Cybil’s face goes completely blank. “If you ever bring up that tracksuit again, I will end you.”
I smirk. “Is that a threat or a promise?”
“This is Italy, Craig. They don’t just make pasta from scratch. They make problems disappear.”
The smile freezes on my face.
I think she’s joking.
Probably.
Maybe.
She walks to the railing, her heels clicking with purpose. The sun throws a soft gold across the villa’s balcony, and for a second, it’s almost peaceful. Instinct and years of training tell me the best time to gather intel is when someone’s guard is down.
“So,” I say casually, leaning beside her, “how’d your meetings go?”
“Fine,” she says with all the enthusiasm of a TSA agent confirming I’m not smuggling an extra ounce of liquid in my carry-on.
“You done for the day?”
“One more.” She glances sideways, eyes cool. “And you? Meeting another billionaire who believes paying taxes is a suggestion?”
I force a smile, but it doesn’t reach. I should be relieved. It means she’s bought the cover. That I’ve done my job—convinced her I’m exactly who I say I am. But it still lands like a gut punch. The way she’s looking at me like I’m the kind of man she’s spent her life avoiding.
“I’m just doing the job I was hired to do,” I say quietly.
She lifts a shoulder. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Craig.”
My jaw tightens. I should let it go. But I don’t. “You mean the same kind of men as your boss?”
That gets her attention. Her head turns sharply. For a beat, neither of us says anything. The silence between us is thin, stretched taut.
Then she smiles—a dangerous, diplomatic thing. “Meet any interesting people in town today?”
“Just an old friend,” I say, letting it land.
She narrows her eyes slightly, then smirks. “Oh? Must’ve made quite an impression—you’re still alive.”
“Day’s not over and she did just threaten to have me erased from the Italian countryside.”
“I stand by that.”
We fall quiet for a beat, and I wonder if she feels it too—that old zing, the one that used to spark between us like a live wire when we were too young to know what to do with it. I try not to stare, but something in the curve of her mouth or the way she shifts her weight makes me think she remembers too.
A pair of doves coos somewhere overhead. Music and chatter drift up from the piazza. She exhales slowly, her fingers absently spinning the gold band on her thumb.
“Thank you,” she says softly.
“You don’t have to—”
“Please.” She cuts me off with a glance. “Just let me.”
I do because something in her voice tells me this isn’t just about the dress.
“After my dad’s accident,” she begins, her tone measured, “his company paid my mom a settlement. I don’t know how much exactly. ButI overheard my aunt and uncle talking once... said it should’ve been enough to take care of us.”
She’s still spinning the ring. The gold flashes in the sunlight like it wants to say more than she does.
