Lagoverde, Italy
Thursday night
“Missing. Luggage.”
The very beautiful Italian woman—Fiorella, because of course she has a name that sounds like a perfume ad—keeps nodding at me, but the lost look in her equally beautiful eyes says she has no idea what I’m saying.
I step back and check the sign above my head. “Bagaglio aereo Lagoverde.” That’s the name of the tiny airline that delivered me to the Lagoverde airport. There’s a picture of a suitcase next to it, so logic suggests I’m in the right place to find my missing luggage.
I set my cappuccino on the counter and point to the tag the gate agent in Rome handed me when she decided my “American-sized carry-on” was too big for the overhead bin. “My bag is on this flight,” I say, then point to the empty luggage carousel behind me. “Not there. Missing.”
Fiorella—who, let’s be honest, looks like she stepped off a runway, not into a baggage claim job—gives me a placating smile. If this were America, travelers would probablyhopeto lose their luggage just to talk to her. Assuming they spoke Italian.
Which I do not.
She glances at my cappuccino like it personally offends her, so I slide it off the counter.
“La tua, borsa non è qui,” she says.
I have no idea what that means.
This is what I get for choosing the high road and not accepting Mr. Edmond’s invitation to fly private with him and Sebastian. A “moral superiority” is what Athena calls my refusal to accept a paycheck from Mr. Edmond. I refuse to take money—or travel perks—from a man who profits off shady deals. No matter how generous he tries to be. My income comes directly from Athena and the side jobs I do for Marcos—covert tasks wrapped in nondisclosure agreements and plausible deniability. It’s enough to pay my rent, feed my chocolate habit, and keep my conscience mostly quiet.
So here I am: moral superiority rerouting my paycheck from Edmond to a victims’ advocacy group, and me wedged in a middle seat on a regional airline—because apparently, my conscience prefers turbulence and a complimentary side of missing baggage.
“Signora, per favore, compili il modulo.”
I take the form and fan myself with it, searching the mostly empty airport for anyone who might be American—or at least capable of speaking English. No such luck. Unlike the bustling airport in Rome, this one is a tenth of the size, maybe smaller. A handful of gates line one side, and a private terminal sits behind a wall of glass, shielding the wealthy and powerful from the rest of us commoners.
The only thing open when I arrived was a tiny coffee kiosk where I managed to secure a true Italian cappuccino to steady my nerves. Barely. The barista kept shaking his head at me, offering espresso instead. But a straight shot of caffeine this late at night would be the sprinkles to my already disastrous sundae.
“Signora?”
I turn back to Fiorella, still annoyingly flawless in her polyester uniform. Who am I kidding? This is Italy; it’s probably Versace. She holdsout a pen. I take it with a mutteredgrazie—one of three Italian words I know.Buongiorno,ciao, andgrazie. I also knowmacaroniandfettuccine, but that’s not going to help me right now.
Pen in hand, I twist to grab my shoulder bag off the floor—but catch my heel in the strap. There’s that moment when you canfeelthe fall happening, when time slows just enough for you to register the person who’s about to witness your descent into humiliation.
So whose broad frame and crooked smile do I see right before my cappuccino baptizes the front of my shirt?
Bennett Bradley.
Aka CraigfreakingMiller.
The noise that escapes my lips is somewhere between a yelp, a groan, and a cry as lukewarm liquid drenches the only outfit I possess in Italy.
“Whoa.” Ben rushes toward me, hands flailing in that useless gesture people make when they want to help but have absolutely nothing to offer. It’s somehow making everything worse.
Until he turns and flashes that crooked smile at Fiorella—and starts speaking in fluent Italian.
Fluent. Italian.
I just stare at him, jaw unhinged, while my cappuccino-soaked shirt begins clinging to all the wrong places.
