“I don’t want any loose ends,” Ramirez replies, and there’s a bite to his words. “It’s not personal. It’s just damage control.”
“Understood,” Ben says, his voice lower. Measured. “I’ve never let a liability interfere with a deal. No matter who it involves.”
The words land like a punch to the chest. A liability? What liability? Who?
Marcello? It has to be Marcello, right? Something about Ben’s tone sends a shiver down my spine. Calm. Authoritative. But there’s an edge to it—too confident, too practiced. Like he’s not just familiar with Ramirez’s messes... he’s cleaned them up before.
This is not the boy I remember. Or the man who bought me a dress like he still knew who I was. In this moment, with the low timbre of his voice threading through the door and the warning in Ramirez’s tone still hanging in the air—I’m not so sure of anything.
I back up a step, careful not to make a sound, heart pounding against my ribs like it’s sending me Morse code to get the heck out of here. But I don’t. I stay. No, I take a step closer, barely breathing, trying to make out more—just one more word, one more breadcrumb. But it’s silent.
Not the natural kind. The unnatural kind that only happens when you’re eavesdropping and suddenly remember that people eventually stop talking and walk out of rooms. A chair scrapes, then I hear steps and the click of a door handle. Panic surges, sending my brain into full alert. They’re coming out. I spin on my heel, heart launching into my throat as I consider which is more suspicious—hiding in a closet or running.
“Cybil?”
I jump so hard I nearly knock over the decorative vase behind me. Sebastian stands a few feet away, looking at me like I’ve grown a second head.
“You okay?”
“Nothing!” I say way too quickly, and he frowns. “I mean—”
The door behind me opens. Ramirez steps out first, followed by Rook and Ben. Ben’s gaze locks on mine instantly, and something in his expression flickers—surprise? Concern? Mild murderous intent?
I slip my hand around Sebastian’s arm. “I was just on my way to find you for dinner.”
Sebastian glances between me and the room behind me, then gives me a weird little nod like he’s decided just to go with it. Bless him.
Ben, on the other hand, gives me a dark look. Jealousy? The thought of that should not delight me the way it does as I watch him walk away.
Ramirez’s eyes narrow slightly, then drift to Sebastian. “We’ll see you both at dinner.”
And with that, they walk past us. Rook gives me a lingering look that makes my skin crawl. Ben’s gaze lingers too—but there’s something else in his eyes. Something I can’t afford to trust right now.
I smile wider. This is fine. “Should we go?”
Sebastian begins to lead me away when I spot someone standing at the back of the hallway. The same man from last night when Ben and I arrived at the villa.
“Who’s that?” I ask Sebastian quietly.
He glances over, then shrugs. “Ramirez’s security.”
“Security? He looks like a guy who buried the last person who called him security.”
Sebastian snorts. “Yeah, well. Don’t make eye contact.”
It’s moments like this when Sebastian gives off an older-brother energy—equal parts protectiveness and smart-aleck commentary—that I almost forget he’s also up to his neck in this mess. I don’t know how much he’s in on, but I know he’s not clueless.
The dining room exudes a kind of rustic elegance that fits the picturesque countryside stretching beyond the open arched windows. We’re seated around a stunning white oak table set with fine china, crystal glassware, and a centerpiece overflowing with fresh-cut roses, lilies, and sprigs of lavender. Ramirez and Mr. Edmond take their places at opposite ends of the table, while Ben and Jimmy Rook sit directly acrossfrom me and Sebastian. The only one missing is the creepy guy from the hallway, and I’m afraid I’m too hungry to be concerned, but a part of me wonders if he’s on his way to visit Marcello.
Ben catches my eye, holding my gaze just long enough to make me wonder if he knows I overheard him. Then he smiles. Easy. Charming.
I break eye contact when the chef arrives. He introduces the menu in elegant Italian, then switches to English with a reverent grin. The first course is bruschetta with heirloom tomatoes and basil oil, followed by hand-rolled pasta in a truffle cream sauce, veal osso buco with gremolata, and wine pairings that probably cost more than my car.
“And for dessert,” he announces, practically glowing, “a decadent chocolate hazelnut torte with Italian cream.”
Ben doesn’t miss a beat. “I’ll take hers.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
