Cleo. Rafaele’s wife.
The woman Nero saved.
“A few days, huh?” She gives me a dismissive glance. “I see you’re having fun already.”
A bitter taste floods my mouth. She thinks I’m just a fling.
It’s funny how a single sentence can bring all my old insecurities rushing back. I wonder if Nero was as popular in New York as he was in Darkwater Hollow.
In my mind, I picture a long line of gorgeous, flawless women, just like the ones I saw at breakfast today, parading along a conveyor belt.
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday…
Nero takes my hand, intertwining our fingers, and squeezes tightly. “This is my wife.”
Cleo’s eyes widen, revealing the entire green iris in each one. “You havea wife? Are you—” She stops abruptly. When I glance at Nero, he’s giving her a frown.
Color creeps up her cheeks. She turns to me and swallows. “I’m sorry. That was rude. Sometimes, I speak before thinking.” She offers me her hand. “I’m Cleo Messero.”
“Blake,” I reply stiffly as we shake hands.
She bites her lip, sending Nero a sheepish look. “Foot-in-mouth syndrome.”
“I see nothing’s changed,” Nero retorts.
A smile tugs on her lips. “I just can’t believe this. You’re back, and you’remarried. Where did you two meet?”
Nero swipes his thumb over the back of my hand. “A small town in Missouri.”
“I want to hear the full story. Can we have you over for dinner? When are you coming back to work?”
Rafaele puts his hand on Cleo’s shoulder. “He’s not working for me anymore. He’s working for Gino now.”
“What? Why?” Cleo crosses her arms over her chest, her brows knitting as she glares at her husband.
“It was Gino’s condition for moving forward peacefully.” Rafaele glances at the valet returning to the stand, ensuring he can’t overhear us. The drizzling rain keeps most passersby from lingering on the street.
Cleo’s eyes flare, and she shakes off Rafe’s hand with a flick of her shoulder. “That’s it. We’re going home. You’ve got a lot of explaining to do.” She turns to Nero. “What about Sandro? Did he come back with you? Oh my God, I can’t wait to see him.”
A painful pang hits my chest as Nero and Rafaele exchange a glance. The rain has seeped through the cardigan I’m wearing over my dress, and the cold is biting.
Cleo’s expression shifts with a mix of dread and denial. “Nero? Where is Sandro?”
I don’t think he realizes that he’s doing it, but Nero tugs me closer. My shoulder presses into his chest.
“He’s gone.”
Cleo’s face loses all color in an instant. She looks stricken. Her husband wraps his arm around her shoulders, and this time, she doesn’t shrug him off. A tear escapes her eye, runs down her cheek, falls from her chin, and splatters against the surface of her leather boot.
I wonder if she and Sandro were close. Nero told me Sandro was a driver for Rafaele, so perhaps he was Cleo’s driver too. Thatwould explain her devastation. My heart aches with pity as she sniffles and wipes her eyes with the back of her hand.
“How?” she asks.
“He was protecting me,” I say softly. “He saved my life.”
“Come on,” Rafaele murmurs, pulling his wife against him. “We’ll talk at home.”
Nero signals to the valet to bring Rafaele’s car around. As we say our goodbyes, Cleo hugs Nero again, whispering something in his ear. I catch her lips forming the words.
